#just tasting the waters with sketches for now

[shapelytimber]

Ok hear me out.......... wlw Wilhuff Tarkin and Orson Krennic-

the dynamic very much is unhinged creative vs rigid control freak in a context of evil bureaucracy- and personally the context is why I love to read stories with imperials jdjdkd nothing is more crack cocaine literature for me than to make drama in a space office filled with awful people

More flavor text and me trying to sell you on why this ship of two truly terrible people is great below vvv

For Krennic, lean more into the evil genius artist. She's been up for 46 hours straight drawing schematics, she's rambling about incomprehensible shit, her only meals have been cigarettes and energy drinks, she's so full of herself she might one day think she's god, she's gonna die by 60. She doesn't care much about the politics of the empire, but they don't bother her either. She works for the imperials because they have a lot funds to give to engineers willing to build them a battle station the size of a moon capable of blowing up planets. Before that she worked on a lot a architectures on imperial center/Coruscant.

The imperial uniforms are a bit boring- so I'm taking full advantage of the fact Krennic is more of an engineer/architect to tweak her uniform a bit (and the cape was already not respecting regulations sooooo) For Tarkin I'm keeping it tho, this woman won't be caught dead without it.

For Tarkin, lean less into the whole buff survivalist aspect- she very much was in her youth, but she *is* a 65 year old woman based on *Peter Cushing*, and has been in a very high and prestigious position within the empire for the past 20 years. She still as an extensive knowledge on how to survive in nature, and fight with her bare hands or a knife, but that doesn't come up very often in her line of work anymore. She still killed a space bear unharmed when she was like 17 tho. She hates chaos and developed the main philosophy that drove the empire to this day : to govern with fear and impose order. She is a bloodthirsty woman in her sixties, with a never ending hunger for power, currently cheating on her wife with a coworker she hates.

They both love the death star more than they tolerate each other, but they did end up bonding over plotting the demise of one coworker they couldn't stand and digging out rebel spies. Make no mistake tho, this is very much a love triangle/trouple between two women and a giant battle station.

In the end, Tarkin killed Krennic by shooting her from orbit with the death star, the project was finally finished, she didn't need her anymore and she might have gotten in the way of her control of the station.

Tarkin dies a few days later during the battle of Yavin, along the death star, not willing to back down in her moments of glory.

PS : a lot of this is inspired by the fic "Propagating structure" by oneinspats ! it's what made me like and understand this pairing, and is truly a great work of fiction. I really think this fic is a masterful work when it comes to expending the character of Krennic, and extrapolating on existing things. Exploring his more creative side, his passion for his work, his truly abysmal lifestyle, giving him a hatred of nature and a background as an architect on Coruscant. While also keeping his horrific aspects, like reading his internal (or external) monologues sometimes makes my skin crawl with how disgusting his ideas are and how deep they run, but making him an interesting and compelling protag for the story. While all of it is surrounded by this delicious dramatic irony, because we know that no matter how hard they try to scheme (or fuck), the death star will blow up and it's incredible.

[acewithapaintbrush]

Saw @artsymeeshee hospital sketches of the sea grunks and thought to myself, is this finally my time to write some brotherly angst for these two? The answer is yes. Short but sweet, please enjoy.

******************************

The first thing Stan becomes aware of is the noise.

A constant beeping right next to his ear. Loud and high-pitched and repetitive and unfortunately very familiar to an old grifter with bad luck like him. He would be a lot more annoyed with this sound if his last clear memory wasn't of roaring waters rushing past his ears, stealing his hearing and leaving nothing but white noise behind.

He'd rather take the beeping.

Next comes taste, which, ugh! He could have gone without that! The feel of scratchy sheets is not much better but it tells him that he is in one of the better hospitals. Believe it or not, the better the hospital, the scratchier the sheets. Ford should cool it with the mystical beasts and research what's up with that!

Speaking of Ford.

Stan keeps his breathing even as he slowly opens his eyes. The light has been dimmed in anticipation and he blinks a couple times at a ceiling that is painted a nondescript beige color. He looks at it for a moment and for some strange reason he suddenly feels a fierce urge to video call Mabel.

But first things first.

Stan slowly turns his head to the side which actually hurts. Don't they have him on the good stuff?

Just as he expected, there is his brother. Ford has squeezed himself into the same bed as Stan, facing his brother's prone form. Stan can't help but smile. His brother must have bullied the nurses into letting him stay. The bed is way too small for two grown men but somehow the genius has managed to practically fold himself into a compact ball, leaving enough room for all those fancy machines connected to the patient. One of his hands lightly rests against Stan's chest which he hasn't even noticed until now.

Ford's eyes are closed but he is mumbling under his breath, reciting one of his journal entries from memory.

Stan winces. His brother must be really rattled by this little mishap.

‘Great job giving the guy another thing to worry about, Stanley!’

“I think climbing into the hospital bed with the patient is against the rules, Sixer? You are not supposed to do that.”

He was going for levity and humor but his hoarse voice kinda ruins that.

Ford's eyes don't snap open. He doesn't gasp or jerk upright or anything like that. Instead he takes a shuddering breath and deliberately opens his eyes. They find Stanley immediately and there is not a hint of surprise in them. Stan wonders how long Ford has known that he's awake.

“Same to you,” Ford says and his voice is so flat it causes a shiver to run down Stan's spine.

“Hey, s’not like I planned for this to happen.”

“I would be very cross with you if you had planned falling overboard, Stanley.”

Ford's emotions still feel weirdly flat. He isn't even lecturing and scolding Stan for his reckless behavior, just presses his six-fingered hand against his chest and stares at him with those blank eyes.

“I'm alright.” Stan shifts so he can face his brother and, damn, those ribs are definitely cracked. He briefly wonders if that happened in the fall or whether someone had to do CPR on him and quickly decides that maybe he doesn't want to know. Close call. Much too close. “I'm alright, Ford,” he repeats as if that makes it true.

For the first time an emotion flickers through Ford's face. He narrows his eyes and for a moment Stan thinks he's angry but then a single tear runs down an unshaven cheek, immediately seeping into the pillow.

“I thought I lost you for good,” Ford whispers, voice tortured. “I couldn't find you. For the longest time. I looked and I looked and you were just… gone. I couldn't find you!”

‘Same to you,’ Stan echoes with a bit of a bitter edge, mind replaying thirty years of hunching down in a dusty basement in a matter of seconds.

But this is not about him and Stan is, no matter what some might want to tell you, not an insensitive asshole.

“You did find me,” he says. He doesn't actually know if that's true. The time after he fell into the ocean during that storm is still a bit of a mystery to him. All he remembers is the noise of the water and how cold he felt and a voice screaming his name, over and over, growing fainter with each wave crashing over his head.

But Ford needs some reassurance right now. And the best way to reassure Ford that Stan is alright is by proving his alrightness with a good, old Pines hug.

He lightly pulls at the hand on his chest and with a cut off gasp Ford immediately obliges, scooting closer until they are entwined with one another just like they were as kids when the nightmares became too much to remain separated by a bunk bed.

“You found me.” Stan repeats and ignores the tears soaking into his hospital gown.

‘That's what we do,’ he thinks with a content smile, eyes falling shut with exhaustion. ‘We always find each other again.’

[heartz4levi]

would u b willing to write till eating reader out... ??? but like nothing rough infact pls make it like .. genuine adoration SORRY IDK IF THAT MAKES SENSE 😅😅😅😅

my pussy tastes like pepsi cola !

☆ thinking about till eating pussy . . .

☆ till (alnst) ,, fem reader . . no sub/dom dynamics are specified but reader is on the bottom and till is on top ,, oral (reader receiving) ,, till is gentle with reader despite being stressed ,, light hair pulling (till receiving) ,, this is generally vanilla.

till is someone who finds himself getting frustrated very easily. his emotions are hardly ever watered down, always bursting out with full force.

he only has so many outlets. he can write songs that indirectly express his pent up emotions, make doodles and sketches that are supposed to represent what he feels within. sometimes that's not enough, though. sometimes he needs to come home to you, let your fingers card through his hair while his head rests on your stomach.

sometimes that isn't enough, and he needs a little more. a little more of you, to be precise.

despite having not been in the best of moods prior to seeking out your affection, till isn't treating you roughly. he isn't taking his frustration out on you, but rather he's calming himself down. eating you out is something he could do for hours on end, and not even for your pleasure. solely for his own.

his eyes are closed, savouring the taste of your juices that drip onto his tongue with each tender lick to your pussy. his head is caged inbetween your plush thighs, legs swung over his shoulders. till is only moving his tongue, licking stripes up and down your slit, feeling his mind clear up the more your soft moans reach his ears.

like this, till is at peace. he's laying down on his stomach, hands idly resting atop your hips. resting, not gripping. one of your hands is combing through his hair, gently tugging at his short strands every time his tongue slips just a bit inside your pussy, the other hand laying limp by your side.

for the past few minutes, till has been maneuvering his tongue in small, kitten lick motions, listening to the sounds of pleasure tumbling past your lips. they encourage him to keep going, to make you feel good and to help himself relax.

at first, it was just right for you. not too intense but not too faint, just the right amount. but you're started to grow both a little impatient and a little needy.

you tug at till's hair one more time, except in this instance it's a slightly harsher pull, one that signals for him to pick up the pace or do anything really, so long as it gives you more friction.

till hums in acknowledgement. the pace set by his tongue doesn't quicken, but he does push it in deeper, penetrating your warmth. he's lovingly making out with your pussy, sliding his tongue in and out, in and out. the advancement earns him a noticeably louder moan from you, and your hips briefly lift up from the bed, pushing themselves closer to till's mouth.

this doesn't compare to any other stress reliever in the world, in till's opinion. knowing that you are fully willing to help him de—stress by making love to your pussy only adds to his enjoyment. you're so kind to him, giving him the comfort and reassurance he needs when times are tough.

of course, till would do the same for you. he isn't capable of much, but if he were, till would make all of your wishes come true. for now, all he can do is make you cum as a silent thank you for letting him use you — but it certainly doesn't feel like you're being used, so does he need to thank you? regardless of whether or not he needs to, he wants to.

latching his lips around your clit, till begins to suckle on it. you jolt, crying his name out as electrifying sparks of pleasure bolt through your entire being. that one single action is enough to edge you a whole lot closer to the sweet bliss of climaxing.

sensing your growing arousal — and tasting — till continues his ministrations. he alternates between carefully sucking on your clit, lightly shaking his head from side to side to pull out more heavenly moans out of your throat and gently fucking you with his tongue. he has yet to show any signs of being rough, having only been prioritizing taking his precious time with your precious pussy.

as the coil in your stomach begins to make its presence known, gradually tightening further and further, you whine out to till that you're close. he hums once more, finally opening his eyes to gauge your reaction when you come undone on his tongue, watching your chest heave and your back arch off of the mattress below.

a moan of his own is coaxed out upon tasting the aftermath of your climax on his tongue, eagerly lapping all of it up like a man starved.

till slows down before pulling his face away from your drenched pussy, letting you catch your breath. he lifts himself up, moving closer before catching your lips in his for a brief kiss that conveys his love for you.

as the two of you part, he whispers, "thank you. i love you."

[nickistuffs]

Chimed encounters

Pairing: Harry x Designer Reader (curvy or plus-sized—whatever you feel they should look like. This is my preference 😌)

Summary: Meet-cutes that's all

Warnings: None, just fluff.

Word Count: 965

✨masterlist✨ read the rest of Harry x Designer Reader there

...

You wake up to the blaring sound of your alarm at 6 a.m., groaning as you reach over to turn it off. A sigh escapes you as you mentally prepare for the busy day ahead.

Reluctantly peeling yourself away from the warm cocoon of your blanket, you head to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face to shake off the remnants of sleep. After finishing up, you move to your closet, opting for something simple yet comfortable: a white boat-neck tee, grey jeans, and your trusty black Sambas.

The perk of being a freelance designer is the casual dress code—no rigid rules to follow. Quickly, you apply a touch of makeup, grab the closest jacket within reach, and stuff your essentials into your bag.

Before leaving, you glance around your apartment, double-checking for anything you might have missed—keys, phone, or plugs left in sockets. Satisfied, you lock the door behind you and make your way to the lobby. Your bike, chained under the stairs, waits for you. You place your bag in the basket, plug in your earphones, and brace yourself for the chaos of city commuting. But first, breakfast and coffee.

The familiar chime of the door greets you as you step into the quiet café you frequent. Felice, the owner, waves from behind the counter.

“Good morning, Y/N! The usual, or are you feeling adventurous today?” she teases with a warm smile.

“Morning, Felice. Surprise me,” you reply, smiling back at her excitement.

Felice and her husband, Jay, have been experimenting with new recipes to add to their menu, often using you as their unofficial taste-tester. Not that you mind—every dish is a delightful creation.

“It’s on the house! I don’t want your money, Y/N,” she calls out as she disappears into the kitchen.

You chuckle at her generosity and quietly slip a twenty-pound note into the tip jar, knowing she’ll try to give it back if she notices.

Finding a vacant table, you sit down and pull out your phone to review your agenda and upcoming meetings. Alongside it, your commonplace journal—a collection of ideas, sketches, and plans—makes an appearance. Pen in hand, you begin jotting down thoughts as the café’s calm atmosphere settles over you.

The door chime rings again, signalling another customer. Glancing up briefly, you spot a tall man wearing a cozy brown cardigan. You don’t think much of it until Felice’s voice cuts through the air.

“Harry! Your order’s almost ready. Jay’s just finishing it up now,” she says casually.

Your heart skips a beat. Harry Styles? You quickly lower your gaze, pretending to be engrossed in your notebook.

Felice calls your name, and you head to the counter to retrieve your breakfast.

“Thank you! Oh, this looks amazing. What’s in the sandwich?” you ask, marvelling at the colourful creation.

“Lettuce, tomatoes, two types of sauce, and pan-fried teriyaki-marinated tofu,” she explains proudly.

Before you can respond, the man beside you—Harry Styles—chimes in.

“That sounds delicious. Is it available?” he asks, his voice as smooth and familiar as you’d imagined.

You freeze momentarily, your mind scrambling to process the fact that Harry Styles is standing right next to you.

Felice, unfazed, answers, “Of course, Harry. Yours will be out in a minute.” She heads back into the kitchen, leaving you rooted in place.

Grabbing your tray, you quickly return to your table, doing your best to avoid eye contact with him. Meeting famous people always makes you nervous, and being an introverted designer who occasionally deals with high-profile clients doesn’t help. Plus, it doesn’t hurt—or maybe it does—that you’re a huge fan of his work.

You take a deep breath, push your straw into your iced coffee, and focus on your sandwich. To distract yourself, you doodle mindlessly in your journal.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Harry taking a seat at the table adjacent to yours. You keep your eyes down, bouncing between your coffee cup, your phone, and your sandwich, trying to act nonchalant.

When Felice calls his name to pick up his order, you resist the urge to look at him, knowing it would only make you more flustered.

...

Finishing your sandwich, you glance at your watch and realize it’s time to head to your first meeting. As you pack up your things, you risk a quick look in his direction. He’s taking a bite of his sandwich, seemingly enjoying it. For a brief moment, you consider asking if he likes it, but you bite your tongue and focus on leaving.

With your coffee in hand, you walk to the door, unhook your bike, and start to prepare for your ride. The door chime rings again, and you assume it’s Felice coming to say goodbye.

“Sorry, Feli, I’m in a rush—my meeting’s in 30 minutes,” you say quickly, only to stop mid-sentence when you see him.

It’s Harry Styles, holding your journal in his hand.

“Hey, you left this on the table. I didn’t want you to forget it,” he says, his voice kind and warm.

You freeze, your hand reaching out to take the journal. As your fingers brush against his, you feel a jolt of awareness that makes your cheeks flush.

“Oh, thank you. I didn’t realize I left it,” you mumble, embarrassed.

An awkward silence lingers as you both stand there. You avert your gaze, fumbling to place your bag in your bike basket.

“Thank you again, truly, but I need to go,” you say, finally hopping onto your bike.

“No worries. Have a safe ride,” he replies, smiling softly.

You meet his gaze for a fleeting moment before looking straight ahead, your heart racing as you pedal away.

As you turn the corner, you can’t help but replay the interaction in your mind, blushing harder than ever.

... I felt so giddy when I was writing this. aaaAAAHHH!

[threadbearsweater]

arthur morgan x reader. canon-divergent, just a little daydream. I'm working on something a little bigger, but please accept this short offering for now.

Arthur likes to kiss you in the kitchen.

Its probably the most dangerous room in the house for him to do so, what with your array of carving knives and heavy cast-iron skillets that could do some serious damage if he were to catch you in a bad enough mood. But it's his favorite place to catch you off guard. He thinks it's downright precious to see you standing there in your apron with one hand on your hip and your favorite spoon in the other, tasting whatever concoction you've got simmering on the stove. You always look so deep in thought, concentrating on your task at hand. He may or may not have sketched you in that pose a couple of times while sitting at the table, talking to you as you listened to him absentmindedly, not fully focused on him as much as you are your recipe.

He smells whatever it is you're cooking long before he even enters the house and leaves his gun belt and boots by the door. The windows are fogged over from whatever you've got boiling on that little wood stove, and his mouth waters both at the sight of you standing there and the thought of how that food is going to warm him from the inside out once he gets a taste.

"Hey, stranger," you say, having felt the draft from the door when he entered. You throw him a smile over your shoulder, and his heart does a funny little thing.

"Hey yourself," he returns, and you're in his arms before another word is spoken between you. He presses you against the counter and cups your face in his hands, kissing you deep and sure. Days worth of his stubble scratch against your cheeks and his heart beats wildly beneath your hand on his chest. He kisses you like he means to devour you but in a slow, exploratory sense of the word. He's tasting, testing, savoring every glide of your lips and tongue.

"Arthur," you murmur against his mouth, wooden spoon in your hand dripping broth from your stew onto the floorboards.

"Missed ya," he whispers, grit and gravel in his throat.

You drop the spoon and loop your arms around his neck. His hands trace down around the curve of your hips, the round of your ass, and he grips the back of your thighs to hike your legs around his waist.

"But– the stew!" you cry. He sucks a bruise into the side of your neck and your protests fade into a desperate whimper.

He grunts and hauls you off to the bedroom. "Gonna be quick, I swear."

Dinner isn't ruined after all, thank the lord.

You swear up and down that you'll never let him kiss the cook again, but you manage to bend your own rule the very next day.

[naffeclipse]

Petal

Botanist!Reader x Naga!Eclipse

Commission Info

This little fic was such a delight to write and I'm so happy @bluemoon1331 commissioned me for some good ol' Blackwater Lure (naga) Eclipse. Toss in a botanist reader to pair with this handsome snake and you have quite the pairing and a little smooching in the jungle!

Content Warning for suggestive themes.

———

You swat a buzzing insect swirling around your ear before huffing. The humidity is thick like rain but not a drop falls from the blue-white sky in the middle of a bright, brilliant day. The green canopy overhead provides mottled shade. Despite this, a thin sheen of sweat glistens on your forehead. Swiping underneath the stiff brim of your boonie hat, you draw in another sweltering lungful before pressing down on the camera button to finish capturing a picture of a brilliant cluster of heliconia flowers. The picture is basic, but you only need one for reference in your study.

Common and brightly colored, the bracts of the flower form a beak-like shape which are often called lobster claws. You prefer the name heliconia. It’s far more fitting for the stunning, tropical blossom. 

The deep green stem stands tall and sprouts the flowers high, allowing you to stay standing on your feet as you sweep your camera aside and reach for your notebook. The pages are rimmed with your observations and small, simple sketches of each flora you have studied throughout your stay here in the jungle. Michael and Vanessa seem to appreciate your craft though don’t pursue the same interests. Their place here on the fridges of the wild, feral jungle is a fleeing mystery, but you hope they’re enjoying the beautiful, lush ecosystem as much as you are.

You lift your head at the sound of a steady hum whizzing through the air. A tiny creature floats, its wings blurring with the speed of its flight, and dips low to sip at the nectar of the heliconia. A smile spreads softly over your lips. 

Hummingbirds are drawn to the sweet taste of this flowering plant. The small fowl’s feathers shine with an iridescent blue and green. Another flit by. This one pauses just long enough for you to spy its ruby throat. You lower your book for just a moment. Sometimes you get lost in your botany—unable to see the flowers for the petals—but now and then a creature who loves the plants as you do gives a gentle reminder to admire the brilliant red and deep green colors for a moment. 

Another hummingbird with a wonderfully rare purple sheen and gray body buzzes over to a nest. You jot down a gentle note of what the flower attracts as well as its pollinators. The ink needs a moment to try and stick to the thick paper. Your book is about to overflow, with a few pages left spared but not for too long. There are still giant lily pads you wish to observe upon the water and passion flowers high up in the canopy that you must find a way to climb up to. 

You lower your notebook and pause for a moment. It’s strange. You’ve been here for the better half of the morning and haven’t had any interruptions. This is the most research you’ve done in a good while. 

Taking the blessing for what it is, you bow your head and scribble more, noting the bright color and how it thrives upon the jungle soil. There is nothing richer on earth but this Amazonian floor. The most abundant resources of natural, green goods are right before you and you get to observe each flora up close.

You lift your head again. The heliconia is abundant and red, a few tipped in yellow and a rare, stray stem has a tinge of blue to their edges. Beautiful. You step closer, wondering what genetics carried this special trait into this patch of bright reds. Was it cross-pollinated or did a seed get laid here from another stretch of open, flowering land?

The silence settles over you after a moment. Sweeping over the heliconia, you realize the hummingbirds scattered, silent, and swift, leaving you in a heavy quiet. Even distant birds calling and chirping have calmed. The unnatural hush of an otherwise thriving jungle touches you with a warning. 

Your heart stops in your chest.

Your poor notebook drops from your hands, pages, and pen falling. Pointing your feet away from the patch of heliconia, you fail to take a single step before a soft hiss cuts through the air. You cry out as a strike of a lithe, long arms seizes you from behind and a powerful tail sweeps around your legs. A sharp gasp rips from your throat. In a moment of your world spinning, you’re pulled forcibly into a constricting embrace. 

It takes mere seconds. A tail of green scales, dotted with black, quickly twists you into its coils before a soft hum echoes. You fight the urge to squirm as the thick, corded muscle climbs up your legs, locking them together before winding around your waist. Orange-yellow striping on either side of his long, serpentine form cages you within his grasp. Your arms are, unfortunately, caught in the naga’s constriction. You tug on them experimentally but only receive an answering squeeze in return, your ribs tested for a mere moment. A breath slips away from you.

“Happy day, petal.”

You lift your eyes from your trapped body to face the one enforcing your precarious position. Eclipse. The naga hovers over you, balancing on his tail while keeping you in place. The length of his body is utterly incredible. Ropes of thick, powerful muscle spread across the jungle floor and neatly spiral around you, all while leaving enough to support his humanoid torso. 

You try to shift, to find a little more breathing room, but the naga decides to recline you back instead, setting you into an unsettling position where he can creep up his coils to admire you up close. His fangs flash in a ravenous grin. His venom glistens on the razor-sharp tips before he swipes them away with his dark, slender tongue.

“H-hi, Eclipse,” you answer in a rattle. Yet, a smile manages to work its way onto your lips. “Did you have to startle me?”

“I thought you would know it’s me saying hello. Who else would catch you like this?” he rumbles low and deep and the sound vibrates through your own body. You clench your teeth just to keep them from chattering.

He tilts his head as if he finds you adorable—or appetizing. The frills decorating him are as bright as any jungle flower, orange-yellow, and almost hypnotic in the gradient hues. Slitted pupils observe you in the way you might have just been studying the heliconia, interest keen and desirous.

A nervous sound leaves you, somewhere between amusement and fear. “You can say hello without catching me next time,” you offer. “It would be less… frightening.”

His coils shift around you slowly as if tempted by the thought of squeezing until your lungs can’t expand anymore. You glance briefly down to see what his tail may do next.

“Are you frightened right now, petal?” A clawed hand hooks your chin. Eclipse lifts your face to hold your gaze. You swallow back a few mouthfuls of apprehension. A pulse in your arm presses back against the thick serpentine body. You hope he can’t feel it.

You know he does.

“No,” you answer, then truthfully, “not anymore.”

He hums thoughtfully. The sound echoes with a hissing undertone and gradually softens. His eyes survey you with slitted pupils, one a midnight blue, the other deep emerald, even darker than his scales.

“I agree. I’ve held many prey in my coils but you don’t struggle like them. They bite and claw and cry out,” he answers, drawing it out with a slithering sound that spills heat into your core. “But you; you resist little. You’re as soft as fruit in my palms. You’re deliciously small.”

He lifts out his other hand and slowly tilts your hat up and up until it falls away, stumbling down his coils to lie flat by your notebook and pen. The very breath within you catches as he turns his hand and runs the back of his crooked finger down your cheek, admiring you closely. You lean away on instinct but the snare of his scales gives you little room to escape. Softly, he reaches up and strokes your head. His claws comb down your hair. His tongue flicks out so close to your nose, you wonder if he intends to lick you.

“Although there is one aspect you carry with the rest of my prey,” he simpers. He leans close enough that his fangs glisten in the mottled sunlight. “You look good enough to eat.”

The tempo of your heart rate becomes a beating drum within you. 

“What do you eat?” you ask breathlessly, as if you could stall his hunger.

“Oh, whatever trots my way,” he slips a claw over the shell of your ear, causing you to shiver, much to his delight. His coils cinch around you tighter in what you suspect is a desire to feel every shuddering muscle within you. Your cheeks burn.

“Like?” you prod, trying to regain control of your racing pulse but failing miserably. 

He flashes a sinister smile and a drop of venom slips into his saliva before he licks it away.

“Monkeys are fine for a meal. Jaguars are a delicacy that I’ll indulge in when I have the chance. If I’m in the mood to work up my appetite, I’ll hunt black caiman. Otherwise, I’ll dine on a giant otter.” He watches you closer as you comprehend the strength of his ability to target other predators. Truly, nothing can stop him if he so desires. 

You’ve learned much about Eclipse in the short time you’ve encountered him—or rather, he’s stalked and caught you. He is the apex predator of this ecosystem. He glides between the trees and turns into mottled shadows under the dense canopy and possesses a head as brilliant as any blossom. You do not know the animal kingdom as well as your flora, but you know he is the king within this jungle.

And he favors you, somehow. Though he has played with you like a cat with a mouse, he has never delivered a venomous bite with his wicked fangs or squeezed you until you couldn’t breathe anymore. You don’t know what to name this obsession he holds for you but it’s enough to spare your life. It’s enough to convince you that he cares for you. 

A nice theory you’ve come to consider is that you are in the safest place in the jungle right now, protected by the apex predator’s serpentine body. It’s enough to make your heart soften whenever he wraps you tight in his tail. After the initial shock has worn away, of course.

“I imagine they, ahem, taste fine,” you say, though your tongue is a bit dry.

“Such meals hold a very excellent taste, but I prefer a new flavor as of late,” a low rumble moves through him. 

You swallow roughly. His eyes catch the motion, dropping down to your throat where it bobs before his grin seems to sharpen. His fangs lie on full display.

He tilts your head back slightly, allowing sunlight to brighten your face. “Now I want to know more about what you’ve been up to, petal. What are you studying today?”

“Heliconia,” you answer. He captures you in his intense gaze. You nearly wish you could look away just to concentrate on forming words on your tongue. “The, ah, scientific name is heliconia latispatha, but it’s sometimes called lobsterclaw.”

“Say that again,” he commands.

You almost spit out ‘lobsterclaw’ but catch your mistake before you can simmer in embarrassment. In a steady voice, you repeat, “Heliconia latispatha.”

His eyes close briefly, sealing away the jewel-dark colors of his gaze. For a moment, you study him, fascinated by how he tilts his head as if turning an ear towards you.

“Beautiful,” he hisses softly. His eyes open, slitted pupils thinning in the brightness of the day before he nods. “Tell me more.”

You sputter once before continuing into details about their relationship with hummingbirds. Eclipse lets you spill into a monologue. His attention never lapses as you so often find in those who ask about your botany studies only to realize you are giving them an accurate answer, not a simple and inadequate one-note description. You can almost forget that you can’t move your limbs while falling into a ramble of your studies.

While you speak, his coils keep you cool. His smooth, sleek scales effortlessly ease your sweating while slowly shifting around you, occasionally squeezing as if grasping your hand to remind you that he is here, listening. His tongue flickers out once while he traces your jawline and even your lips when you tell of hoping to locate giant lily pads.

“I will take you to see them,” he says after you pause. Your eyes widen. He grins as his claws slip along your temple, trailing your hairline. 

“Really?” you breathe. You’ve been searching for them for so long—even Michael and Vanessa reported that they have stumbled upon many yet in their travels around the jungle.

“Of course.” Eclipse’s simper deepens while he lets his hand fall to cup your cheek. “Anything is yours. You must only say the word, my favorite flower.”

Your lips part but no sound falls out of your mouth. Eclipse’s eyes drink you in as you wriggle in the slightest, unable to contain your eagerness despite how tightly you are held. His tail moves in answer. Scales shift you towards him as Eclipse leans over you, closing the distance.

“Eclipse.” Your mouth finally moves. His name fills it. He stirs, his thin eyelids fluttering briefly as ripples of muscle fall down his tail.

“Say that again,” he commands.

Your throat bobs before you shift your shoulders. His hands fall to the neckline of your shirt, tugging on it slightly to expose your collarbone.

“Eclipse.” Your cheeks heat with a red as bright as the heliconia. 

“Petal,” he hisses gently, “You’re so sweet and precious. Like nectar. I want to taste you.”

Oh.

You want to say something, that you are not nectar but a very simple, boring human, but you aren’t sure if that’s the right thing to say in the face of a predator who lies inches away from your mouth. He draws his hand under your shirt and palms your shoulder, covering your shoulder blade. He tilts your head up. A soft gasp escapes you when he squeezes you softly, and then as if stealing your air, he captures your mouth. He pushes gently, tasting your lips and grazing them with his slick fangs. Quiet sounds escape you, your hands clenching and your knees rubbing together, unable to take his face in your hands and hold him in return. It’s almost maddening. Almost.

A low hiss breaks the kiss as he draws back. His gaze, despite his serpentine aspects, is soft and glowy. You spin slowly after the contact like you were on your feet one moment and lifted off them the next.

“Perhaps we might find a lily as pink as your cheeks,” he murmurs, much to your embarrassment. His smile is devilish but his tongue slowly traces your cheekbone, and you close your eyes.

You hope so, silently, for such a flower.

[highprettybabyy]

Seeing Red

Part 8 - Breaking Bread

jenna ortega x fem!reader apocalypse au

summary: Y/N recovers from her injuries

warnings: enemies to lovers, typical apocalypse stuff, violence, blood, zombies, gore, maybe angst... some fluff...

AN: i love domestic fluff

word count: 3k

—//—

(Jenna's POV)

Y/N hadn’t moved in hours.

Not since you stitched her up, hands shaking, blood caked in your fingernails. Not since her body had gone terrifyingly still. You’d cried into your knuckles until your ribs ached, until the nausea passed, until the only thing you had left was focus.

Now… all you had was waiting.

You sat on the edge of the coffee table with your elbows on your knees, rifle across your lap. Every few minutes, you stood. Paced to the window. Checked the barricade. Looked through the cracks in the boards. There was nothing out there. Nothing. You still checked.

Y/N had said this place was clear. She’d said she cleared it out herself. But how could it be? She was attacked just five minutes from here. Five minutes. You couldn’t stop replaying it - the way she collapsed, the sound she made, the blood. God, the blood.

Your chest felt like it might cave in.

You leaned over her again. Checked her pulse. Still there. Still steady. Her face was flushed but calm, lashes twitching slightly as she breathed. She didn’t look like she was in pain.

That helped. A little.

You sat back down. Ran a hand over your face. Then, without really thinking, you reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair off her forehead.

It was softer than you expected. Tacky with sweat.

She didn’t stir.

You let out a breath.

Okay. Okay. She was okay. You could breathe. You could-

You needed to move.

You stood up and started wandering. Quietly. Careful not to step on anything too loud. You didn’t know what you were looking for. Just needed to do something.

The house was a strange mix of fortress and memory. There were barricades, yes - but there were also photos on the walls. Drawings on the fridge. A little ceramic owl on the bookcase by the stairs.

It was her home.

And she’d kept it standing.

You found a stack of notes in the dining room. Maps, lists, inventory logs. Dozens of watches in a plastic container marked “SYNCHRONISED.” A line of entries detailed times, alarms, and distances. Another page showed rough sketches of what looked like a toy car circuit.

You stared.

No wonder the streets had been so quiet.

She’d used the watches. Set the alarms. Mounted them to something that could move. Lured the zombies away on purpose.

You felt your chest rise, then fall.

She hadn’t just been surviving. She’d been planning.

Somehow it felt safer.

Years of disagreeing on stupid topics and petty arguments should've made it feel like the opposite- but it didn't.

You moved through to the kitchen. Checked the cupboards. A decent stash of canned goods, some dried fruit, a university student appropriate amount of instant noodles. You peeked into the fridge - and actually smiled when you found a covered pan of what looked like stir fry. Cold. Slightly wilted. But edible.

You hesitated.

Then you ate it. Quietly. Slowly. Every bite tasting like something sacred. You were sure she wouldn’t mind. Probably.

Outside, the sun was dipping lower. You headed into the backyard through the kitchen door and stared at the rain collector. It was rudimentary - a couple of tarps strung over poles, funnelling into a barrel - but it worked. There was plenty enough water inside to wash with.

You found a pot and took it outside to fill. Found a clean rag. Set the pot on the stove, pressed the button to turn it on. It turned on.

You clapped a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from cheering.

You boiled the water to sterilise it, then let it cool until it was barely warm. Dipped the cloth in, wrung it out carefully, and returned to the couch.

You cleaned her wounds one by one. Silent. Focused. Trying not to breathe too loudly.

When her face twitched in her sleep, you gentled your hand immediately. Soothing in strokes. Whispering nothings like she could hear you- except, you'd probably not say anything if she was awake.

“It’s okay. You’re safe. Just a little longer.”

The cuts across her shoulder. The gash near her ribs. The bruises blooming over her thigh. You did what you could. Bandaged. Re-bandaged. Checked for infection. No heat. No smell. Not yet.

You wiped her face last.

Her lips were dry. Skin pale.

But she looked… peaceful.

God, she was beautiful.

You shook that thought away. You’d already let too many things slip.

You dragged two blankets and a stack of pillows off the nearby armchair and set up on the floor beside her. Laid your Glock within reach. Turned your body toward hers.

And for the first time in a long, long while-

You slept.

Not with one eye open. Not with your hand on a trigger. Just… slept.

-

(Y/N's POV)

You woke to pain.

Sharp, raw, bone-deep pain that throbbed behind your ribs and across your temple. You groaned before your eyes even opened, the sound dry and broken in your throat.

Everything hurt. Your head, your gut, your chest. You could barely move. Something was wrapped tight around your midsection. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic. And something else - something warm.

Blankets.

You blinked your eyes open and tried to sit up.

Bad idea.

You gasped through gritted teeth, muscles spasming in your stomach. Stars danced across your vision. You slumped back with a strangled whimper, forehead damp with sweat.

Then-

“Don’t move.”

A voice. Right above you. Steady. Firm. Familiar.

You turned your head slightly and saw her.

Jenna.

She was kneeling beside you on the floor, hair mussed, shirt wrinkled. Her eyes were wide - too wide - and her jaw was clenched so tightly it made your own teeth ache.

She looked like she hadn’t breathed in hours.

“Wha…” You licked your lips. Your voice was barely there.

She reached out - slowly - and placed two fingers against your wrist.

Checking your pulse.

Her eyes searched yours like she was looking for something behind them. Then her lips parted, and she asked:

“What was the name of that professor we had for public speaking?”

You blinked.

“What…?”

“Just answer the question.” Her voice cracked slightly, like she was holding something back.

You frowned. Memory was fuzzy, but not that fuzzy. “Uh… Dr. Vesnik. The one who looked like a wax candle and spat when he talked.”

A pause.

Jenna exhaled hard and sat back on her heels.

“Thank fuck,” she whispered.

You stared at her.

Then it hit you.

The question. The way she was watching you. The fear in her posture.

“Oh my God,” you rasped. “You thought I was-”

“You passed out,” she snapped, voice wobbling. “You stopped breathing for a second. You were bleeding everywhere. You-” She broke off. Rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth. “I didn’t know if you were gonna wake up.”

Something twisted in your chest. Not pain. Not exactly.

“Jenna-”

“No, don’t,” she said quickly. “Don’t do the thing where you pretend it doesn’t matter. It does.”

You swallowed.

The silence between you buzzed like static.

You shifted slightly, trying not to cry out as the pain lanced through your abdomen again.

She noticed. Of course she did.

“Here,” she murmured, moving closer. “Let me help.”

She adjusted the blanket around you, slipping a pillow under your shoulder. Her touch was careful, featherlight. Like she thought you’d shatter if she was too rough.

“I cleaned your wounds,” she said quietly. “Boiled water from the collector. Changed the bandages.”

You looked at her, blinking slow.

“You stayed.”

She shrugged, but the motion was stiff. “You would’ve died otherwise.”

“No.” You shook your head. “You stayed.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

You stared at her for a long time.

“You didn’t have to.”

Her eyes darted away.

“Maybe I wanted to.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

You weren’t sure what to say. Neither was she.

So instead, you reached for her hand - slow, tentative - and rested your fingers over hers.

She didn’t pull away this time.

-

The days passed in pieces.

Pain first. Then sleep. Then the hazy in-between, where time was soup and your body was glass. It was a blur of soft footsteps, rustling blankets, quiet humming, and the faint click of your front door locking and unlocking as Jenna came and went.

She never stayed gone long.

Sometimes you woke to her checking your bandages or replacing the damp cloth against your forehead. Other times you heard her muttering to herself while sweeping broken glass from the hallway, or rearranging the canned goods in the pantry like she needed them to be just right.

She was always doing something. Restless. Efficient. Calm on the outside.

You weren’t fooled.

On the third day, you finally managed to sit up on your own.

The movement made your side scream, and your ankle was still swollen and bruised. But you didn’t black out. That counted as a win. You hobbled slowly from the couch to the window, leaning your weight on the walls, and pulled back the curtain to peek outside.

Empty streets. Motionless trees. No snarls. No groans. Still safe.

She came back five minutes later, arms full of laundry from the upstairs bedrooms.

“You’re up,” she said, somewhere between surprise and scolding.

You gave her a tired smile. “Only took me three days.”

She didn’t smile back. Not yet. But she did set the laundry down and walk to your side.

“You should’ve called me,” she murmured, checking your stitches. “What if you ripped something?”

You shrugged, biting back a wince. “Then you’d get to sew me back up again. Your favourite.”

That earned you a very small, very reluctant eye roll.

You counted that as another win.

-

By the fourth day, you were able to walk the full length of the hallway and back. Jenna hovered like a mother hen. You made fun of her for it. She threatened to tie you to the couch.

Somehow, it worked.

When the pain dulled enough for longer conversation, you sat at the dining table with a heating pad against your ribs and let her talk you through gun handling. She broke down every part of her rifle, named each piece like she’d known them all her life. You’d held weapons before. You weren’t a stranger to fighting. But watching her talk about the tools that kept her alive - the reverence, the calm precision - it felt like seeing something sacred.

Later, you taught her how you’d lured away the zombies. Explained the watches, the race car, the alarm syncing. She asked questions. Smart ones. Took notes in your scavenged journal. She got it right away.

It was strange. How easily you fit. Like puzzle pieces that had spent years jammed into the wrong box.

She didn’t joke as much as she used to. But when she did - when she let it slip - it was quiet and sincere. And when she smiled, it reached her eyes now.

You caught yourself watching her too long more than once.

-

It was near sunset when it happened.

You were trying to fix the rain tarp outside - badly, slowly, but trying - and Jenna was sitting on the porch steps, fiddling with a knot of rope and listening to your instructions.

“Maybe I am a burden,” you said suddenly, wincing as you shifted your leg. “You haven’t said it, but I know what it looks like.”

Jenna looked up at you, eyes sharp. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not trying to guilt trip you. I just…” You shook your head. “You didn’t sign up for this. For me.”

“No,” she said slowly, “I didn’t.”

Your heart sank a little before she continued.

“But I’m here anyway. You didn’t sign up for me either.”

You met her gaze. It was steady. Grounding.

“I don’t think you’re a burden,” she said, voice softer now. “And even if I did - I think I’d still be here.”

You didn’t know what to say.

She took a breath. Looked down at the rope again.

“I never hated you, you know.”

You blinked. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I know. I wanted you to think that.” She gave a half-smile, but it didn’t last. “You were the only person who could actually keep up with me. In class. In debates. Hell, even at parties. Everyone else just… fell in line. Not you.”

“I thought you were just trying to crush me,” you murmured.

“I was. But not the way you think.”

You stared at her.

She glanced up again, and this time her voice dropped.

“When I found you in that mall... I thought it was a dream. I thought I was losing it. I’d been alone so long. After what happened with my family… I didn’t think I’d ever feel okay again. But then you were there. Bloody. Snarky. Breathing.”

She paused. Her voice caught a little.

“I don’t know if I could’ve kept going if I hadn’t found you.”

You felt something deep and fragile in your chest begin to ache.

“Jenna…”

She stood quickly, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Anyway. That’s all I’m saying. Come inside before you pass out again.”

But her ears were pink.

And when you brushed past her on your way back in - just barely - her hand steadied your arm.

She didn’t let go right away.

-

By day five, the pain had faded to a dull hum, still loud enough to slow you, but no longer the tyrant it had been. You could move around the kitchen now, cautiously, hands bracing countertops, hips bumping drawers as you navigated the space like someone relearning their own home. You hadn’t realised how much you missed just… moving. Doing.

Jenna had claimed a corner of the kitchen table as her “tactical HQ.” A map of the area sat there now, covered in scribbles and markings that made sense to no one but her. Beside it: an old rag she used to polish her weapons, your lighter, and a pack of gum she insisted tasted like cardboard but kept chewing anyway.

It was weirdly domestic. The way she moved through your space without breaking it. The way you’d started finishing each other’s thoughts without trying.

That morning, you caught her staring out the living room window, arms crossed, lips slightly parted. You didn’t speak. You just passed her a cup of coffee - not great, but warm - and she took it without looking, murmuring a quiet “Thanks.”

You didn’t ask what she was thinking.

She didn’t offer.

But she sat closer after that.

-

By the afternoon, you were itching for something to do. So, bread.

Jenna, for all her stoicism, was surprisingly eager when you offered to teach her.

“You just want me to get flour in my hair,” she muttered, tying your old apron around her waist.

“I want you to do something stupid with your hands for once,” you said. “Let go of being hyper-competent.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Flirting’s gotten weird since the world ended.”

You smirked. “You wish.”

The dough was sticky. Jenna kneaded like she was trying to kill it. Flour exploded across the counter.

“God, it’s like a crime scene,” you wheezed, laughing despite yourself - which, in hindsight, was a mistake.

Pain shot through your ribs. You doubled over slightly, clutching your side, still laughing.

Jenna panicked. “Shit, shit-are you okay?”

You nodded, wheezing. “No- yes- I think- I think I’m dying of laughter.”

She groaned, but you caught the ghost of a smile before she turned away to find a cloth to wipe her hands. The bread ended up dense and dry.

You cut it anyway, slathered it in whatever preserved butter you had, and ate it like royalty.

It was perfect.

-

That night, while Jenna cleaned up, you made a plan.

You weren’t the kind of person who owed people things. Not like this. But she’d been there for you - really there - when you’d barely had the strength to breathe. And you’d promised her a warm meal, didn’t you?

You waited until she disappeared upstairs to check the traps on the window screens. Then you moved fast.

You pulled a thick cut of ribeye from the bottom drawer of the freezer earlier - one you’d hidden behind bags of frozen berries and forgotten veggie mix. You’d tucked it there days ago, when you first started planning this.

Now, it had thawed perfectly in the makeshift basin near the radiator.

You seasoned it simply - salt, pepper, a little oil - and pan-seared it until it hissed golden on both sides and tender . Avocado came next, mashed with salt and cracked red pepper, spread over toasted slices of bread.

Hashbrowns crisped in another pan. Coffee brewed low and slow in the French press. You moved on muscle memory alone, hands steady, heart oddly light. Ankle - aching.

By the time she came downstairs, everything was plated. Two mismatched forks. Two mugs of fresh coffee. The table cleared of maps and weapons. Just food. Warm, real, and waiting.

You heard her feet on the stairs before her voice floated in-

“Okay, so I’ve been smelling something for the past twenty minutes and I didn’t know if I was hallucinating or if you’d actually poisoned me in my sleep-"

She rounded the corner and froze.

You turned, already grinning.

She gasped. “No fucking way. Y/N.”

You said nothing. Just gestured to the table.

She covered her mouth with one hand. “This is- holy shit.”

You shrugged. “Told you I’d cook. You didn’t believe me?”

Jenna walked forward slowly, like you’d just built her a shrine.

“You made steak,” she whispered.

“You’ve earned steak.”

She sat down across from you like the meal might vanish if she blinked. Her eyes went wide as she picked up a fork, practically bouncing in place.

“This is insane. You didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to,” you said simply.

She looked at you. Really looked.

Then smiled. Wide. Unfiltered. Almost childlike.

It hit you like a truck.

You’d never seen her like this.

You hoped you’d get to see it again.

--//--

AN: see? it's fine! Y/N survived today :D

...

today.

[sun-snatcher]

could you write "i know i'm a monster, but you treat me like a man." from your prompts with shay cormac/f! reader? I discovered your profile recently and been loving your writing🫶🏻

( all credits to @bankaizen for this delicious gifset! )

✠ | of monsters & men ; shay cormac

summ. Your secret is revealed. The Captain of the Morrigan doesn't seem to mind. w.count. 2k. a/n.  f!reader , but reader is pretending to be a man , james kidd who? , slow-burn , mutual pining , friends-to-lovers , just reader & Shay being love-struck idiots . (I also understand that traditional sloop-of-war’s much like the Morrigan wouldn’t’ve had a crow’s nest due to her size, but for the sake of the fic, allow me to wave a magic wand over canon!)

       ST. ANTHONY’S RECEIVES the Morrigan with loving arms. 

With the ship lain to, and half the crew offboard, the Northern squalls billowing downwind into the dank, creaky port does little to stifle the riots of songs livening taverns and inns. All this, yet—

“Birdie!” calls a voice, floating high somewhere by where the topsails have been furled secure. “Haven’t frozen y’toes off there, have you, lad? Be a shame if I lost the finest Navigator the seas have yet to offer.”

Sitting slouched in the crow’s nest, you let out a snort. “Aye, lost ‘em all to scurvy just yesterday, I fear,” you lament, voice timbre. "Go away!"

Shay’s delighted laugh fills the air—

And you quickly tamp down that flutter you feel in your chest before it could get too treacherous.

“Also,” you note, once he hauls himself from the mainmast and lands with a perfect perch at the nest’s guardrails, “I’m the finest Navigator the seas will ever offer you, Captain, thank you very much.”

“Aye, that y’are. Dare I say the finest Mariner there is—”

“Oh-ho?”

“—right after me, ofcourse—”

“Little Irish bastard,” you scowl, failing miserably at hiding your grin, and swatting childishly at him when he scoots to settle into a comfortable seat next to you. “So. St. Anthony’s women not t’your fancy? What’re you doing all the way up here, Captain?”

“Funny that. Was going to ask y’the same thing after I saw y'run off. An’ Christ, call me Shay. I’m beginning to forget my name after all these months sailin’.” 

“Well, I was drawing, Captain,” you deflect, easily. Better than confessing you don’t want to be stuck in a stuffy room brushing shoulders with rowdy drunkards, and feeling your own heart bleed out watching pretty ladies bat their lashes and sidle up freely next to Shay.

Your answer is hardly a lie, anyway. The only reason the crew had taken to calling you Birdie in the first place is because you bide your time up in the nest scratching away in your papers (or dozing off one too many times, as Gist so likes to point out). That, and the fact it proves easier with your slightly build to pull your weight in the lines or riggings up above.

“Rum?” he offers, and sets it by you. It feels alot like a peace offering, even if it's unintentional.

Shay’s gaze falls on your tattered, leatherbound journal. A curious trinket; he’s never seen you an arm’s length from it, nor the pencil you keep tucked on your ear. He’s seen you sketching away into its water-logged pages more oft than not, cheeks stained with graphite and a furrow between your brows. “S’that your woman, birdie?” he says, glimpsing the unfinished markings of a face. “Now I see why you're not tasting the local cuisine. She’s a beauty.”

You can't help but break into a knowing, private smile. “Aye… Something like that.”

"How mysterious."

"She's my sister," you lie, if only to chase him off your scent.

"Oh? Well, does she have a man?"

"Fuck off," you bite, though without heat. The chance compliment settles nicely in your cheeks. "She’ll only be a trouble t’you. She's not your type, anyway, Shay.“

"Isn't she?" he hums cannily, but doesn’t broach the topic further. He’d never dared to ask to look in the book— isn’t exactly his business, after all— but you shrug and trade it for his drink. “Y’sure, birdie? I don't pry.”

“Go on, then, 'fore I change my mind.” There isn’t anything damning written about you in there; You know better than to risk that.

“So?” you take a swig, just as Shay begins parsing hrough the pages. "What is it? Surely you didn't climb up here t'keep warm. Come t'bother me?"

“Is it a crime for a Captain to want to spend time alone with his good friend?” he muses, distracted by the drawings— nay, Masterpieces, these are masterpieces, birdie. Y’ve a future in this, y’know?— of intricate horizons, coasts, constellations and isles on the weathered pages. 

Shay recognises them all: Asian archipelagos and spits of the lesser Antilles or the Caribbean reefs you’ve both voyaged to, dated and signed; alongside notes of headings and longitudes penciled under stipplings of navigational celestials like the North Star, the Dipper. 

“If the Captain is you, Shay,” you answer, “Then any man with sense.”

“Oh, I mean the Morrigan, birdie,” he teases, only to earn a sharp smack at his knee. 

“Ha-ha. I reckon all your good friends are women, aye?”

“So it seems,” he agrees absent-mindedly, and you wonder if the sideways glance at you had been your imagination.

Shay turns to the still-lifes. Breaching humpback whales and dolphin pods arcing over whitecaps; a bird’s-eye-perspective of the crew on a sunny day aboard the Morrigan, and countless, bustling ports across the world you’ve visited. There are portraits of the crew too: of deckhands, gunners, or of Gist, and even a stern profile of Haytham Kenway looking portside in the distance. 

And in-between it all—

Him. Captain Shay Cormac. Immortalised in blink-and-you-miss-it moments: manning the steer while holding conversation, or perched at the bow afore the setting sun, or peering through his spyglass from the sail riggings. “I ought to commission’ you. These are bloody incredible.” He traces a finger over one of the more detailed portraits of him, looking serene despite the menacing scar splitting his face. “Y’ve done me a justice, lass.”

You choke on the rum.

“—Aye,” you cough, willfully ignoring his mistake. Or had you misheard? “Perhaps, ah, one day.”

(Regardless. He couldn’t possibly know, surely. You’ve been careful for this long.) 

You clear your throat. Shake your head. “You haven’t properly answered my question, Captain.” 

“Right,” he relents, and closed the journal before handing it back to you. “I was just curious—”

You steel yourself for the worst.

“—why’ve y’stuck around for so long?”

Oh. “You mean, aboard the Morrigan? With you?”

“Aye,” he nods, levelling your curious, critical look. “I’m sure y’ve heard rumors an’ chatter about me, birdie. Isn’t hard t’miss. Master Kenway, Gist, an’ I’s line’a work, that is. I’m here to confess it isn’t all hearsay, that what I do isn’t a pretty thing.”

“Didn’t fancy you the type t'care about what other people think, Shay.” No one needs to earwig that to know it’s true. It’s quite known that Captain Cormac is an unflappable creature who’s earned his place in the world both on and off-land, to toe the thin line between confidence and arrogance wherever he goes. Though you suppose he’s just a man, at the end of the day, if he’s this consumed over a little mud-slinging to his reputation. 

“I don’t,” he agrees, truthfully. “But I do care what you think.”

Something soft curls in your heart. Damn you, Shay Cormac, you curse. You handsome, quick-witted—

“I know it isn’t pretty. And fortunately for you, I’m no priest, and we’re not in a confessional, so,” you sniff. “Doesn’t change a damn thing.”

He huffs out a polite laugh. “Well said.”

“Listen,” you sigh, more serious now. “Other men may have come and gone with the tide, but I’ve voyaged with you the longest because I wanted t'stay, Captain.”

“Exactly. You’ve seen what I can do. I know I’m a monster, birdie, but y’treat me like a man, an’ noble men don’t— do what I do.”

Ah. So there’s the root to all of this banter, then. A crisis in faith, somewhere. “Shay,” you narrow. “I’ve never met someone who’s a stout heart as you; Kept every word like bond, and never traded honour for prestige. Now, most monsters are men, and it’s all the same to the likes of me—”

(To the likes of me, Shay catches the slip.)

“—but I think you need to ask yourself: do you kill without cause?”

“No,” he says, affronted. “I fight for the people.”

“Then you’re twice the noblest man any could ever dream to be.”

A beat. 

Shay drops his head back to the mast with a glittering look in his eyes you can only describe as fond. (Perhaps, if you dared to indulge, affectionate—) “You’re a bloody gem, birdie, y’know that?”

The cuff of his sleeves brush against your pinky, and you can feel the toe of his boot against your own. You try not to focus on either of it, try not to focus on the proximity. “Aye, most women call me a diamond in the rough.”

He doesn’t laugh and take the bait this time, much to your surprise. “My Da once told me, birdie: It’s not enough to give people what they need to survive, you need to give them what they need to live.”

“Aye,” you nod, after a subdued moment. “I’ve stayed because you’ve given me that, Shay: purpose. Sailing the seas on the Morrigan is the freest I’ve ever been.”

“Y’ought to sail with your true self, birdie.”

You seize. Feel your blood run ice cold. “My… truest self is by your side.”

“Is it?”

“Isn’t it?” you bristle, and you are cutting now, Shay can see, because you’re frightened. “Captain, how much have you had to drink—?”

“I’d make a poor Irishman if half a bottle’a rum is all it takes to end me. Now take it easy, lass—”

You scowl, and move to sit up. “I’m not a—”

“It isn’t a fret to me at all, birdie,” he says, firmly, the back of his hand nudging your shoulders to lean back. “At ease. I’ve known you’re a woman for ages, now.”

This time you can’t school the look on your face.

“How long’ve you known?” you swallow, after you gathered your wits.

Shay cocks his head in thought. The confirmation now only pieces together what he’d always had a sneaking suspicion of, sensed even beyond his own second sight. Your gear, your mild stature, your peculiar mannerisms; nimble-handed at the riggings, fleet-footed in every brawl. But, if he’s to put a time on it—

“Singapore. When y’knocked that Portuguese sap’s teeth right out his head an’ put the heart crossways in him after he fretted the poor barmaid. Looked right personal t’you. I gathered then.”

A pause. Careful calculation. You’re trying to piece your reality back now that it's been shattered: the moonlit hush, the whistle of the winds, the lap of the tide against the Morrigan. Finally:

“Pretty sure he was Peranakan,” you correct, uselessly. Your hackles aren’t raised anymore. Shay would’ve acknowledged the look of defeat in your eyes had he not been so captivated by hearing your voice— real voice— for the first time.

(It’s gentle. Beautiful. If he’d been any more loose-lipped he might’ve pleaded you sing for him.)

“Captain, Singapore was… a long time ago.” It’s a loaded sentence, and had he not known you well enough he might’ve missed it: Why didn't you say anything?

“Aye. Like y’said earlier,” he waves, dismissively, “Doesn’t change a damn thing. Only, what’s your real name, lass?” 

You tell him. It’s been unspoken for so long, that for a moment it sounds near foreign to your own ears when he rolls the syllables back to you in his accented tongue. “Lovely name. I’m guessin’ the woman in your journal is you, aye?”

“To be a dame in a boatful of men is a death sentence, Shay,” you laugh, distant. It isn’t pleasant. “Ill omen to have a woman onboard, you know? Or so they say.”

He knows what you really mean.

“An’ yet here we are, after all these years, alive an’ well,” he challenges, raising his and your shared rum to the pale moon. “Besides, y’know I make my own luck, lass. So don’t think of leavin’ the Morrigan now, aye? Would be a right shame if I lost a sailor fierce as you.”

Another stumble in your heart. You bite your tongue. Shay’s trying to get a laugh out of you, you realise. To lift your spirit.

“Your secret’s safe with me, birdie. The Morrigan doesn’t discriminate, an’ you’ve earned your place on this ship a long time ago. Tell y’what, if anyone lays a hand on my finest Navigator, y’have my word to unman them yourself.”

That does it. Now you do laugh. Bell-like. Bright and sunny and warm—

And it knocks the wind right out of his lungs.

Aye, you'll be trouble indeed, birdie.

[kattyfics]

Hidden Injury

summary: During your journey as the victor of the 68th Hunger games, you grew close to the darling Finnick Odair, with some unfamiliar feelings starting to bloom. What will happen to you two as you are thrust into the hell hole you thought you escaped from.

wc: 1k

warnings: blood, angst, gore?

“Let the 75th annual Hunger Games Commence”

The cannon blew and you immediately dove into the water. You never were the best swimmer, but you were good enough to get to dry land and reside there until your allies arrived. It was a smart move to avoid the blood bath, the only downside is you don’t have a weapon to defend yourself. Instead, you have to trust Finnick to get what you need.

A million thoughts race through your head. You decide to climb a dense tree close to shore so you can scan the area safely. What feels like hours pass till you can spot people coming back to the beach. While waiting, you counted 7 cannons, not bad, but you can’t help but worry that one of them was Finnick.

A few minutes later you spot Johanna approaching shore with Wiress and Beetee. You quietly hop down from your tree and slowly make your way towards them so as not to scare them. Johanna quickly spots you and runs toward me.

“Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” She exclaims as the married couple approaches.

“I was hiding in that tree. I left the bloodbath before I could get caught up, or get any weapons.” You sigh defeatedly, knowing now that you probably should have tried to get something from the cornucopia.

“It’s alright, I got a couple throwing knives here.” Joanna says as she hands a few over. “We should get going though, being out in the open like this can lead the career pack right to us. Nuts and Bolts are terrified of them.” She whispers the last part.

You guys make quick work heading into the forest, trying to sketch a layout of it along the way. Your main goal was to find the rest of your group. It was hard in the dense trees, but with the few weapons and physical capabilities we had, it was better this way.

It had been a few hours now with Johanna leading the four of you through the jungle. You were all dehydrated, after coming to the conclusion that the body of water in the center of the arena was salt, you were out of ideas. You suddenly feel a few drops of wetness in your hair. Apparently everyone else did too, as Johanna cheered at the thought of water and opened her mouth.

You look up and just as you were about to open your mouth for a taste, the color red flooded your vision. Blood rain.

You try to get the thick liquid out of your eyes. Wiping your face and failing, instead spreading the blood everywhere. Somewhere amongst the chaos, Johanna yells something and you all start running.

Still struggling from the persistent rain, you couldn’t see when a fallen tree branch appeared in your path. You sliced your leg open, stumbling a little and falling over as you do. You don’t register the pain, your adrenaline too high to think straight.

Johanna runs back and pulls you up to continue running.

After what feels like forever, you finally make it back to the beach. Able to wipe the blood out of your eyes, you notice a group a couple of feet away from you. It seems they’ve spotted you too, as they’re running towards you with worried expressions.

You don’t notice who the group is until Finnick is holding your face in his hands and checking for injuries.

“I’m ok Finn, I promise.” You say as you take his hands in your own.

His face seems to calm at that. “Let’s help you into the water, ok?” He takes your hand and starts to lead the way to the water.

A few steps in and you feel a burning sensation in your leg. A few more and you’re limping heavily. It’s not soon after you fall over, lightheaded and dizzy.

“Sweetheart, oh my god, are you ok?” Finnick panics and starts checking the rest of your body for injuries.

Your hearing fades in and out as everything becomes blurry. Finnick becomes quiet permanently as you black out.

——

There’s too much blood, they can’t figure out which is your and where it’s coming from.

Finnick picks you up in his arms and carries you into the water. He cleans off your arms and torso, looking for any wounds on the way. Then he reaches your legs. A long cut a few inches deep runs vertically across the calf of your right leg, leading to your lower thigh.

“I need medical supplies right now!” Finnick yells, “Bandages, alcohol, gauze whatever!”

You were gonna need stitches for sure. Finnick runs back to shore and Peeta meets him halfway, holding some bandages.

“Is this all?” Finnick observes the scarce supplies.

“I’m afraid so.” Peeta looks guilty, “Is she gonna need stitches.”

“Yeah…”

You were friendly with Peeta the few weeks you knew him. You grew close during training and were the first person he wanted to ally with. Growing as a mother figure to him, you meant a lot.

You start to stir in Finnick’s arms as he makes sure to set you on the blanket Katniss laid out.

“Hey honey, how are you feeling?” He speaks with a gentle voice, carefully ripping open your pants for easier access.

“It hurts..” You whimper. Johanna brings over the canteen Peeta had given her for water to disinfect your wound.

“I know, it’s ok it’ll be over in a minute.” Finnick first rinses his hands off, then pours the water over your wound, going in with the cleanest cloth he could find to rub the dirt and grime off.

You hiss in pain as your eyes tear up, clenching your jaw and digging your nails into the ground.

“The worst is over, time for bandages.” Finnick starts to slowly wrap the bandages around your leg, being careful not to directly touch it. “You’re gonna need stitches, but this is the best we can do until a sponsor sends something.”

Throughout this whole process Finnick has been so gentle and caring. Making sure not to cause as much pain as he has to.

“I love you.” You whisper teary eyed as he continues the bandages. He looks up into your eyes, still going.

“I love you too.”

𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹

[violettwrites]

trailerpark!daryl headcanons

a/n: this includes both sfw & nsfw ( below the cut ) headcanons for tp!daryl

if you enjoy my stuff, please don’t forget to like, reblog, and/or comment ! here you can find my masterlist, and my ask box is open for requests !

warnings: there is mentions of abuse, and weed in this post, also nsfw content. please proceeded with caution 🫶🏻

resources: divider by @adornedwithlight

sfw tp!daryl dixon headcanons.

➵ tp!daryl dixon is very much different to his older brother. quieter, less annoying, but overall just nicer. he is extremely loyal, & protective.

➵ he is extremely self sufficient. being left home alone for days on end helped him build his resilience.

➵ he has a soft spot for stray animals. the amount of times he has found a tiny stray kitten and wanted to bring it home is countless, but he knew his father would not be happy with him.

➵ he’s surprisingly very good at drawing. he often likes to sketch scenes of his surroundings, wherever he may be. that may include the creek you and him spend a lot of time together at, the silver dome arena where countless concerts he’s snuck into have played, or even just random doodles.

➵ he loves heavy metal and rock music. his favourite bands are motörhead, slayer, iron maiden, metallica— just to name a few. he gets his taste in music from merle.

➵ he is not much of a talker, but he is definitely a listener. he will listen to you rant and ramble for hours on end, often just replying with a nod of his head or a mhm, but you know he’s always taking it in.

➵ he often wears long sleeves & sweaters to hide the bruises and scars on his body from his father. it’s harder when he ends up with a black eye, but he just plays it off as him and merle roughhousing.

➵ the first time he ever smoked weed was with you, and merle, in one of the old broken down cars at the trailer park. merle and daryl sat in the front and you in the back, dutching out the old chevy with the smoke.

➵ he didn’t like going to school, often skipping classes or just not showing up at all. but you can bet he was always there to walk you home at the end of the day.

➵ he can often be extremely withdrawn, isolating himself several times a week. it’s never personal towards you, but you’ll often notice he’s been missing for a few hours. you can usually find him down at the creek, in the woods behind the trailer park, or even on top of his trailer sometimes.

➵ because he’s too broke for concert tickets, he’s snuck into concerts so many times.

➵ he’s had a crush on you since he knew what crushes were, really. merle constantly teased him for looking at you like a lost puppy, urging him to make a move. but he’s too shy for that, and he didn’t like the idea of possibly ruining your friendship.

➵ overall, he’s your best friend. you trust him with your entire life, and you couldn’t ask for anyone better.

nsfw tp!daryl dixon headcanons.

➵ big switch energy !

➵ when he’s topping, he’s rough with you, but always makes sure you’re okay. he’ll press your thighs to your chest while he fucks you, or he’ll pull your hair from behind. the rings on his fingers also add to the pleasure when he spanks you.

➵ when he’s subbing, he’s a whiny, begging mess. he’ll grip at your thighs or ass, looking up at you with big blue eyes while he begs for you to keep going.

➵ the first few times you two fucked, he kept his shirt on. he was too nervous to take it off, but you never pushed him. slowly he became more comfortable and now it’s one of the first things he’s ripping off.

➵ aftercare king ! not that there’s much he can do without possibly outing himself to merle or his father of his activities, he’ll always make sure you’re okay— wether that be just getting you a glass of water and snuggling with you after, or kissing every inch of your body.

➵ certified pussy eater™. he’d go down on you for hours if he could.

➵ if he had to choose between ass and tits, he’s definitely an ass man. he loves grabbing handfuls of the flesh, especially when you’re riding him or he’s fucking you from behind.

➵ loves leaving hickeys in place only you and him can see.

➵ loves to hear you moan but also loves to shove his fingers in your mouth to shut you up when you’re being a bit too loud.

[marvelobsessed134]

“You taste divine”

Pairings: James Hetfield x Innocent!Ulrich!Reader

A/n: back with my innocent!reader brainrot fics I love them so much. Fyi reader is 18 James is like 20 something here so it’s all legal

Warnings: smut, corruption kink, non/dub con, overstimulation, loss of virginity, praise, manipulation, James takes advantage of reader’s innocence, probably not accurate to real life events but it’s fiction so it doesn’t really matter

Ever since James met you, he’s been enamored by you. You’re just so sweet and innocent and he wanted to corrupt you so badly.

It all started when he pulled up to Lars-your brother-‘s house and saw you lying on your tummy in the grass while reading a book under the tree. A delicate white dress adorning your small form. The frontman could feel his mouth watering at the sight. Unfortunately it was interrupted by your brother shouting at him to come inside so they can practice.

“Hey, didn’t know you had a sister.” James said.

Lars shrugged, “Yeah, I usually don’t tell anyone cause everyone wants to bone her. But she doesn’t even know it!” He put his hands in the air as he explained. Meanwhile the guitarists’ pants tightened.

James likes them…oblivious. It was a horribly dark fantasy he has. The need to corrupt a innocent girl.

During practice, he couldn’t stop thinking about you and your sweet aura. Fuck, he had to talk to you. Even if Lars would kill him for doing so.

So one night, while the guys were having a random hangout which turned into a sleepover after they had one too many drinks, James creeped his way up to you room. The soft glow from your light peaked through the hallway and he walked inside to see your very girly pink room.

And there you were, on your tummy again but this time on your bed while you sketched something in a notebook. The blonde closed the door behind him making you jump and your head snap in the direction of the sound.

“James?” Your soft sweet voice sounded through the quiet room.

“Hey Y/n.” He responded before walking over and sitting on your bed, “Whatcha drawin’ there?” He motioned towards your notebook.

“Just some bunny rabbits cause I don’t know.” You blushed and giggled.

“You look like a little bunny rabbit.” The blonde said with a smile as he lightly pinched your cheek. You blushed more “Jamie.” You giggled. Oh god he loves when you call him that. Rarely would he ever let someone use that nickname for him but you? You can use it all you want.

“Hey do you mind if I hang out in here with you tonight? The guys are all passed out.”

“Sure.”

He took his shoes off and got comfortable on your bed. Then he leaned forward and grabbed you by your waist making you squeal in surprise before sitting you on his lap.

“James! You can’t do that!” You scolded but you were laughing.

“And why’s that?” He teased, tickling your side making you laugh and squirm, “Lars doesn’t like when- oh my goodness stop that tickles! When boys touch me.”

“Yeah? Well he’s not here now is he?” The frontman replied, stopping his tickling but moving his hand up your shirt towards your breasts.

“J-James what are you doing?” You asked dumbly.

“I just think you’re beautiful and I want to play with you, is it so difficult to understand?” Of course, you don’t know any better so you let him fondle your breasts making you moan at the foreign feeling.

“Can you take your shirt off for me baby?” You complied, taking your little white lace cami off to reveal your bare chest. His hands both came up behind you and tweaked your nipples, rolling them around in his fingers. “Jamie!” You gasped.

“Feels good doesn’t it honey?” You nodded, still a little unsure.

“Can you lay down for me?” The blonde asked gently and you nodded once again, lying down next to where he was sitting on your bed. He got up and tossed your sketchbook and pencils haphazardly onto the ground and pulled your legs so you’d get close to the edge of your bed. He carefully pulled your shorts and panties off, “Spread those legs for me baby. I just want to see how pretty you look down there.” His tone was so gentle and trusting. You had no idea how he really felt. How he was finally getting his perverse fantasy to come true.

As instructed, you spread your legs. “Oh god, look at that little pussy.” You didn’t know what any of those words meant minus the ‘oh god’ part but you felt like you could trust James, he’d never do anything to hurt you right? He’s older than you and knows more than you.

The guitarist slipped his finger up your folds making you jerk your hips up and hiss. You’re so sensitive down there. He licks his finger clean before getting down on his knees and licking a bold stripe against your pussy.

“Oh!” You moaned in surprise. The singer chuckled against you sending vibrations throughout your body. He continued to eat you out causing you to shiver and shake under him from all the newly found pleasure you experienced.

You felt yourself get overwhelmed with this tingly feeling in your cunt and you tried to back away to make James stop, “Please, James stop! It’s too much I don’t know what going on too tingly n’ itchy- oh!” You screamed out in pleasure as your first ever orgasm hit you like a truck.

“So good baby, oh my god you taste divine.” He moaned as he lapped up all your cum before standing up to check on you. He pressed a kiss to your lips before undoing his belt and letting his jeans and boxers fall to the floor.

His dick sprang to life hitting his stomach before he guided it to your core, rubbing it up and down your folds making you gasp, “What are you doing now?” You asked a little nervously.

“I’m playing with you, remember?” He didn’t want you to know exactly what he was doing to keep a tiny bit of your innocence for his own sick pleasure. He slowly entered your tight hole making you hiss in pain, “James stop! That hurts!” You cried but he kept entering you, staying still for a bit to let you adjust to the feeling.

Once you calmed down he started to thrust himself inside, and the pain you felt quickly turned to pleasure as he hit your g spot over and over. James gripped your hips as he fucked you.

“Fuuuck so perfect for me. Taking my dick so good.” He growled as he upped the pace making you moan and cry out. He didn’t care if anyone heard the two of you, he was too caught up in the moment.

“Jamie!” You cried out as you felt your second orgasm arriving and hitting you again making your vision white for a second. “You’re such a good girl letting your brother’s friend play with you like this.” The vocalist moaned before he pulled out of you to shoot his load on your tummy.

He scooped up his own cum with his finger and brought it to your mouth, “open.” He commanded and you did as he said, taking his finger in your mouth and tasting the salty release.

“Good girl.”

[mindless-existence1]

More sfw Mha boyfriend headcanons

Authors note: Kinda a part 2 but does relate to the other one at all. My friend helped me with the Ida stuff so thanks pookie. Also this is kinda an in-between fic just so then I can keep myself motivated to write the requests I have

Contents: I think like one curse word

Pt1

Mha Masterlist

My Masterlist

Includes: Bakugo, Denki, Ida, and Tokoyami

Ida would schedule times to hang out with you when he's free. Not because he like hates you or smth but he just has a very set schedule he likes to stick to. If you want to hang out outside of the set time then most likely it'll turn into a study date.

Denki is a yapper and he often yaps about you. His poor friends have to deal with him mentioning you constantly. Something completely random comes up and he's going "Oh I remember y/n was talking about that one time, speaking of them..." he's a simple man you loves his partner.

Tokoyami is a drawer I feel. He'd have a sketch book/journal he carries around for sure. In a not creepy way he'd draw yiu a lot. Like a muse kind of way. He'd never show you butbthen you find it and he has to explain how he just finds you so perfect and then after that he shows you his drawings.

Bakugo would definitely not even realize how in love with you he is untill kirishima or someone mentions it and then he's noticing how different he acts with you. Have him tied around you damn finger.

Ida definitely wakes up hella early to exercise and specifically run (obviously). He'll try to get you to wake up early to but often times he wants to wake up way to early. You just kiss him goodbye most mornings and fall promptly back to sleep.

Tokoyami is a poet I bet. Or at least a song writer which is basically the same thing. His muse? You. In his journel/sketch book he has poems along with the drawings. Another thing he's probably embarrassed about bit high key he's just in love. He has so much to say but is too embarrassed to say it.

Denki would love to share headphones with you. I fear his tase in music would either be shit or the best in the planet. If it's bad you help him shape it to be better. He'd love to keep his in during class so then he can think about you isntead of whatever boring thing you are getting taught. Also I fear he'd forget to charge them all the time.

Bakugo is the type of guy to tell you no while simultaneously doing it. Like you ask him "could you get me a glass of water?" "No is already getting up to get a glass" or he'd tell you know and wait all of 15 seconds before doing it for you.

Denki when he gets nervous will let out little zaps on accident. As most the tickle or leave a slight sting but nothing crazy. So for your first kiss he's freaking out, obviously, and accidently zaps you. Face is bright red and he's now embarrassed for the rest of his life. Definitely wants to go die in a hole but when you start laughing and kiss him anyway he's fine.

Tokoyami would also like to share earbuds with you but like I said before his music taste is immaculate. Personally I like Korn and maybe im biased but I think he'd like that band to. And just all around metal/rock bands. But also just good music in general. Unlike denki he'd charge his earbuds religiously. He'd die without his music same bro.

Bakugo after a hard day of training would go straight to your dorm. Somehow he thinks it's way more comfortable then his. He just plop down on your bed before a shower before changing clothes anything. Which would be ew but he'd eventually do all that but first he needs a kiss and small cuddle with his partner first.

Ida would look up relationship stuff. This is probably cringe but like I fear he'd get nervous about his first relationship and then all the sudden he's looking up "how long should you date before you kiss your partner?" Eventually he realizes he just needs to take everything at his own speed.

[oobbbear]

This rant has 1 target audience and it’s me sorry I like to talk about my unfinished/abandoned stories like they’re successful tv shows and I’m the director getting interviewed about the little details of said show

I love afterland postal so so so much you don’t know how hard it was for me to cut it, but it got to the point that it’s effecting my mental health so I had to stop it. His story in the afterlife is a healing journey, so for that healing journey to be effective I have to make the downfall in his past life hurt, like, HURT hurt, and I went a bit too far that and focused on it a bit too much that I was not working on the healing part anymore. Everyday I regret the making of water angel cause it ended being my fav instead of the protagonists and it being the physical manifestation of death made me focus on the downfall of the story too much, until it literally just crumbled to the ground. If I pick back up Dolus’s story one day I will cut out water angel entirely and maybe most part of his past life, focusing mainly on the afterlife part and how he recovers/deal with his past traumas and rid of bad habits. I want to draw this gremlin again so so bad.

Afterland Postal is a story about learning to love life through death. I like to draw Dolus with CT moon and Callisto sitting together because all three of their stories are about “learning to love life again through the death”. In Dolus’s case is his literal death. For CT moon is him fantasizing death. And for Callisto is through the death of her old life.

After the “death” all three of learned to love themselves again by traveling. They see the world in different perspectives, goes out of their bubbles and get a taste of the wild possibilities of what life has to offer.

For Dolus, I specifically placed him in this post office that delivers mails to the living plane so he can run around experiencing the world but doesn’t have to deal with life? One of his big thing is that he enjoys simply existing, he likes observing the world, feel his surroundings, I had an entire chapter that’s describing how he sees the world through his 5 senses. The feelings are the only thing he enjoyed about life, now he’s a ghost life doesn’t have effect on him anymore, he can really slow down sit down and look at the world he didn’t have the time to look at before, see what he missed and what he may have never be able to see.

For CT moon is basically all described in that If my world goes Bang comic.

Callisto is a different case cause she doesn’t die, strongest fucking character in my stories she survived and very passionate about living. In the original plan after her finding Hester and having Hester’s soul freed, she’s gonna go and travel the world. She has been living in this little house in the middle of nowhere for good half of her life, having her burned down her past and moving on to a new one is good for her. I had a lot a lot of sketches that is just her traveling, I used this as a chance to expand on this weird magical world she lives in, so many cool places and concept. (Also she started dating people again wohoo) I really wish I didn’t burn myself out after that animatic this story would have been so fun to work on.

SPEAKING OF TRAVELING AS A HEALING MECHANISM☝️I m gonna go on a mad Orange Knife spoiler rant since I don’t think there’s a single soul still reading this thing. In Moondust & Natto plot, Moondust really really wanted to see the world with Natto, she loved the world she loved life, in her eyes the outside world is a struggle but one she would fight for because the sunset is beautiful and the grass is soft and for that the hardship is worth it, she loved the world so so much and she wanted to have Natto experience it too. Freedom was a large part of her soul and being add to OK’s collection permanently took that away. She never got to see it again not even the part of her that got added to worm made it out, her soul is killed long ago and body died with the fire that led to Worm and the remaining crew’s freedom, which honestly I think she would be happy knowing that her death freed Natto in the end. She would be mad knowing the person who killed her is freed too but she would understand if she knows Worm’s situation better. After Natto is free I’d like to think he carries a piece of Moondust with him so in his heart he completed their dream, and they can finally experience the world together.

It’s 2am and nothing is making sense sent post to tumblr.com go

[envy-of-the-apple]

the jjk naga au is getting to me……..i fear im terminally ill with thoughts about it (seriously, top of the food chain is such a yummy series (?) and im soso obsessed with how you've written gojo’s and geto’s characters, i reread your works everyday, i just can't get enough! ^^)

and i hope you don't mind if i share a Thought i've had :3 (i was going for an mc who used to draw/sketch/make art just for this specific scenario)

Imagine that your time on the island's barely dragging on. There's only so many berries to pick and so many times you can braid Suguru’s hair into elaborate styles. You're bored, stranded on an island with these two naga captors and their (adorable) hatchlings.

Well, there's always playing with the hatchlings, or tussling with Satoru (he calls it playtime but you're far from amused when you get a faceful of sand when he tugs your legs out from under you) but you miss your alone time. That little bubble of yours. Ah, privacy. 

Like that'd happen, but you can dream.

It's a stroke of chance when Nobara comes to you with her new haul of human paraphernalia, all too excitedly. A leather satchel. Some printed photos of nameless faces with scenic backgrounds. A waterlogged cell phone, practically unsalvageable. A journal with pages so thoroughly soaked, it falls apart in wet clumps.

“What are these?” You can hear her rummage through the bag, her nose wrinkling slightly. “Smells weird.” And so you look over to see her glaring down at a (relatively new) set of oil paints, sealed away in the bag. It's likely that she picked up on the scent of the strange chemicals.

Your eyes are bright with hope as you gently pull it out of her hold. Ready to answer her million and one questions.

…

After all this time that you've thought of what you'd wished to be able to do, you're at a loss. You've got a wall to the cave to yourself, a set of oil paints and a makeshift brush from the wood of this one particular tree off the side of the island. The only thing you're missing right now is inspiration.

A muse.

Satoru and Suguru are snoozing. Peaceful and laid in each other's arms. you can appreciate the quiet to yourself.

You hear familiar shrieks and playful yells of the hatchlings' name. 

The slight bit of quiet, then.

Nobara and Yuji are wrestling in the water, arguing over something in a mix of clicks and curse words. The sight is an endearing one, but moving too quick.

So you do some searching inward.

And you paint what comes to mind. What you've felt this whole time.

…

“What's that?” Ever the curious one, Nobara rests her head on your shoulder to peer over at your artwork in progress. She doesn't understand any of it—and she wouldn't. Your human upbringing is leagues different from hers.

“... Home.” You murmur, and Nobara’s glancing up at you in wonder because of the way your eyes glisten, the way your hand lingers over to paint in a fine detail.

“Well, it was my home.” You smile back at her, and she's at ease. You're not sad—no, she'd make it everybody's problem if you were—and then she makes sure to know everything about the scene you've drawn.

“What's that?” She gestures. Careful not to smudge the paint off, index outstretched to a figure she doesn't recognise.

“That's a lamp. When it gets dark, we switch it on so there's light. Like the torches in the cave, you see?”

“Torch? Hmm… and that?”

It seems that talking about your old home brings a warmth to your voice. Nobara beams up at you all giddy as you explain, eager to learn more. Eventually Yuji slinks over to listen as well, more so to the sound of your voice than what you're saying.

You sound happy, the pair can tell. Like when you taste a berry sweeter than the others, or when you tell them stories of your own to lull them to sleep. They like the chime of joy in your voice, and neither stops you from rambling about your once-home. 

It's a moment of peace. and warmth.

Yet it shatters for you when you feel a strong muscled tail coil around your waist, that familiar sense of having your space invaded taking over. A very intrigued Satoru looms over you, eyes glinting as he takes in the sight. You know that something's off—he seems more punishing with how tight he holds you.

“Home, huh?” Satoru repeats, and even the hatchlings can tell that's their cue to leave. Nobara offers you a lingering glance, almost pouty before she slithers away, following after her brother.

…

The next early morning, you find your home gone. 

In a sense, it's a bitter joke to be played on you. Not only were you never going to be back at your own place, even the expression of the idea was taken away from you. Just like your freedom was. your choice. The wall of the cave was bare, not a hint of the paint or the sentiment lingering behind. As if someone hit a total reset. Paints nowhere to be found, your canvas scrubbed clean.

Suguru stretches out from behind you, one of the first few to wake up, wrapping you in a lazy hug, before he follows your gaze. You'd call the soft laugh that rumbles in his chest cruel. Mocking your homesickness in that loving way only he could manage.

“Must've rained last night.” He comments at the absence of your artwork, and you wish you could pinpoint at least an inch or sarcasm in his words. You nod quietly, and he draws you in closer.

Cold lips brush against your temple. 

“The only home you need is with us.”

The sand under your feet is drier than your throat.

(oh my god im sorry if i rambled too much, i hope its not annoying ^^;;)

jaw dropping. amazing. wHAT????

I love how anon made Nobara's characterization so much sweeter and innocent. Though it's probably cuz she's younger in this fic...considering she can still stay on land. And satosugu not even wanting you to THINK of your old home is so accurate. I feel the more they learn your language, the more eager they'll be to display ownership.

Anyway thx anon for making the fourth part! from now on if anyone wants an addition to the naga series turn to the anons not me.

[yanyandam]

Watermint-colored dress -Mitsuya Takashi x fem!reader

Mitsuya falling in love with a girl too drowned in her own dreams

DISCLAIMER: angst, mitsuya's crush is one sided lmao, reader wants to become an actress

She was wearing makeup like a movie star. A girl from the theater club, just next door to the sewing room at their high school. Funny how things worked out: drama and fashion, two worlds stitched side by side.

They helped each other out sometimes. The theater kids needed costumes, and the fashion club needed models who could bring fabric to life. Mitsuya had seen her a few times. She always had lipstick smudged at the corner of her mouth, and this laugh that made her head tilt all the way back. He thought it was ridiculous. He also thought it was kinda beautiful.

Mitsuya Takashi. Oh he wasn’t like the rest of the gang. He wasn’t in it for the fights. Not always. He was in it for something else. Call it art. Call it vision. Call it therapy, if you wanted to get real. He’d punch someone in the face at lunch, and then sketch a runway collection before sunset. That was Mitsuya.

But really, do we need to explain Mitsuya Takashi? You either knew him, or you didn’t. You either got it, or you never would.

Sometimes, she’d just lean against the fake jukebox in the club hallway. It didn’t even work. It had been there since the ‘80s, part of some forgotten school renovation plan, collecting dust and stickers from generations of bored students. But she made it look like a prop on a movie set.

She’d lean there in her uniform, one leg crossed over the other, her head tilted. And in her head, Mitsuya could tell, she wasn’t in some aging high school. In her mind, she was waiting for a screen test at Century Fox.  The first time Mitsuya saw her there, he had a spool of golden thread in his pocket and a rolled-up sketchpad under his arm. He didn’t even mean to stop. But something about her, the posture, the subtle curve of her lips, the way she looked at the world like it owed her a spotlight, made his feet halt. “You know that thing doesn’t work, right?” he asked, nodding at the jukebox.

She didn’t look at him right away. Just kept chewing her gum like she was in a scene he hadn’t been cast in. “I like the way it looks,” she said eventually, eyes still fixed ahead.

Mitsuya leaned beside her, careful to keep some space. He wasn’t pushy. Just present. He had this soft confidence about him, like he knew he belonged there, even if the rest of the world disagreed. “You act like someone who’s been in a movie before,” he said, glancing sideways.

That earned him a look. Eyes rimmed in perfect black liner, lashes curled to perfection. “Maybe I will be.”

He smiled, the kind that crept up one side of his face. “Yeah? What kind of movie?”

She shrugged, the leather strap of her schoolbag slipping from her shoulder. “Anything where I don’t have to play the good girl. I’m tired of that script.” Ah, the rebellious act girls liked to have in high school. Mitsuya liked that. He got tired of scripts too.

They didn’t talk every day, but they shared something wordless over the weeks. A nod here, a glance there. She’d be in the theater club. He’d be in the sewing room, hunched over fabric, stitching dreams into seams. One day, he found her leaning against that jukebox again, but this time, she was quiet. No gum. No attitude. Just her, folded into herself like she’d lost the lead role.

Mitsuya approached, hands in his pockets. “Rough rehearsal?”

She glanced at him. No eye roll this time. Just a small sigh. “I want a dress.”

“A dress?” he echoed.

She looked away, almost embarrassed. “A mint-green one. Like… soft mint. Almost like water, you know?”

“Color of ‘menthe à l’eau,’” he said, nodding slowly. “That kind of shade?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You speak French now?”

He smirked. “Enough to understand good taste.”

A pause. Then, she smiled, barely, but it was there. And Mitsuya felt something click in his chest.

“You gonna make it for me or what?” she asked, pretending to be bored, but her voice had a lilt to it. He leaned forward just a little, enough for her to feel the warmth in his tone. “You really want it?”

“Of course I want it. I want to feel like Audrey Hepburn if she’d grown up in Kabukicho.”

He laughed, really laughed. Not the polite kind, not the usual smirk. It came from somewhere real. “You’re a strange girl,” he said.

“And you’re a strange delinquent,” she shot back.

That night, Mitsuya went home and sketched for hours. Not just a dress, but her dress. Something that would catch the light when she moved, that would flow like smoke and memory and that mint-green haze she always talked about. He wasn’t just designing fabric, he was tailoring a dream. And he didn’t know it yet, but he was already falling.

Not because she was “different.” Not because she was better. But because she made him want to create, not destroy. Because when she said she wanted a mint-green dress, he didn’t think “why”—he thought how soon can I get it done?

That’s how Mitsuya Takashi, gang member and future stylist, began to fall. Not in slow motion. Not in dramatic fireworks. But in a hallway, beside a broken jukebox, because a girl with movie star eyeliner said she wanted to wear a dream.

–

She was always doing the most.

The girl who wanted a mint-green dress, like something from an old French film. She talked like she was in a perpetual audition, shoulders tilted, eyes cast just slightly to the side like a spotlight might fall from the ceiling any second. Always looking up, searching for some kind of divine projector to validate her performance. And Mitsuya couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t even know what “it” was.

Theatrical girls never surprised him. He’d seen dozens, he grew up around noise, fake tears, loud laughter that never reached the chest. But this one? She wasn’t pretending to be the center of the world. She believed she was.

She wasn’t just eccentric. She was deluded, wrapped in her own fantasy like a silk robe, floating above reality while the rest of them stumbled through their days on tired feet. And he was always watching her from the side, sketching out ideas in his head, pretending it didn’t bother him. Pretending she didn’t make his pulse hitch when she walked past the sewing room with her perfume lingering

Today was worse than usual. She was back at it again, leaning against the fake jukebox in the hallway like it was some sacred prop from a 60s movie set. The machine didn’t work. It hadn’t worked since before he joined the school. But she leaned against it like she was waiting for Dean Martin to come kiss her hand. She didn’t see anyone. Not really. Not the other kids. Not the hallway. Not the rusted lockers or the posters curling at the edges. Not even him.

And Mitsuya felt something stir deep in his gut. An ache. Not anger. Not infatuation. Something uglier. Something in between.

He kept his distance at first. She didn’t talk much in groups, but she always found a way to make the air shift when she entered a room. Like she changed the temperature just by existing. She wasn’t loud. She was felt. And that scared the hell out of him. Because people like that got under your skin before you even noticed they were there. And then she said it. She said she wanted a dress.

God, she was so full of herself.

But here was the part that twisted him up inside: He believed her. He could see it. The way the fabric would fall off her shoulders, pool at her waist, catch the light when she turned on stage. He could already hear the applause. And that’s when he realized something that pissed him off more than anything. She wasn’t full of herself. She was full of need.

A deep, bottomless hunger for beauty, for fantasy, for a world that made sense the way cinema did. She wasn’t deluded, she was desperate. And it clawed at him. Because Mitsuya knew that feeling too well.

That ache to make something beautiful in a world that kept breaking everything you touched.

She was so lost in her own little show, her little orbit of glitter and projection, and he was the extra.  He was never in her frame. He was just… too much for reality, and still not enough for her dream.

And yet… here he was. Still watching her lean against that stupid jukebox. Still sketching lines in his notebook, imagining how that mint green would look on her skin. Still wondering how someone so far gone could make him feel so seen. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she never would. But Mitsuya Takashi was already making her dress. And he hated himself for it.

–

It was one of those stolen hours between classes, when the school thinned out and the sun fell lazily through the smudged windows of the sewing room. Mitsuya waited for her there, sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by spools of thread and sketches. He had cleared the room, just for her. Not that she asked. She never did. That was part of it. She floated through the world expecting it to rearrange itself around her, and somehow, for him, it always did.

When she walked in, she didn’t knock. Didn’t say hi. Just moved like she belonged there, like the world was her set and she was stepping back into a spotlight. She wore a pale cardigan over her uniform blouse, and her hair was pulled up, just messy enough to look effortless. In her hand, she clutched a cheap notebook covered in lipstick kisses and names of old films. Probably full of monologues. Probably full of dreams.

“You called for me, Monsieur ?”she teased, her voice lilting with amusement, faux French accent barely convincing but entirely charming.

Mitsuya rolled his eyes and stood up. “Don’t flatter yourself. I needed a body to work with.”

She put a hand over her chest dramatically. “How romantic.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re patient.”

He didn’t respond to that.

Instead, he motioned toward the stool in the center of the room. She stepped onto it gracefully, almost like she expected music to cue up. He draped the soft measuring tape around his neck like a scarf, and for a moment, he allowed himself to look at her: not the way a tailor studies a client, but the way an artist studies a painting that shouldn’t exist.

Her eyes sparkled even when she wasn’t looking at him. That was the thing. Her joy, her sorrow, her entire being was always directed toward something just beyond reality. She talked like every hallway was a red carpet. 

But here she was quiet. And he was close. He leaned in to measure her waist, fingers brushing fabric. She didn’t flinch. Why would she? She trusted him. He was Mitsuya. The costume boy. The safe one.

“Thanks for doing this,” she murmured. He blinked. It was the first time her voice had dipped low like that. Sincere. Honest. Almost human. “No problem,” he muttered, looping the tape around her shoulders now.

“I know I’m a lot,” she said. “People say it.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t want to lie. Instead, he looked up at her. “Why mint green?”

She blinked, surprised by the question. Then she smiled, soft and faraway. “Because it’s sad,” she said. “It’s the color of old love stories. It’s not pretty in a loud way, it’s pretty in a forgotten way.”

Mitsuya didn’t say anything. He just let the tape fall into his palm. And in that moment, he knew.

It wasn’t sudden, like a punch to the chest. It was soft. Painful. A realization like swallowing something sweet only to realize it was laced with bitterness. 

He loved her.

Not because she saw him. Not because she returned anything. But because she didn’t. Because she couldn’t. She was in love with something too big for the world. A dream too delicate to touch. She didn’t belong to reality, and Mitsuya did. He always had. Thread, bruised knuckles, gang meetings, role of the oldest, poverty. He belonged to the silence between loud scenes, to the background. And if he even tried to pull her down from that Hollywood cloud she was perched on, he’d break her heart. Shatter something sacred. She needed to believe the world could be more. And he was a reminder that it wasn’t.

“You good?” she asked, tilting her head. Her voice brought him back. “You stopped measuring.”

“Yeah,” he lied, clearing his throat and stepping back. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing important.”

She grinned. “You’re weird. But I like that.”

Then she hopped off the stool, twirled once, and said, “Tell me when it’s ready, alright? I want to wear it under the cherry blossoms in April. Like a real movie.”

He nodded, hands in his pockets. She waved over her shoulder and walked out, her perfume trailing behind her like the last scene of a black-and-white film. Mitsuya stood there for a long time after she left, staring at the stool. It wasn’t her fault. It was never her fault. She didn’t even know she was breaking him. And maybe that was why it hurt so much. Because somehow, without trying, she’d stitched herself into the lining of his heart.

And now, no matter how perfectly he made that dress, she’d never wear it for him.

Today was Monday, and Mitsuya didn’t mean to find her. He had only come back to grab a sketch he forgot, a quick detour before heading home. The door to the small side room near the sewing club was cracked open, light spilling faintly into the hallway. And there she was.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by crumpled paper and pencil shavings, hair messy and eyes glowing like she was mid-spell. Her lips moved silently as she read something from the notebook balanced on her knees, then stopped, crossed it out, and started again. There was a stack of scripts beside her, most of them printed, some still handwritten. She didn’t see him. Not even when he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe and cleared his throat softly. She was too far gone. He could’ve knocked. Could’ve said something. But he didn’t.

Because something in him wanted to watch a little longer. Her voice echoed in the room, like she was auditioning for the heavens. She paused, frowning at the line, chewing on her pencil. He felt his chest tighten.

It wasn’t just a script. It was her. That was how she thought. How she processed the world. Through silver screens and dramatic lines, through monologues meant for audiences that didn’t exist. And in this dim-lit room, she wasn’t a student. She wasn’t just a girl from the next-door theater club. She was someone else entirely.

He stared at her like someone watching a ghost they used to know. Like maybe she had never really been here in the first place. Her fingers danced over her notebook as she scribbled again. A soft, breathy laugh escaped her lips as she re-read something, eyes bright with that dizzy joy she only got when she created.

He was still there. Visible. Physical. Just steps away. And completely invisible. That’s what hit the hardest. Not that she didn’t care, he didn’t believe that. But that, right now, her heart, her mind, her everything was tied to something untouchable. Some version of herself that lived years ahead in some glowing marquee, not in this worn-down classroom. Not in the present.

He wasn’t even competition to her dream.

He wasn’t even in it.

He took a quiet breath and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He could picture the scene, if someone else was writing it. The way he looks at her like she’s art. The way she doesn’t see him at all. It would be poetic, probably. Romantic, if it didn’t ache so much.

He felt like a costume someone forgot to wear.

–

One day, some guy walked in from God-knows-where, and just like that… The spell broke.

The room, which always seemed lit like a silent film set whenever she was around, turned harsh and fluorescent. The kind of light that made you notice how old the paint on the walls looked, how the jukebox wasn’t even real, just a plastic prop left from an abandoned school festival. Mitsuya was sitting by the back table, half-focused on sewing a new pattern for an assignment when the door creaked open. He didn’t even glance up at first. But then, he felt it.

A cold breeze without any wind.

A new presence in the room that didn’t belong to the softness of theatre girls or the quiet buzz of creativity. He looked up.

The guy was tall. Lean. Almost handsome, in that kind of mean, angular way. Dressed like he didn’t give a fuck but somehow still managed to look intimidating. He wasn’t from the theatre club. But it wasn’t just that. It was the eyes. Those eyes, jet black, deadpan, scanning the room like he was picking out weaknesses. They didn’t blink. Didn’t soften. They looked like Tokyo’s wet sidewalks after the rain. And she saw him.

The girl in the imaginary mint-green dress.

She was sitting right where she always sat, notebook open, eyes glittering with some made-up scene. She was halfway through a line, Mitsuya knew because her lips were moving. Whispering words only she heard. Living in her own movie. But then she saw him. And suddenly it was like someone yelled “cut.”

Her expression dropped, the light dimmed from her eyes. Her hand froze. She shut the notebook. Not slowly, not like she was finishing something.  She snapped it shut like slamming a door on her own daydreams. Just like that, the fantasy was gone.

Her Hollywood vanished. Century Fox, the blinking marquee, the impossible script, all of it stuffed back into that stupid little notebook with a quiet snap. She stood. Walked toward the guy.

Mitsuya didn’t even know if she knew him. Maybe she didn’t. He watched as she stood straighter, spoke softer, smiled like it wasn’t hers.

The girl who used to act like she had a spotlight on her every second was suddenly standing in someone else's shadow. And for some reason, she seemed... fine with that. No, not fine. She looked relieved. Like someone had finally arrived to ground her. Like the sky was too big, and this guy’s stare was the first thing heavy enough to pull her back down. Mitsuya felt something twist in his chest.

He should’ve looked away.

He kept watching as she laughed at something the guy said, though it wasn’t really a laugh. It was more like an offering. Her eyes flicked up to the jukebox for half a second, the one she used to lean on like a prop in her invisible Broadway. But now she looked at it like it embarrassed her. Like she was embarrassed of herself. That hurt more than anything.

Mitsuya pressed his fingers into the fabric in his lap, letting the needle scratch his skin just enough to sting. That guy didn’t say a single word to him. Didn’t even glance his way.But he still managed to take something.

Not the girl. That was too easy. He took the illusion. The belief Mitsuya had been feeding himself little by little. That maybe she’d look back one day. That maybe the boy with the needle and thread could sew himself into her dream. But that dream was gone now.

And he was too much for her fantasy. Or maybe... not enough. Either way, the scene was over.

Mitsuya was just watching the credits roll.

It had been weeks. Thirty-four days, to be exact, not that Mitsuya was counting. But he was. He always did. Not because he was waiting for her, no, he knew better now. It was just muscle memory. Like breathing through a stitch, or threading a needle in the dark. Some things, you do without thinking.

And today, the hallway felt too narrow. The sun leaked through the dusty school windows, slicing sharp shadows across the tiles. His hands were ink-stained from morning club work, and the sketch of her mint-green dress was folded in the back of his notebook, nearly worn through from how many times he’d taken it out just to look.

He should’ve let it go.

Should’ve cut the thread the moment she walked away.

But instead, he worked.

He kept cutting, measuring, folding satin and tulle with hands steadier than his own heart. He even hand-stitched the lining, he never did that, not for school projects. Not for anyone. And today, he finally saw her. At the end of the corridor. Her silhouette, framed by the chatter of students and the echo of slamming lockers. She was laughing again. But not the loud, airy laugh he used to hear echo off the drama club walls. This one was quieter, folded in on itself. The kind of laugh you give someone when you're afraid of them getting bored.

He knew who she was with before he even saw him.

The guy with the sidewalk stare. Black-eyed, sharp-mouthed. Standing just close enough to make a point. Mitsuya didn't hate him, not exactly. You don’t hate the sky for raining. It just ruins your plans.

Still, his legs moved. He didn’t plan it. One second, he was gripping the strap of his bag, and the next he was walking toward her like he’d rehearsed this scene in a dream a thousand times. “Hey,” he called, soft but clear.

She turned. Their eyes met, just for a second. He didn’t know what he was hoping for. But all he got was that distant, polite confusion. Like she couldn’t quite place where she’d seen him before. He cleared his throat. “The dress. It’s almost done.”

For a moment, she just blinked. Then she tilted her head slightly. “What dress?”

He swallowed. “The mint green one. You said you wanted something soft, with a back slit and a square neckline. You wanted to wear it under the lights of a stage. Remember?”

She let out a soft breath. Not quite a laugh.

“Oh,” she said. “That was just a childish caprice.” The words didn’t come out cruel. That’s what made them worse. They were said with the kind of calm you only get after giving up completely. The kind of detachment that didn’t leave room for mourning.

Before he could reply, the guy beside her shifted, his arm brushing against hers. Possessive. Silent. And she moved with him. Just like that, she turned back to the hallway and kept walking. No look back. No pause. Her voice echoed one last time:

“Thanks, though.”

Mitsuya stood still for a while.

Long enough for the hallway to empty. Long enough for the fluorescent lights to flicker. Long enough for the quiet to stretch out into something cold and unspoken. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t call her name, didn’t ask what changed.

He just pulled his sketchbook out of his bag. Flipped it open. There it was. Page fifteen. A mint green dress with a hem like a soft sigh. Her dream, his hands. A piece of something neither of them had the words for. He looked at it one last time.

Then, without a sound, he tore the page out. Folded it slowly. And slid it into the trash can by the window. Some dreams don’t fall apart all at once.

Sometimes, they just keep walking down the hallway with someone else.

–2017

The room smelled like fresh flowers and polished wood.

A soft quartet played in the background, some classical piece Mitsuya couldn’t name, and didn’t care to. The music swirled around the ornate hall like smoke, curling between crystal chandeliers and white silk ribbons.

Everyone was smiling.

Mitsuya was not.

He stood at the back, dressed clean and quiet, his hands folded in front of him like a man attending a funeral. But there was no casket today. Only a woman in white, glowing under the golden light pouring through stained glass windows. And she was beautiful. God, she was beautiful.

Even after all these years, his chest still clenched at the sight of her. Not like it used to, back when he’d catch glimpses of her behind half-drawn velvet curtains or leaning against fake jukeboxes in the school corridor. No, this ache was deeper now. Quieter. It lived in the marrow of him.

But she wasn’t wearing mint green.

Not that he expected her to. That dream had died long ago, burned in the silence between hallways, buried under a careless “Thanks, though.”

She wore white.

Simple. Elegant. The kind of dress someone else probably helped her choose. Maybe the same man whose hand she held now, black-eyed, still sharp-edged, though his hair was slicked back and his suit crisp. The same guy from the hallway, years ago. Still the same, only older. Mitsuya watched as she leaned in and laughed at something her soon-to-be husband said. The sound hit him like a fist, soft but precise. She hadn’t seen him yet. She didn’t even know he was here. He hadn’t sent a message. Just showed up. Like a ghost, like someone caught in his own past. Some people might call it masochism. But Mitsuya called it closure. At least, that’s what he told himself. The minister began to speak.

And Mitsuya tuned it all out. He looked at her instead. Her profile, so familiar and still impossibly far. He remembered her younger eyes filled with artificial stars, talking about Fox Studios like they were just across town, asking for a mint-colored dress like it was a passport to another life.

But she was always chasing lights that didn’t exist.

He was always too much.

Too invested, too sincere, too willing to hand over his craft, his time, his heart, to someone who only saw him as the boy from the sewing club. He thought maybe, just maybe, she’d look back. But she never did. Not then. Not now. Her fingers curled around her husband’s, steady and sure. No hesitation. No looking over her shoulder at the past. He realized something then, as her voice echoed through the hall saying “I do.”

The dream wasn’t hers. It never was.

It was his.

She was never really the one lost in fantasy. He was the one who kept holding on to something she’d already let go of. And this wedding? It wasn’t a betrayal. It was just… life. But it still felt like a lie.

A mint-water-colored lie. The prettiest one he’d ever seen.

He closed his eyes. The applause thundered. A kiss. A veil pushed back. The beginning of something. But not for him. For Mitsuya, this was an ending. When he opened his eyes again, she still hadn’t seen him. Good. She didn’t need to. He turned and left the hall before the photos, before the toasts. The sun was warm on his face as he stepped outside, but it didn’t touch him.

After the ceremony, he returned home to find some of his old creations in his belongings, including a mint-colored dress.

She never wore it. He never finished it. But it was the most honest thing he ever made. And now, it would stay just that. A memory of a dream he once loved.

Too much.

[darlingdaisyfarm]

the river splits but still runs home (Stan & Ford)

twins. like light split in two, a star cracked open in the womb and made two hands of the same body, reaching for each other before they even knew what hands were

it starts like this

a house where the salt spray eats the paint off the walls. their mother, Caryn, is standing in the kitchen, wrists deep in soapy water, humming some song neither of them know the words to. the windows are open and the ocean breathes in, breathes out, just like she taught them

Ford is at the table with his glasses slipping down his nose, chewing on the end of a pencil, something half-sketched in the margins of his notebook. Stan is on the floor, legs kicked out behind him, tongue stuck between his teeth as he wrestles a knotted fishing line into submission.

“you're gonna snap it,” Ford says without looking up.

“no, i'm not.”

“you're holding it wrong.”

“you're holding your face wrong!”

Caryn sighs, scrubbing a plate with the practiced hands of someone who has done this a thousand times before and will do it a thousand times more. “boys.” she says

Stan gives the line a particularly aggressive tug and. . . snap.

Ford looks up. Stan looks down.

Caryn turns, raising her eyebrows.

“. . . Ford did it” Stan says immediately.

Ford's mouth drops open. “i did not!”

“you were distracting me!”

“you're the one who broke it!”

“okay, okay,” their mother interrupts before it turns into a wrestling match. she dries her hands on a dishtowel and comes over, kneeling down next to her son Stanley. “let me see.”

Stan holds up the ruined line, eyes downcast. Caryn takes it, carefully untangling what's left, making something whole out of something broken.

“not a big deal,” she says calmly. “i've got another one in the drawer.”

Stan sniffs, rubbing at his nose with his sleeve. “i wanted to do it myself.”

“i know, baby,” she murmurs. she kisses the top of his head softly. ”you'll get it next time.”

Ford watches, silent. Stan exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, the need to prove something wilting under their mother’s hand on his back.

“help me with dinner?” she asks, gently ruffling his hair.

“yeah,” Stanley answers, already halfway to forgetting. he scrambles to his feet, following her like a little shadow.

Ford watches them go. he pushes his glasses up his nose. picks up his pencil. finishes the half-sketched drawing.

the ocean breathes in, breathes out

the first time Ford tastes saltwater, it’s because his brother dunked him under the waves. it’s a game kids play when they don’t yet know the world is full of real drownings. Ford comes up coughing, spitting out the ocean, laughing loudly. Stan’s grin is wide and reckless.

“gotcha, poindexter!” he crows, hands still in the water, ready to do it again.

Ford shoves him back, not that hard but it makes Stan stumble and splash into the shallows. their mother calls from the shore, “boys, don’t go too deep!” but she’s smiling, and the wind carries her words off over the tide.

their mother, so young. her dark hair twisted up in a scarf, her dress fluttering, hands on her hips. she worries, always, but right now she lets the worry go. the ocean is big, but her boys are still here.

Ford wipes salt from his eyes. “you’re gonna pay for that, Stanley!”

“you can’t even catch me, four-eyes!”

and then they’re off, kicking up seafoam, yelling so loud they could wake up every gull on the shore. Ford chasing, Stan laughing, the two of them running so fast they forget about gravity, about time, about the fact that childhood ends.

Caryn watches from the shore, hand shading her eyes. her boys. her impossible boys. her heart aches just looking at them.

years later, one name will be stolen, the other lost in a machine meant to swallow men whole.

but she does not know that yet.

for now, her boys are hers.

“boys! dinner!”

two twins, Stan and Ford are already running, tangled together, because that's what twins do. they spill into the kitchen in one motion, laughing, shoving, too loud, too much. Caryn shakes her head but she's smiling.

“plates,” she reminds, tapping the counter, and Stan groans but Ford grabs them both.

their mother watches them eat as she asks. “what are you going to be when you grow up?”

Ford swallows his bite too fast, too excited to answer that. “an adventurer!” he says, as if he's thought about this every night before sleeping. (he has.) “a scientist. a— a traveler, maybe. i'll see things nobody's ever seen before!”

“and you, Stanley?”

Stan taps his fork against his plate. shrugs. “i dunno,” he says. “but wherever he goes, i'll go too.”

Ford looks at him. like the sun looks at the moon, like gravity itself, like there is no world in which they are apart. “yeah, yeah, of course.” he smiles at his twin

their mother closes her eyes. she wants to believe it. she hopes. god, she hopes.

she has a feeling, deep in her gut, that one day, Ford is going to go somewhere Stanley can’t follow.

they are eight, they are ten, they are twelve.

“you think,” Stan mumbles one night. “when we're old, we'll still be like this?”

Ford snorts. ”old?”

“like, really old. like . . . like thirty.”

Ford laughs into his pillow. “yeah. of course. what kind of question is that?”

Stan doesn't know. it just. . . sometimes he gets scared, that's all.

years pass and they swallow them whole.

time is not kind to their dreams. it chews them up and spits them out on different shores.

Ford falls into another world, Stan falls into survival. they are no longer boys dreaming on a dock.

but here’s the thing about twins. you can split them apart, you can burn them down, you can throw them to opposite ends of the universe, and still they will find their way back.

years pass.

Stan's hands are steady on the wheel, the waves licking at the hull. the sky is full of bruises, pinks and purples spilling into each other, the last gasp of daylight.

Ford leans against the railing, wind pulling at his coat.

“remember when i broke that fishing line?” Stan asks suddenly.

Ford turns, squinting at him against the light. “what?”

“back when we were kids. mom fixed it for me.”

Ford blinks. then he huffs a laugh. “yeah. yeah, i remember that.”

Stan grins. “you were so smug about it.”

“because i was right.”

“no, you weren't.”

“yes, i was.”

mom's not here to stop them fighting. it's okay. they're not boys anymore

Stan rolls his eyes, but it’s affectionate. he looks out at the horizon, lets the boat sway beneath them.

Ford watches him.

the thing is, Stan was always like this. loud, quick-tempered, full of teeth. but he was also this. soft, sentimental, remembering things Ford never thought he would.

Ford clears his throat. “mom was good at fixing things,” he says.

“yeah.”

the sky darken and the stars blink awake. Ford glances down, at his own hands. at the scars, at the years worn into his skin.

“we turned out alright, huh?” he asks quietly.

Stan snorts. “speak for yourself.”

Ford rolls his eyes.

they drift. the boat creaks, the ocean sings.

Ford looks at stan. Stan looks back.

and then Stan reaches over. ruffles Ford’s hair. quickly and carelessly, just like their mother used to.

Ford freezes what makes Stan grin as he pulls away

Ford groans, swats at him. “you always do that—”

“mom did the same,” Stan says, laughing.

Ford rolls his eyes again, but he’s smiling. suddenly he gets too quiet, lost in his own thoughts and memories

“mom would love this,” Ford whispers. “us out here. she always liked the ocean.”

“yeah, she liked watching us in it.”

once, long ago, their mother sat on the shore and watched her boys in the waves.

now, the ocean stretches out before them, endless and unknowable.

“let’s head in,” Stanley says and pushes his brother lightly on the shoulder. ”before you get all misty-eyed on me.”

somewhere in the tide, in the wind, in the bones of the ship creaking beneath them, she is there. her boys are together again.

they sail on.