#oh i am miserable

[astorkes]

a kid needs to rest sometimes

check out my ko-fi shop, in a few days i'll be putting this (and more) up as printables🧐🥳

[strxnged]

my doctor is fucking incompetent

[tim-shii]

post it, or don't ♡

characters/pairings: itoshi rin x reader

warnings: one cuss word lol, not proofread sorry if there's any typos!!! have a good day people.

✿ summary: your tired boyfriend is not a big fan of your spam account being filled with his overly cute photos.

"stop that—"

"stop what?"

"you're taking pictures of me."

"im not, rinnie."

you definitely were.

how could you not take pictures of him when he's sprawled out on top of you like a house cat?

although he was trying his best not to put all of his weight on you, it was impossible to control himself. especially when his body was quite sore from his new workout routine.

rin was unusually clingy today, his exhaustion was responsible for that. initially, all he needed was to lie down on the bed and let his muscles rest against the mattress— but then he realised you were already there, scrolling through your social media.

he just couldn't say no when you opened your arms and called out to him with that soft voice of yours, and he had already started to dream of the satisfying feeling of your hands running through his hair by that time.

and that's how he ended up with his face nestled in your neck and his legs tangled with yours, much to your enjoyment and his instant regret when you clicked on the camera icon and watched the mess of the dark green hair that tickled your cheek.

he didn't realise anything at first because his eyes were closed and he was actually considering falling asleep right then and there. however, the clicking sound of your phone was enough to make him groan and hide his face further.

but your laugh was so soft yet contagious, right next to his ear, and he was holding onto that one string of hope that you wouldn't record a video of his immediate complaints.

"babyyy, say hi!" you said while doing the exact thing he didn't want you to do— recording a video. it was so fun to get on his nerves sometimes.

all he could do was give the side of your bare hips a light squeeze as he tried his best to speak quietly so the video wouldn't pick up what he was saying. "you make me fucking miserable."

your cheeks hurt from how hard you smiled. "alright, okay. i've got my pictures, im satisfied. i'll leave you alone now."

rin slowly peeked up when you placed your phone on the bedside table and shot a glare as you looked down at him. "you're not posting that. i'm tired of seeing my face on my own feed."

"yeah! totally not posting that."

"y/n." it's become a daily thing for him to use your name in that warning tone. "not even the paparazzi post as many pictures of me as you do."

you rolled your eyes. "it's because i'm your biggest fan. just one?"

"no."

"rinnie, pretty please. you just look so cute. gosh, you look even cuter right now." you tried to soften his edges a bit, feeling your chest implode with love because God, your boyfriend was so effortlessly cute. especially when his tired eyes were covered with his dark strands.

all you got in return was a grunt and rin was back to burying his face in the crook of your neck. he really didn't have the energy to deal with your weird ways of convincing. he just needed sleep, and you— he had both of his favourite things now.

you knew he granted you permission once he stopped, or more like gave up, and thanked him softly.

rin hummed as your hands ran over his neck and shoulders and lightly pressed his stiff muscles. a massage to top it all off, your boyfriend was quite literally seeing stars.

"squeeze harder," he mumbled, exhaling slowly when you did as he told you to.

"so, you've been working out."

he didn't respond, waiting for you to say something more related to that as you pondered while pressing your thumb into his skin to ease out the tension.

"don't i deserve a photo or two?" you proposed, a shameless grin on your face when you heard your lover make another noise in annoyance.

"maybe if you don't post that video," rin said, planting a quick kiss against your warm neck as he continued, knowing he had found a good solution. "i'll send you some."

and a few days later, you realised that it was a pretty good deal.

fjskfjskfndmcndkv. this is all i have to show. bye fellow rin enjoyers.

[akanemnon]

I thought this game didn't have random encounters!

FIRST - PREVIOUS - NEXT

MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

[noornight]

Long distance besties. This definitely happened after the third movie (source: trust me bro)

Based on this

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I've never been more normal in my life.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[lazylittledragon]

a very good measure for if you ACTUALLY hate yourself and need to work on that is to check if you're on your period and if your hair dye is faded. and if both are true you're probably fine

[b1adie]

i’m indecisive… but i did this :3

[thecandlesticksfromlesmis]

truly the most egregious part of the 2012 Les Mis is that they changed Valjean’s line from

“It’s the story of those who always loved you, your mother gave her life for you then gave you to my keeping.”

to

“it’s the story, of one who turned from hating. The man who only learned to love when you were in his keeping.”

LIKE?????!! How dare they remove Valjean specifically mentioning Fantine’s sacrifice and putting that before he mentions his own part in the story?? How dare they make Valjean imply that it was only when Cosette came into his keeping that he stopped hating everything and learned to love WHEN THE FUCKING BISHOP IS THE REASON FOR THE GODDAMN SEASON????

Like OF COURSE Cosette softened Valjean, of course he became a better man when he became her father, of course their relationship is important.

But this story would not have happened without the love of the bishop and it was his love that rekindled the love that was dormant in Valjean’s heart. And it was Fantine that fanned that flame, then Cosette’s that kept it steady.

I just hate how flat it makes Valjean’s story seem. “It’s the story, of those who always loved you.” Is THE answer Cosette has been searching for her whole life. I wish they’d kept it in instead of feeling like the audience would only feel fulfilled by Valjean’s story if he only mentioned his direct relationship to Cosette.

Whatever idk. It’s a good Les Mis for a lot of reasons, but a bad one for a lot of reasons too 🥲

[kkoct-ik]

i dont remember why i drew this

[serpentface]

Don't get too attached

[cspcrashing]

hey, sampo. maybe you should stop putting yourself in situations...

[spinostarz]

has anyone else made the connection between stars being sailors' guide and whenever javert talks about stars it's symbolic of the law for him. because it's what guides him and to him it is consistent and concrete. am i late to this realization or .

like in the brick before he kills himself when he looks into the seine he doesn't see the stars. he realized the law isn't actually as dependable as he thought, the thing he relied on his whole life was pulled out from under him

[frootloopsl]

why hasn't anyone made a mod i wonder

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

A Blorbo You Treat Nicely, Right?

[lemurious]

[and crimson like the dawn]

Drabbles and ficlets for @lesmis-prompts. October 6th: flag. Now also on AO3

The bodies were taken down and arranged side by side so that the captain could write his report.

One of the soldiers, who had been worrying about his daughter growing out of her only good skirt, thought that with some ingenuity and a bit of washing, she could have a new red dress just in time for the summer. After all, the Guards had no use for a revolutionary flag, and it made a poor precedent to leave it just hanging around there, who knew what thoughts it could give to the poor?

He did not count himself among the poor. He was a servant of the King, and that meant something. Even if meat was on the table only on Sundays, his daughter could eat her fill.

He was a little surprised when there was no flag to be found, but, he reckoned, it had probably been used to carry the bodies, and would get thrown into the same grave.

--

Marius kept looking down the entire time, as if he could see the fate of his friends on the cold stones of the pavement, which had already been washed twice by the rain and once by the women, ordered at gunpoint to clean the street.

When he lifted his head to swallow the tears, he glimpsed a flutter of red streaking through the sky before getting caught on the spire of the church.

The last time he saw their flag, Enjolras was waving it at the top of the barricade, blazing with defiance almost too radiant to watch, and Marius was falling backwards into pain and confusion.

It was their flag, that was clear enough. Bright red and frayed at the bottom, full of bullet holes, and splattered with dried blood, it couldn’t have been anything else.

Marius blinked in disbelief.

When he looked back at the spire, the flag was nowhere to be seen, but the iron grip around his heart had relaxed just a little.  

--

Cosette once saw the flag draped over the wall of her old convent, and knew better than to take it down. She had been living with enough ghosts to have become rather acquainted with their ways.

Instead, she started to sing, and sang all through that day and the next, old hymns and work songs and country lays from her childhood, and simple made-up ditties that only her doll had heard before.

Cosette sang and made herself remember the time when she had been known as the Lark, the numbness of perpetual hunger and cold punctuated by the sharp pangs of terror.

She thought of the barricades, and the stories she had heard from Marius, and how if he had ever had a chance to ask her, if she had been ready to speak, she would have been able to tell him what and who his friends had truly been fighting for.

After she had finally run out of songs, she felt lighter, almost as if she could sing in the presence of others again, and thought of how she would teach all her songs to her own daughter one day, and tell her about the flag that had risen over the barricades.

--

Musichetta started visiting an unmarked grave every Sunday. She didn’t know if it was the right one, but why would it matter? She needed to speak to the dead, and she could hardly do it in her tiny room with paper-thin walls.

One Sunday, she came to her usual place and saw the flag, carefully wrapped around the gravestone.

When Musichetta stretched out her hand to touch the coarse red cloth, she felt the warmth of fingers instead, dissipating in the breeze.

She fell on her knees, clutching her chest, and sobbed until she had no more tears left.

On the walk home from the graveyard, she began to think of taking another job, helping in the café in the evenings, perhaps, sitting in on some of the meetings.

--

The café is long gone, and the streets have all been repaved, the houses repainted, the barricades rebuilt and torn down many times over, the bitter victories and glorious defeats of countless revolutions relegated to history books. The city is rich and splendid.

In the back alleys and under the bridges, there is bound to be someone sleeping, someone else trying to cover their bruises before their kids could see, someone else yet trying to escape to the bottom of the bottle.

Sometimes, in the bright, ruthless radiance of the summer heat, one catches a shimmer of red in the corner of the eye and turns around in surprise.

The flag is torn and bloodied, and crimson like the dawn.