#street art shuffle
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11oh1 · 1 month ago
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pealeii · 2 months ago
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i keep forgetting to put my johanna shuffle here ✨
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jitter-cat · 7 months ago
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Some fanart i did for one of the characters of my friend’s game called street shuffle!
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neolxzr · 2 years ago
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hello please consider my graffiti streetwear fanunit concept: MADNESS 5TREET!!
more and img without colors below:
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havent decided on colors completely yet and these arent technically final either i just needed to force the idea out of my brain BUT i imagine the outfits are mostly black/gray and silver with some accents of each member's color. the jackets are like vinyl?? textured on the torso part but the sleeves and hood are more like a windbreaker. i think. im not a fashion designer yet
i want the stage to be like dark and blacklit, and the paint glows, and their outfits are reflective in places. the stage decoration looks like an alley in one of those “neon tokyo at night” images. and their eyes glow because thats sick as hell
i have like no story ideas for this i just thought i was cool and i want the amagis to hang out thank you verymuch. i think rinne does like spraypaint street art stuff in craftmonster and theres no way to prove me wrong because they dont have their own story yet L
im kind of tempted to give them like. cool respirator masks. maybe they can be off and worn around the neck during the song but some of them wear it in the card art. actually im definitely doing that
anyway thats all for now will probably draw them again later ^_^ awwawawwwaww
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autumnlopking · 6 months ago
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Stands there … MENACINGLY- I mean cutely! 🍀
Art for @slow-by of Clover from [Street Shuffle]
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glowstx · 1 year ago
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awesome teenage girl things!!
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apatheticshots · 8 months ago
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rabbitblackx · 29 days ago
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AHASDBROFBDVSJ FINALLY!!! THE REQUEST I GOT!!!
Art the Clown sees his next victim (reader) and trying to make her uncomfortable only to get uno reversed so hard that he is doesn't know if he should kill her to end his misery or just swallow the pill and go fuck it and they become killer besties.
Art The Clown When Reader’s Weirdly Okay With Him
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Art found you eating alone in a diner one night, slinking over to your booth with his trash bag over his shoulder. He slumped down across from you, glaring into your soul with his mad eyes. You glanced up from your food, a grin meeting your face. His scowl soon became a broad smile too, eyes wide as he silently stared. You only grinned bigger yourself.
You and Art both smiled at each other in an intense silence for about a minute. If anyone else was there, they’d certainly be creeped out. You got the impression he was trying to make you uncomfortable, but two could play it that game.
“Cute bag. Where’d you get it?” You joked, nodding to the trash bag of weapons next to him. Art just kept on smiling, holding insane eye contact. “You’re kinda cute too, ya know? I like the black and white.”
He waved your compliments off bashfully, fanning his white face as if it was going red. You giggled and kept egging him on, teasing and playfully flirting. Art was surprised by your nice demeanour and lack of fear, feeling entertained by it. You were way more fun to be around compared to his past victims. Too bad you had to die. :(
When you finished your meal and paid, you bid farewell and left the diner, but Art followed like a dog. You glanced over your shoulder as you walked down the dark streets, grinning at him.
“Hey, you coming along?”
Art nodded enthusiastically, shuffling behind you with his trash bag. You could still tell he was trying to freak you out, but you weren’t there yet.
“Okay then. Let’s go!” The clown kept following you down the quiet streets, anyone passing looking disturbed at his appearance. “You’re a good guard dog. You keep the creeps away!”
Art tilted his head at your remark, eyeing you in a funny way. Why weren’t you scared? Couldn’t you tell he was a creep himself? It was beginning to grow annoying how nonchalant you were about him. This was getting old. Scream and cry already!
Art kept following you, and debated grabbing a hammer from his bag. Your back was turned and no one was around. A good whack would do you good right about now! But he refrained.
The killer kinda liked your voice. It’d be a shame to cut your vocal cords, and you had probably been the nicest and funniest person to him yet. He wasn’t used to the kindness.
Art grew pissed. You were annoying! Be afraid! He poked your side angrily and you squeaked.
“Hey! What?”
He glared and pouted. You tilted your head with a playful grin.
“What’s the matter, boy?”
Okay, as frustrating as you were, he had to keep you. Art didn’t know why, but you cooing at him almost like he was a pet… kinda did something for him.
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sturniowhore · 1 month ago
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Can we just keep driving?
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A/n: ending is a little rushed but it's still kinda cute?
Warnings: pure fluff, established relationship
Taglist: @d3axplr @mattstrunziolio @bernardsbendystraws
Dividers: @bernardsbendystraws
In which, Y/n and Matt wake up early to drive around LA, but Matt can't get enough of Y/n..
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You aren't a morning person, Matt sure as hell isn't a morning person, so the fact that the two of you were up at the ass crack dawn was a bit confusing to you.
"Matt, it's 5am. The sun isn't even up yet. What are you doing?" You groaned with sleep still present in your eyes. Your boyfriend on the other hand was ecstatic. He ignores your question as he shuffles through the house looking for his keys, humming a happy tune.
You waddle through the living room, a blanket draped over your shoulders, plopping down on the couch. Matt watches you and sighs, walking over to you, gently grabbing your arms as he brings you up on your feet. "C'mon up up up!" Ignoring your protests.
The blanket that was on your shoulders falls, Matt swiftly picks it back up and wraps it around your body, the warmth of the fabric engulfing brings you comfort, a content sigh escapes your mouth.
Matt stands beside you, his arms wrapping around your waist. He quietly leads you to the garage, not wanting to wake up his brothers. He opens the passenger door for you. Once you're situated, Your boyfriend reaches over and buckles the seat belt for you knowing your to tired to do anything.
"What's happening right now? Are you about to kill me or something?" You jokingly squint your eyes suspiciously at Matt, he chuckles as he starts the car, one of his hands instinctively goes to your left thigh. "Nothing baby, just relax" he shrugged. "Maaatt im tireddd" you whined, longing to be in bed again. Matt only responds with a pat on your thigh and a sly smile.
The two of you cruise along the streets of LA, which was surprisingly quiet, a comforting silence was shared among the two of you. The yellows, pinks, and purples in the sky from the sun slowly starting to rise made your skin glow perfectly. Matt couldn't help but take his eyes off the road to admire your features, his frequent glances towards you made him slightly start to drift off one of the lanes but he was quick to catch himself.
His hands innocently moved up and down your thigh, the actions caused your eyes to become heavy, sleep threatening to consume you. You tugged the blanket you had around your body tight against you, your head leaning against the window. You felt so safe in his presence. Usually you'd be on high alert all the time in a moving vehicle, the fear of being hit or crashing always in the back of your mind. But not with Matt, Never with Matt. He'd do anything in his power to keep you safe. You knew that.
Matt reached a red light, this finally gave him a chance to fully look at you. He couldn't help but smile at your peaceful state. The colors of the sun rise raidiating against the window onto your skin, making you look like a work of art. Matt always did tell you that belonged in an art gallery.
He didn't even realize the light turned green until the car behind him honked his horn, causing you to jolt awake. Matt slightly jumped at the sound, His eyes widened in surprise, and both hands gripped on to the steering wheel as he drove forward. You look at him and immediately burst into fits of giggles. Matt followed suit, the sound of your laughs made his heart flutter. If he had the option of hearing it on repeat for the rest of his life, he would in a heartbeat. It was his favorite sound in the world.
"What got you so distracted?" You questioned, turning your head to face him. "Just thinkin'" "about?" A soft smile graced his face before he responded. "You're really pretty when you sleep." A blush started approaching the apples of your cheeks, as you slowly sink down in your seat. "You stare at me when I sleep? That's kinda Creepy" you mumbled. He grinned at your words, his hand returning to its original place on your thigh.
The sleep in your system finally leaving, you sat up and stared out your window in awe at the sight in front of you. "Matt look, this is beautiful.. wow" You took your phone out to take pictures of the scene. "It sure is.." Matt replied, not talking about the sun rise, you were the only thing on his mind.
After you were satisfied with the pictures that you took, you looked in Matt's direction. "You still haven't told me where we're going." "We aren't going anywhere." Your eyebrows furrowed, a curious expression appeared on your face "Huh?" Matt laughed at your confusion. "I just wanted to drive around, be with you for a minute without having two pests bugging us." His hand moved to interlock with one of yours. You shook your head in disbelief, laughing. "Chris and Nick aren't pests" "eh they are kinda like pests." He grinned, bringing your intertwined hands up to his lips, gently kissing it.
"We can go home if you want I know you usually don't wake up this early and-" before he could finish his sentence you cut him off. "No it's fine" you glanced down at your connected hands, giving it a tight squeeze.
"Can we keep driving?" You looked up at Matt, a hopeful look glossing over your eyes. Matt turned his head in your direction. How could he ever say no to you? "Of course sweetheart."
In that moment, nothing else mattered to the both of you. The rest of the world was tuned out. It was like you two were the only ones on the planet. The both of you wouldn't have it any other way.
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nguyenfinity · 2 years ago
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@spixi I FINALLY GOT AROUND TO DRAWING THE TAGS IN THIS
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Part 1 | Part 2 | Hair Stylin
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porcelian · 27 days ago
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16, CLUMSY AND SHY 01
PAIRING: jason todd ✗ gn!reader ;
SYNOPSIS: jason todd and you try and navigate young puppy love ;
WARNINGS: none at all, maybe me rambling a bit about emma and eli (boule de suif) ;
WORD COUNT: 2.0k ;
NOTES: this was inspired by @jteime 's asks. haven't added the marvel crossover part, but i enjoyed writing this kind of teen au so much that i might add a second part. it's just i've never done a crossover so bear with me here 🐻
── .✦ MASTERLIST & NAVIGATION & AO3.
THE LINGERING HINT OF CHALK AND DRY ERASE MARKERS DO NOTHING TO SOOTHE JASON'S NERVES. Instead, they leave an uncomfortable taste on his tongue. The smell is a heavy one, just like the weight in the pit of his stomach. It's like an anchor, bringing him down into the dark sea with nothing to cling onto.
Jason threw the idea of trying to compose himself out of the window as soon as he entered the rather small classroom. His hands gripped the dense books and slightly crumpled papers close to his chest, fingers awkwardly wrapped around his pencil so as to not drop it.
Walk into the room with your head held high, babybird. Confidence is key, he remembers Dick saying.
Well, he isn't like Dick, nor Bruce. He can't help but feel the thousands of pairs of eyes on his back, scrutinizing every step he takes.
Comparative Literature.
This is supposed to be a course Jason enjoys, not one that makes him feel as if he's walking on needles, not one that makes the air feel to heavy and the hours spent in the classroom too long and miserable.
Jason speeds to his desk near the corner of the room, next to the window. His eyes often wander to it, watching the same part of the courtyard staring back at him through the window. He settles his supplies on his desk.
The Art of Realism: Depicting Social Class and Individual Morality in 19th-Century Literature.
The title of the essay states back at him. The review session is creeping up closely and the horrid anticipation of it feels as if it's going to eat him whole.
Jason knows it's silly, it's just a classroom, not the streets of Gotham at the dead of night. Hell, he'd be more comfortable in some run down alley than he is now in this room, with it's grating sound of the chalk and suffocating smell of the markers.
His thoughts threaten to drown out the rest of the world, until the sound of the chair next to him being moved catches him off guard.
The sound makes him tear his gaze away from his papers to the stranger sitting down next to him. A new student, maybe?
By the way your knuckles are turning white from gripping the chair to hard, Jason can tell you're nervous too.
“I’m sorry,” you stammer, “I didn't mean to interrupt you.”
He moves closer to the wall next to him to offer you more space, a bit perplexed on why you'd choose to sit with him.
“N–no, it's alright.” He responds, ducking his head down and facing the window. He catches the little frown on your face reflected on the window glass, fogged from the cold air outside. He sees the way the corner of your lips drop as he turns away.
Shit. He's being rude. This is totally not what Dick taught him.
“Uh,” he hesitates, searching for something to say, “are you new here? It's just I haven't seen you around.”
Jason hopes he's right. If not, he's made himself look like more of a jerk in front of you for basically saying he's never noticed your presence.
You nod as you answer. “Yep! I'm really glad I got in.” A small smile dances on your lips in a way that has Jason paying attention with the way your cheeks rise up when you grin, making your eyes smile alongside you.
They smile with their eyes.
He gets caught off guard again when you shuffle closer to take a look at the papers scattered around his part of the shared desk.
‘...wept, and sometimes a sob she could not restrain was heard in the darkness between two verses of the song.’
Your quiet but melodic voice carries the words with a softness Jason only imagined in his mind. The same way he read the words on worn-out papers during the countless nights he spent in the manor library, tucked away, sure of the fact he'd never hear it from another person.
The world has a funny way of proving Jason wrong. He's staring at your lips, thinned in concentration just like your furrowed brows.
“Boule de Suif!—” You exclaim, before your eyes go wide and you muffle your words with a hand over your mouth. “—Sorry!”
Jason chuckles before relaxing into the chair. “It's okay.” He shuffles closer to you, peering down at your own essay written on neat paper, so unlike his own. The words on the pages are all too familiar to him.
‘There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,’—’
Jason can't help but smile as he whispers to you, “—There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness of heart,” he doesn't even notice the proximity of the two of you, the warmth of your presence wafts around him like the sun after a rainy day, “‘Emma’?”
You smile again, the twinkle in your eye appearing again. “Yes,” You breathe out, before your eyes go wide just like last time.
“I didn't even introduce myself.” Your name leaves your lips like a secret whispered to only him.
He thinks of your name, every syllable dances around his mind before he gives you his.
“Jason— Jason Todd.”
Maybe this classroom isn't so horrible after all, he thinks.
*****
The stadium is too loud, Jason concludes after being stuck in there for about thirty minutes. More precisely – thirty-five minutes and forty seconds, now forty-one, since he keeps checking the time and counting down to the moment when the bell rings and he can finally leave.
The air is too heavy, it feels too warm. The gym clothes are sticking and moving across his skin in such an uncomfortable way, he can't think straight. Standing all alone and leaning against the grainy surface of the wall isn't helping either.
If Jason hears the damn ball hit the stadium wall one more time, he swears he'll walk out that door himself–
“Hey!” A nervous voice calls out to him. Surprisingly, it doesn't feel as grating as the sounds of the gym.
It's you. It's you, with your hair, messy in a perfectly imperfect way. A light volleyball rests between your arm and side. Your chest rises with every breath.
Jason feels his own breath get caught in his chest as he stumbled to say something to you.
The class isn't practicing volleyball right now. So, where did you come from?
You don't wait for him to say something. “I was wondering if—” you grip the light ball in your hands, offering it to him“—you’d like to give it a try?” You zip your mouth shut as fast as you say those words.
Jason blinks. Someone wants me to join them, to hang out with them. And hell, that someone is you.
“Best of three?” He suggests.
“Prepare for utter defeat, Todd.”
“I'd like to see you try.”
*****
The courtyard is a little too quiet for Jason's liking. He should be happy, he can finally gather his thoughts without anything getting in his way.
For some reason those thoughts are only occupied by a certain someone who shows up just at the right time, saving him from the utter boredom and misery of Gotham Academy life.
He wishes he could hear you call out to him again. The way his last name sounds so natural on your tongue. How you're so unafraid of speaking it.
Jason thinks you're brave. Probably much braver than him. He still can feel his breath get ripped right out of his lungs when he tries to get your attention. The way your name gets stuck in his mouth, kept inside him just like his wishes and attempts to spend time with you.
The first step is always difficult, Bruce had said to him a few days back, after that it gets easier.
Gets easier? Jason thinks Bruce was lying to him somehow. He feels his face warm up and brows furrowing. Why was the thought of approaching you getting him so worked up?
It's not like you had felt any different. You were nervous too, right? Or did he imagine that? He should ask, right? Yes, he should.
Jason knows exactly where you settle down to eat your lunch— that almost abandoned side of the garden west of the Academy. If he's quick enough, he can make it to you before the bell rings.
He's about to sprint out of the courtyard when he hears the same soothing voice call out to him.
“Todd!”
He doesn't know why it calms him down so quickly.
“There you are.” You say as you walk to him with a lunchbox in your hand.
“Here.” You push it forwards to him, the chocolate chip cookies smell waft in the air and it almost distracts him from the way your free hand is tucking the loose hair strands away from your face. “My dad made extra.”
“Oh—” he stutters while a shy smile appears on his lips. “—thank you.”
“No problem.” You smile at him and he watches the way your cheeks rise up just like the day in the corner of the classroom.
They smile with their eyes.
Jason wonders if you ever notice how he only smiles when he's with you. Do you notice how he only talks with you?
Silly, isn't it?
*****
The sun is staring down at Jason as he walks down the cobblestone road to the gate. Just beyond that Bruce sits in the car waiting.
Jason's gripping his backpack closer to his body. He tried to slow down his steps. His eyes dart around him, trying to find you, with your perfectly imperfect messy hair tied back, neat papers and folders in your arms as you walk home.
He isn't going to back down from this. Jason hasn't backed down from facing robbers and all kinds of criminals in the darkest parts of Gotham and he won't be frightened by this either.
By this, he means asking for your number.
His fingers wrap around the cold car door handle as he glances one more time around the yard, eyes looking for you.
“Searching for something?—”
Jason's ears perk up as he hears Bruce's calculated words. Calculated in a way he knows that his dad is trying not to sound obvious that he has figured out the fact that something or a certain someone is tugging at his son's heart.
“—or someone?”
Maybe Bruce noticed it when his son came back considerably more relaxed and happy after School, or maybe, it was when Dick told him that Jason seemed very interested in learning how to approach someone and ask them to hang out.
Jason scolds himself for being so obvious. His palms start to sweat.
“No—” the words die on his tongue as he spots you leaving the gates of the Academy.
Jason leaves Bruce waiting in the car as he runs up to you, yelling out your name.
He can see how quickly you recognise his voice, how quickly you snap out of what reverie you were lost in and how your eyes search across the yard to find him. Jason's heart aches when he sees how your eyes smile just like last time when you finally spot him.
You say his name, the sound is too sweet with your voice. He wonders how it would sound when talking on the phone. Jason concludes it doesn't matter if it's in person or on the phone, miles away.
He just wants to hear you.
“I was wondering if—” he stops to look into your eyes, the twinkle in them remind him of the lone star in the obsidian midnight sky. “—if I could get your number?”
Jason sees the surprise on your face, the faint pink hue on your cheeks, the fidgeting of your fingers.
“Y’know,” he stammers, “for school work and such.” He's lying. He's sure you know as well, because the warmth of his cheeks is probably caused by the same pink hue on them just like the one on yours.
“Of course.” You blurt out, “why didn't I think of that?” You giggle, the sound of it like a song to his ears.
“Let me be the one who asks this,” He says with a smile, “you always manage to surprise me, so…”
Your eyes nervously dart from his face to the ground near your shoes. “Well—,” you click your tongue, “—you just have to try harder next time, Todd.”
“Next time, huh?”
“Yes.”
© ROBINSFILM ﹕ I do not give consent for my writing to be posted or used on any other platforms without my permission and proper credit.
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syoddeye · 2 months ago
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consequence / snowball
price x f!reader | 2k words series directory | ao3 tags: exes, angst, cheating, references to depression. a/n: good things come to those who wait. ☕
it’s strange to think there’s a man in the living room.
by invitation. you’d extend it further and lure him down the hall to your room, but he might not appreciate it, considering you shit the bed by crying like an infant in front of him.
it’s the beer and ben. you should’ve arranged for delivery or left his things on the street. would’ve been less personal that way, safer, but you had to know—if you’d feel anything, if he’d ooze regret. you came out two for two, slapped with clarity. not only was ben unrepentant, he was happy. happier without you.
you gaze at the hyacinths above your bed. they remind you of john’s eyes. soothing.
~~~~
there’s a weight on john’s chest when he wakes.
cece purrs contentedly. she butts into his chin as he stretches, one hand stalling her advance to his face and the other scrubbing over his eyes. he tucks her to his chest as he stands and scratches under her chin while staring at the door at the end of the hall, pushed open to the width of a cat. not a sound.
he starts the kettle. it’s only polite.
in her cupboards, he finds the coffee and a collection of novelty mugs. he settles for ‘not paint water’ and ‘black coffee’ in the style of black flag. 
she can’t meet simon. he’d steal her.
john refills cece’s water, then tiptoes around the living room. with the added context, he examines the decor and art in a new light. he wonders if she looks at them with pain or contempt. if any inspire positive thoughts, or if they’ve been stripped of them. if she, like him, keeps tokens regardless of sentiment. monuments to his own failings, shortcomings, and triumphs. and, if she does, how he’ll drown out the bad with good.
she startles him.
“morning.” she stands at the mouth of the hall, in sweats and a t-shirt, voice thick with sleep. “did you…?” 
“hope you don’t mind.” he watches her shuffle languidly. “i don’t know if you prefer coffee or tea, but figured the kettle’s necessary either way.”
she hums and retrieves a glass pour-over from a cupboard. “i’m just impressed you’re here at all.”
you of little faith.
“not the type to flee a woman’s flat without a proper goodbye.”
“no? you often stay over at women’s flats?” her back is turned, but he hears the smile in her voice. “what constitutes a proper goodbye?”
his gaze lingers before he joins, ignoring the questions for his own sanity. “sleep well?”
after pouring water over the coffee grounds, she turns and leans, the picture of nonchalance, save for the puffy and still somewhat bloodshot eyes.
it’s not right to burn paintings, but he’d set fire to her ex’s studio, gallery—wherever the rat held his collection—if he believed it’d make her feel better.
“yes, actually. last night was, um, cathartic.”
he tilts closer, laying a palm flat on the counter beside her hip. “i assume there’s more to the story, but it’s your choice. i won’t pry any further. just say the word.” 
“no, no. i want to tell you.” she sighs, focusing on the drip. “you’re right. i didn’t get to the best part.”
to that, he has no immediate answer. no inclination to rush her into conversation when she’s barely awake. in the brief silence, her dejection and shame seep into the space like the water filtering through the grounds. 
john pulls out his phone, tapping through screens. “gonna need somethin’ to eat, sounds like. you been to…hm. ‘for goodness bakes’ bakery?”
she frowns over her shoulder. “john, i’m not suitable for public consumption.”
he lifts a brow. “debatable, but i mean to pop out and pick up breakfast. do you have a preference?”
slipping from his place beside her, he weaves around cece and heads for his shoes and jacket.
“you don’t have to–”
“i know. preference?”
across her flat, she fights back a smile and he fights his impulses.
“raspberry-filled doughnut.”
sweet. suits her. “rog. lock the door after me, shower, and i’ll be back before you know it.”
~~~~
the water feels hot, no matter how low you turn the temperature. 
such a complicated influx of thought. flirting with john is effortless. talking is easy. he cuts through your guilt and grief like an icebreaking ship with none of the force or command. and he listens. really listens. you could stare at the divot between his eyebrows all day, the way his face grows serious, and his eyes somehow warmer. 
for the first time in months, you genuinely fuss over clothes and skincare beyond moisturizer. are you pathetic? is this pathetic? you ask cece, she slow blinks and slaps the tie to your robe. inconclusive.
a knock at the door. you yank a shirt over your head, assess, and force yourself to walk calmly from your room.
don’t rush this.
~~~~
she smells faintly of citrus. coffee, too. though that may be the steaming mugs set between them.
“good?”
“the best,” her cheek bulges with a bite. her eyes don’t stray from the pastry, its fruity entrails spilled onto a plate. “thanks.”
they eat in relative silence, but he catches her staring at his bicep twice. 
“rethinking your compliments?” he flexes the mermaid’s tail, dusting croissant flakes off his fingers.
her turn to ignore a question. she asks her own. “y’know, i never asked. do you live far?”
“across town.”
“and yet you come to the shop, what, three times a week when you’re in town?”
four, if he’s lucky. “good coffee. decent service.”
“right.”
she finishes and licks sugar off her thumb. john tears away to clear the table, ignoring another protest. last thing he wants to do is turn a lovely morning into an awkward one. he joins her on her couch, taking what feels like is quickly becoming his spot and prompting cece to sit on his lap.
“where did i leave off?” she asks rhetorically, staring into her mug. “ben’s big break. right. he was only originally supposed to be away for two weeks painting a mural for an architect’s office. well, midway through the job, the architect introduced him to a friend who happened to own a gallery.”
“the snowball.”
“yes. of course, ben’s gifted, but like i said, he’s got personality. the, uh, hustle. i can’t blame him for seeing an opportunity and taking it. at least that opportunity.”
john hesitates to address the continued self-deprecation with how her voice wraps around the very telling ‘that’. he bites his tongue and picks his battle. another day, he’ll help tear that veil of doubt from her eyes.
“anyway, his two week long trip spun out into six.” she winces. “he didn’t end up coming back once. not to grab more clothes or anything. he just had me send some along with selected pieces. he said there was no time.”
“and hannah?”
“neck-deep with the final school exhibition.” she goes quiet, lost in her barely-touched coffee. swallowing, her gaze lifts. “she was…busy.”
john sets his mug aside out of concern for the ceramic’s integrity.
“things became difficult. ben said he wanted to try long-distance before, so i thought six weeks was a decent trial run. i wasn’t well, but texting and calling him kept me afloat. then he started getting busier, and couldn’t text or call every day. one weekend, he didn’t answer at all. he did apologize, though, and sent me flowers—not as nice as yours, though. yellow somethings. kind of garish.”
he mirrors her small, sad smile, dropping it when she looks away. it’s deeply selfish and painfully juvenile to revel in that detail, but he does.
“eventually, his trip ended. things improved, rapidly, like he was eager to make up for lost time. dates, gifts, love notes. it was nice. he booked more work, but he bought a car, so he’d stay home during the week and travel on weekends. i couldn’t tag along often, since weekends are the busiest days at the shop, but he promised he’d be home for our anniversary.”
cece migrates. the ball of warmth leaves him for her mum, tucking her purring self into his girl’s lap. she sets her coffee down and idly strokes the creature, leaning hard into the cushions, holding her cheek with a palm. her focus drifts elsewhere for a minute.
he knew the story would inevitably reach this point. the crash. it’s difficult to believe he was so angry over a stupid dent.
“you don’t have to continue.”
“no, i want you to understand, john.”
his name’s enough to shut his mouth.
“at dinner, ben gave me his phone to show the photographs that a local paper was going to publish alongside an article about his work. i didn’t think anything of it, other than i thought he looked handsome. so i kept swiping.”
a gear turns in his head.
“and in the background of the last picture, ben and hannah were attached at the mouths.”
his blood boils. it is good his hands are empty.
“you know, i think he wanted me to find out like that. in public, where he didn’t think i’d make a scene.”
~~~~
ben called you crazy. crazy. 
he’d taken his phone back with this look on his face and immediately demanded you lower your voice. you asked him point blank—how long?
he muttered something. months.
you’re not proud that you tossed a glass of wine into his face. knowing him, he was going to turn the breakup into a fucking piece. when he shot back from the table, he had the gall to act surprised and embarrassed. you contemplated throwing your glass, too, as he stormed out.
but he wasn’t worth it. 
you’d lose your job. which you’d need, since you were definitely on your own now.
the bottle of wine you drank that night couldn’t cover the bitter taste in your mouth, nor could it erase the fact that ben won.
and you lost.
~~~~
outside, john loiters at the top of the stairs. the cooler air helps mellow his temper.
“sure i can’t sort him out for you? i know a man or two who’d help. there’d be no connection to you.” he smiles. if only she knew the sincerity of the offer.
“i’m sure, john. i’ll let you know if that changes. walk you to the corner?”
he shelves his anger for later. when her arm slips through his without asking, it’s swiftly shoved to the back. he squeezes her hand against his ribs. 
“i’m curious about something.” john admits. “earlier. you insisted on tellin’ me everything so i’d ‘understand’.”
she hums.
“it’s not as though i didn’t follow. i did. i do, but i’m not entirely sure what you meant by that.”
at the corner, she withdraws and shoves her hands into her pockets. “i needed you to hear all the, uh, gruesome details. so you know what you’re getting into.”
“getting into?” his chest tightens.
a look of resolve falls over her face. her voice is the firmest he’s heard outside the shop, calling customers to pick up their orders.
“i made the mistake of rushing things before. i’m not keen to do it again. if you like being around me, john, which i think you do,”
more than you know.
“you should know i want to take whatever this is slow and steady. i don’t want to screw up again.”
he grasps for the right thing to say. slow and steady. he can do both. he’s laid on his belly for days waiting for a shot and knows the consequences of missing. to seize opportunity when it’s in front of him.
and this one’s finally wandered into his crosshairs.
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httpsobi · 9 months ago
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YOU...YOU CAN DO THAT? “a spider-reader x team"
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WARNINGS/TAGS + sfw, they/them (gender neutral) reader addressed as spider cause if you can't tell i'm very creative, inspired by miles morales spiderman cause hes my fav, no beta we die like aunts and uncles in spiderman movies/comics, canon-typical violence (not heavily detailed).
A/N + to the anon who requested this nearly a year ago, i'm so sorry pookie the writer block put me in a author coma of sorts. despite this being a year late and trash, i hope you enjoy regardless, and i'm hoping to get more active with my writing again! enjoyyyyyy!
REQUEST + "Oops here I am again (the same anon who requested a reader with spider like abilities).. I forgot to specify 😭 but like maybe could you do idk a first meeting between the YJ and the reader (they/them btw)? Would they be creeped out with the readers' abilities or would it go like 'oh wooooow. Show us how it works!'?"
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KF & AQ "Kid!" Kid Flash turns to Spider as he sprints across the buildings adjacent to them. They struggle to match his pace, but as he slows to stick his landing, they manage to catch up and yell at a simple instruction that nearly has him freezing in his tracks out of horror.
"Jump!"
"What?" They flinch at the loud screech that pierces through their earpiece. "No way- are you crazy?!"
"Just-"
Their eyes widen as they watch the monster they've been trying to lead away from the populated city centre leaps into the air behind him.
"-do it!"
Kid Flash hesitates for a moment, they can see it on his face, ready to ignore their request when the creature lets out a rumbling roar.
The ground shakes under his feet as the monstrous thing lands on the building behind him and his face drops into a comical expression.
He spares it a glance over his shoulder, and with its claws reaching out from him, he takes the leap, narrowly avoiding the sharp nails, but as he flails around in the air, weightless, he wonders-
does he really prefer concrete over nails?
He shuts his eyes, readying himself from an impact that- never comes. Rather, there's something sticking to his stomach before he's being yanked to the side, and then- up.
Instead of the smack of concrete, he hits a person, their arms wrapped around him as they roll both of them through the force.
Kid Flash, finally, shoots up and opens his eyes.
Spider and Kid Flash are sat on their asses with matching shellshocked looks, staring down at the building across of them, where that beast shares a similarly confused look as it watches the street below them.
The two turn to blink at each other, shuffling to their feet as they let out joyous cheers that sound almost like screams (poor Kaldur's ears can testify), arms wrapped around each other as they jump with like two middle aged men who's football team just scored the final point.
"Dude, we did that!"
"Right?! I thought I was gonna fall to my death but then you just-!"
"I didn't even know how I did that! It was sheer animal instinct-"
Needless to say, Kaldur was less than happy, and no more "jumping-off-the-building-and-praying" was permitted or attempted. 
Not around Kaldur anyway.
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ART & SUP Superboy fails to punch through it, the cage simply folding and stretching around his fist before it pushes him, his shoulder bumping into Artemis'.
"Are we stuck in here until Robin gets back?" Artemis asks with a irritated sigh, turning to look at Spider.
They seem mystified, a mischievous glint in their eyes that she can make out through the big cartoonish eyes of the mask as they take in the strange cage.
Their hands press against the cage, palm flat as they give it a little experimental shove before she can make out their eyebrows rising.
Their palms start to spark, and the red hue of the cage begins to light up a pale blue, "Nope."
The crackles of electricity grow louder and Artemis and Superboy step back just as an awful cracking sounds and-
The cage bursts around them, Spider's sent flying back into Artemis, who's then sent back into Superboy and the three hit the floor with matching grunts.
There's a moment of silence, before Artemis is shoving Spider off of her and rolling off of Superboy herself. As the three sit themselves up slowly, Artemis can make out Spider nodding to themselves with what she thinks is pride.
"I didn't know you could do that." Superboy comments plainly as the three slowly get back to their feet.
Blinking at him, Spider wiggles their fingers at him with a smile.
"Me neither."
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MG & ROB With a grunt, Robin sits up with a grimace, hand on his head as his eyes readjusts when he manages to make out Bane stood just in his eye-line.
Bane isn't looking at him though, instead the man's eyes are trained on Miss Martian floating in the air, hands outstretched out in front of her.
She's clearly too busy managing her telekinesis to notice the hulking man anger as he grabs onto one of the many large pieces of machinery lying around the abandoned factory and prepares to ambush her. 
Miss Martian, watch out!
Robin's voice rings out in her head, and M'gann whips around, eyes landing on Bane.
Before either of them can react, something is suddenly flying through the air and with a loud thwack- Bane is lying on the floor, looking a lot less angry and unconscious. Now up on his feet, Robin slowly approaches Bane, M'gann landing on his side as the pair blink down at whatever hit him.
Upon inspection, it's the barrel tank that those cement trucks carry. Empty, sure, but Robin's not surprised that guy was put to bed.
What's more surprising?
"Woooo, my aim's getting good, no?" Spider grins, bouncing on their feet as they approach the two.
"You... you threw that?" Miss Martian asks carefully.
"Duh, who else?"
"Oh. Well, thank you." She offers, a little dumbfounded but Spider doesn't seem to notice.
"How?" Spider blinks at Robin, who's been silently gawking at them as they approach.
"What do you mean, 'how'? I just threw it. "
Robin sputters at them, left eye twitching under his mask as he watches them stretch their arms out over their head with no care in the world.
"That's not- that's impossible?"
"Nuh, uh! Just grab, do a couple spins to get some speed and let go- works pretty well."
"I don't believe you."
"Why not?! I'm plenty strong!"
Safe to say that Robin made them perform a couple of strength tests when they got back to the cave, and now Robin's worried Spider might not be aware of the fact that most people can't just throw around cement trucks.
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all work n' writing is work of @httpsobi. i ask you please do not copy, rewrite, translate or post on other platforms without my consent.
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peterspinkrobe · 1 year ago
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Confession - priest!Miguel O’Hara x Reader [part 2]
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Word count: 2,270 (oops)
Rating: mature for suggestive content. Mentions of masturbation. You have a dirty mind… tsk tsk. Religious content. Mentions of parental death (sorry for not tagging last time).
A/N: Thank you for your feral support in reading part 1! The art above is again by @Ejpuki on twt. They drew this moment from part one and JUST LOOK AT IT! They also did a pre-reading which I greatly appreciated. Go support them over there <3 I only tagged the people who explicitly stated bc I don’t want to overstep. Also, I guess I should watch Fleabag? Enjoy! part three is cookin’ in my noggin’
// Psalms 32:3-4
When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long. For day and night your hand was heavy on me;
Rumbling sounds drone from the engine in a constant hum as the bus wheels roll down the asphalt, occasionally shuffling the passengers inside. Yourself included.
The wheels in your mind are conjuring images of too much skin, friction, and want. The mental pictures… different positions and other things that you’ve only read about - all featuring the same tall deacon from your small church.
You curse yourself for both your overactive imagination and forgetfulness for having left your headphones at home. Some loud music would drown out the whir of the bus and push out the flashes of lewdness that plagued you.
Reverend O’Hara, you learned that’s what transitional deacons are usually called after inquiring about the proper title on Google the second you got home from that communion, occupied the majority of your mind. He took up residence in your thoughts without even asking permission and you didn’t know the proper way to absolve your sanity of him. It had only been two weeks since you’d met him, two Sunday services, but you were hooked. This trip into the city was supposed to get you out of the house and help clear your mind of its recent inhabitant.
The methods you were currently using were certainly of no help. Nearly every night, for the past two weeks, you’d given into temptation. Allowing the streaking images of what you could only envision his toned body looked like to remain longer in your mind’s eye. His thumb on your lip, the quick swipe across - became more inquisitive of the inside of your mouth in your imagination. You pressed into yourself and thought of those long, thick fingers. You carried yourself away on highs with only his hands in mind. You yearned to baptize him in your waters.
You buried fingernails into your palms to ground yourself as the scenery outside the bus began the change drastically, pulling you out of your daydream.
Your hometown along the Catskill Mountains was enveloped by the natural world - tucked into valleys of the vast countryside. In the three weeks you’d been back home, you had already gotten used to surrounding greenery. You’d forgotten the toll that city expansion was having on the rows of vegetable and orchard farms in the surrounding areas.
Your gaze out the window watched tree lines and grassy hills give way to glimmers of futuristic architecture as the bus entered Nueva York. The rhythm of wheels on tarmac became a backdrop to the din of honking horns, shouting pedestrians, and blaring sirens. You had only recently left a city not too different from this one, but the drastic change in landscape from the mountains made your head spin. The inertia of the bus braking and accelerating over and over on the intersecting streets only added to the motion sickness. You recognize the next stop as the usual one you and your mother used when coming into the city. You quickly get off the bus, blessing the steady ground underneath as your boots hit the pavement.
Towering structures of carbon fiber and glass dominated the skyline, some illuminated by bright neon light displays, others blending into the afternoon sunshine. Advertisements for fast foods, fast money, and fast cars flickered on screens everywhere. You look to where the bus carried you from and, in contrast, the countryside stretched out, calling you back. Despite the slight familiarity in the maze of metal, the sudden change in surroundings made you slightly anxious.
The steady stream of citizens didn’t help your nerves either. You take a moment to get yourself together before following the foot traffic flow up a familiar street.
Your eyes recognize a food spot from a bygone era and you can’t help but smile. You picked up the pace as you headed to the establishment your family used to frequent. Timeless Treats is still here?! You pull on the long handled door and a wave of music, chatter, and sugar hit you at once. Much more pleasant than the waves of anxiety from moments before.
Entering the quaint eatery, you’re transported into a cozy atmosphere reminiscent of an old fashioned diner. A cheerful man at the front waves you in and shouts for you to ‘sit where ya want!’.
You recognized the vintage decor: rusted signs with cartoon mascots and ads for ice cream floats that cost only $2. Imagine! You select one of the smaller retro tables with two stools and hear a jukebox play a song you don’t recognize but tap your foot along to.
There was more to this diner than what it seems at first glance. A few more glances noticed the subtle touches where the diner had embraced the future where it mattered, with high-tech kitchen appliances that helped the staff immensely. A holographic menu pops up across the portion of the table you're sitting at and you slide your finger along the options.
This bakery specialized in delicious treats with a futuristic flare, with many favorites being popular since the establishment opened generations ago. Your eyes fell onto the pastry menu and your curiosity piqued as you ordered the ‘Time Traveler’s Torta.’
All the hustle of the city had occupied your mind until you were sitting alone at the table. Your eyes scanned the other occupants and you wondered what they were all talking about with their sugary sweets. It made you think of him again.
Dammit. A whole ten minutes without thinking of Reverend O’Hara, that’s a record! You couldn’t help the images of Miguel that fluttered now. Only this time you pictured him sitting at the table with you. The two of you share a dessert and you smile at the thought. You visualize his thumb coming to your face to wipe whipped cream from your lips only to plop the finger into his own mouth. That moment as mass replayed in your mind with differing flavors of spice on repeat.
The torta arrives and you gawk at the presentation of the treat. A classic cake with layers of light vanilla sponge, intricately placed swirls of sweet cream cheese frosting, and decadent chocolate sauce. This sweet was the perfect balance of timeless and futuristic as it sat on an oblong, ornate plate.
You savored the flavors as you ate and continued to imagine a date with the deacon. You ask yourself if deacons can even date and the thought pulls you out of your delusions for a moment. Get it together…
As you scooped the last bits of the pastry into your mouth, you pondered your dilemma. Mom always said that confession cleared a clouded consciousness, but there was no way you’d divulge this information to her. Her hypothetical reaction to your crush on a clergy member makes you shiver.
An idea comes to mind that makes you think to yourself that you’ve really gone mad.
The madness pushes you from your seat after paying for the dessert. There’s a slim chance what you’re looking for is actually there considering the cities expansions. That doubt doesn’t stop you from following a semi-recognizable path down the busy streets.
Every tall figure you pass makes you do a double take. The idea of the deacon brushing alongside you making you smile. You turn a corner as your imagination creates sweet scenarios with Reverend O’Hara and stop in your tracks. You cause people behind you to push into your back and spit harsh murmurs at you.
It was still there.
You were surprised for good reason. You were headed towards a relic of past times, nestled between buildings of glass and metal. There was some scaffolding supporting it as the building you headed towards was centuries old. Other than that - the structure you now stood and stared at jutted towards the sky in the old brick and mortar style you were used to seeing in your hometown.
But the Cathedral of Nueva York wasn’t like the humble church in your hometown. The ornate bell tower and large cross atop the chapel in front of you proved that. The only thing to change about the building was the name as the state itself saw many changes a few decades ago - including the name of the actual city.
You find yourself reminiscing on the few times you’d been to the church as you walked inside. Your family used to attend the fancy Easter services and Christmas plays. Those trips stopped after your father passed, and your mother rarely came to the city at all anymore. You remember seeing pictures of them on their wedding day at this very church. Priesthood is a tight knit group and Father Steen knew the head priest, who extended their church for their wedding services.
Given it was a weekday afternoon, there weren’t many souls inside. Despite the numerous options for seating, you sat in your usual middle pew, aisle seat.
You eyed the part of the church that had brought you here in the first place. The confession booth. Its cherrywood exterior made you think of those eyes that bore into yours that day of communion. You shake your head but the visual remains.
The church in your hometown didn’t have a confessional booth. Even if they did - why the hell would you confess there? To the subject of your lustful desires? So many questions and doubts enter your mind.
Could you really do this? Confess to a priest that you pined over a man in his chaste brotherhood? Think of the judgment!
Another thought occurs to you: their whole shtick was that only one entity could do the judging. And it was confidential. If you received some good ol’ fashioned Catholic scolding and Hail Mary’s, maybe that would be enough to get you back to your senses. Reverend O’Hara is a man devoted to God and cannot be hindered by the whims of a degenerate like yourself.
Emboldened by the potential to relieve yourself of your corrupt thoughts, you stand and approach the far right front of the church. The confessional is smaller than it looked from how you remember as a child and teen but it doesn’t stop you from nearly yanking the door open. You don’t even knock.
Thankfully no one is on the confessing side as you burst into the tiny box. The confined space became even smaller as you closed the door behind you quickly. Your mind races towards impure thoughts of the deacon pressed against you in the tight booth space. His height would force him to bend slightly over you and the visual almost knocks you onto the bench which would probably be right at crotch level…
You remember the times you’d done this before and cry out the usual, “Forgive me, for I have sinned and it has been many years since my last confession…”. Who were you even asking for forgiveness? You think for a moment about the last time you were in this booth. You felt so guilty about stealing from the general store all those years back. This was a different kind of confession. This would hopefully absolve yourself of the sinful attraction to the forbidden.
You start light, fumbling over the words, “I’ve gotten drunk and high, uh, a good bit while in college. I lied to my mother and got into major trouble as a result. I’ve been selfish and lazy.”
The anonymity and the release of it all lit a fire under you and you kept going.
“While I’m in this confession booth, and I know it is a sacred and holy place”, you sigh and hear shuffling on the opposite side of the wall, the priest waiting patiently on the other side. “I’ve been struggling with my faith and don’t believe in god…”
You hear the clergyman start to interject but the voice that comes out of you has a fierce tone.
“I’m not done.” Now it was the priest’s turn to sigh and you see movement through the small slits in the partition, but hear nothing else. You continue. The most scandalous part to admit had yet to be said.
“Father, I’ve been lustful over the deacon at my church.” There’s silence on the other end and before embarrassment can take over you continue, “I’m constantly thinking of him and having impure thoughts that drive me to-“ oh god, here it is
“Touch myself. Daily. With this deacon on my mind.” You can’t stop the heat from painting your cheeks a deep red.
“I feel guilty because he isn’t for me to think that way about. From just the two times I’ve seen him, I know he is a good man who does good things. He’s on a path towards righteousness. He’s worthy.” To your shock, you feel tears form and they begin to fall.
“I’m a sinful nonbeliever. Definitely not someone he could be with, unworthy of devotion of any kind. And I’m not good.” Your breathing becomes shaky as the tears fall harder. Despite the fact that you feel your words are the truth, you can’t help but imagine him there now. Comforting you as you cry.
Now that you’ve finished confession, you expect to hear an outburst of disapproval or at least ‘50 Hail Mary’s’ to absolve you of your confessed transgressions.
But that’s not what you heard next.
You hear your name. You hear your name in that sweet music that’s been ringing in your ears the last week or so. This time the musical tone is cautious. Your mouth hangs open in disbelief as your eyes glue to the wall where the music came from.
To confirm your suspicions, you grab the knob on the partition and yank it back.
Through the small window you see a familiar pair of eyes analyzing your face, heavy with worry.
Reverend O’Hara had just taken your confession…
I pray you liked this, dear reader.
Tagged ppl - @friendlynbhdzero @ceoofghosts it won’t let me tag you @hoelychildofgod
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enha-stars · 6 months ago
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❀ Have we met before? ; S.J
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Listen to: Have we met before by Sarah Barrios
Pairing: Jaeyun x Fem!reader
Synopsis: You don’t know him. And yet, your heart beats for him.
Warnings: fluff, minor angst, familiar strangers, longing, reunited lovers, mention of past lives
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The sun shone through the clouds, small beams of light illuminating the street as wind tousled the leaves of trees, painting the road with green.
You lean back in your seat, your coffee tasting bitter and your breakfast forgotten. You rolled your shoulders backwards, hoping to ease the stiffness in your neck.
It had been another night with the same recurring dream, and it was getting out of hand. You had tried researching what this could mean, but all you understood was that you had some form of persistent conflict in your life.
This wasn't a revelation to you, it was a reminder. Your life, unfortunately, seemed to consist of persistent conflicts.
You heard the jingle of the small bell and turned your head to face the street. You thought that coming to your favourite café would lift your mood, but all it did was make you feel like you were missing something substantial.
When you heard some shuffling near you, you slightly lifted your head. Your eyes fell on a man sitting across from you, in another booth. His head was tilted down, his black hair falling over his forehead, hiding his face.
You watched as he used the palm of his hand to hold his chin, reading a book you couldn't see the title of. You slightly shifted in your seat, an overwhelming wave of déjà vu had suddenly enveloped your senses. You couldn’t shift your eyes away from him, enamored by him.
The way the man’s hair was parted, the yellow jacket that brightened the room, and the watch on his left wrist all felt oddly familiar to you.
You were sure you had never seen this man before— you would have remembered him. But you couldn’t explain the feeling in your chest; the way his very presence had you rooted to your seat or the way you could barely breathe.
There was an itch, an urge to approach him. A small part of you wanted to run into his arms, to have him physically pull the air back into your lungs.
He felt familiar; his soft exhaling and the skin of his chin enticed you, forcing you to squint to get a closer look. He drew comfort to himself, pulling the warmth of the café into his skin, making him glow.
You watched carefully as he ran his pale hand through his hair and you exhaled a sharp breath, eyes slowly tracing the veins of his arm.
Those hands were familiar, those long, skinny fingers had danced through your dreams over the years, brushing the skin of your mind as they alluded you deeper into your dreams. They had offered you comfort without ever touching your skin, touching you.
It almost felt like he had touched you now, a gentle brush of air tickling your cheek and you blinked slowly.
At the sound of your gasp, the man looked up. There was autumn in his eyes, strikingly brown, with a hint of passing summer and the promise of a dark winter. His eyes, glowing under the warm lights, pierced your heart.
Your eyes were locked on his. There was a whirlwind of emotions raging against your chest. The outline of his face; the curve of his nose, plumpness of his lips, and the furrow of his eyebrows made your heart drop into the pit of your stomach. There was a vague image of a man in your memories that resembled the man that stared at you now, but you couldn’t help but feel as if your memories weren’t doing either of you any justice.
You knew this man, you knew him.
Beyond the dreams, beyond your fragmented memories, your fingers ached to touch his honey skin. Your body, a structure of clay, felt like it would crack under his warm gaze, an artist scrutinizing his art, begging to be remade.
You felt the sudden urge to call out to him, make sure he wasn’t a figment of your imagination. There was something in his eyes that made you want to reach out, an invitation to greet a ghost of the past. You wondered if touching him would help you understand why the weight of something fell heavy upon you.
A forgotten history, one that was pushing itself to the surface and clawing its way through the centuries.
You forced your eyes to look away, the heat of his eyes becoming too overwhelming, making the sky look shameful in its pride for its soft hues.
You gripped your coffee mug with trembling hands, feeling conflicted. There was an odor of nostalgia in the air, you were choking on it. The messy black hair and thick eyebrows had you biting your lip. The man was so familiar, so beautiful. There were so many thoughts running through your head, but the faint flashes of old and buried memories had won a spot in your mind, causing your head to spin and your heart to race.
Jaeyun’s eyes skimmed the same page for the third time. His heart was beating at an irregular pace and he blinked the déjà vu away.
He hadn’t meant to come to this café today. This was out of his way, the other side of town, but when he began walking, his legs carried him here unconsciously.
When Jaeyun’s eyes met yours, he felt himself lose his grip on his composition. Your eyes were so familiar, he felt like he had to know you. His heart cried in his chest, a wail he had grown accustomed to. The sight of you eased it a bit, a hiccup in a never ending sea of pain.
The layout of the cafe was vaguely familiar, despite never coming here, and he wondered if in another life he had been here before. The cream coloured walls felt a bit like home, and his lips twitched at the sight of the messy painting hanging from the wall.
There must have been a reason he knew exactly what to order and where the most comfortable spot was.
You blinked a few times before standing up and grabbing your bag, leaving your coffee and breakfast behind. You rushed out of the café, wanting to go home to sort out your feelings. Seeing the man in person was too much for you, it had disrupted your very sense of being.
Seeing him in person was so much different than seeing him in your dreams. The dreams always consisted of sceneries and moments that were both unfamiliar and familiar to you. They always ended with you clutching your chest, a name at the tip of your tongue.
You rushed down the street, pushing past people as you clutched your bag, hoping that if this was a dream, it would be your last. You wanted to wake up, to wash the taste of confusion and longing out of your mouth.
You quickly made your way down the stone steps, taking you to your neighborhood when you heard him.
“Wait!”
You halted, catching yourself using the railing. You stood at the bottom of the steps, slightly panting. It was hard to breathe, his voice had rubbed against your skull, scratching an itch you weren’t aware of. It grazed it softly, a soothing sensation against a storm.
Slowly, you turned to face him, unaware of the similarities between this meeting and the very first meeting you had many lives ago.
You looked up. The man stood at the top of the steps, slightly panting. His brown eyes were bright, captivating. Everything you should have remembered but couldn’t seem too.
With an unwavering gaze, Jaeyun slowly walked down the steps until he was a few feet away from you. Being close to you now felt different than the café. Here, he meant too. He meant to approach you, to step into your space with the hopes of it becoming his as well.
You stared at him with pursed lips, the urge to run away stronger than ever. You swallowed the lump in your throat as a wave of unfamiliar feelings knocked against you. You breathed heavily, knees almost buckling as his musk carried along the breeze. The only time you had ever gotten this close to him was in your dreams, a recollection of a past you weren’t allowed to have, memories you couldn’t be sure were yours but had grown on you.
His eyes trailed up and down your body and he blinked, his nose twitching. He took one step closer and parted his lips, throat dry. Jaeyun had never seen anyone as beautiful as you. It rendered him speechless but he had things to say, questions he had to ask.
“Have we met before?”
You exhaled sharply, his voice making you feel dizzy. His question made your stomach churn because you wanted to say yes, but you knew you hadn’t. You had never met this man, at least not in his life. You didn’t even know his name. So, how could you explain yourself? How could you answer him honestly when not even your own mind was honest to you?
Jaeyun took a small step towards you, unable to fight fate which he had mistaken for a pull, a coincidence.
You cleared your throat, trying to pull away from his stare. “I don’t think so.”
Jaeyun blinked. Your voice felt like warm honey being drizzled across his skin, and he wanted nothing more but to get a taste. “I think we have,” he whispered. “I think I know you.”
You gripped your bag tighter, shaking your head. You wanted to deny his words fervently, but you couldn’t. There was no point, was there? Just because you didn’t remember him doesn’t mean you don’t know him.
“I think, uh—” You released a small breath, squeezing your eyes shut. “I’ve seen you in my dreams,” you quietly admitted. You opened your eyes slowly, afraid of his reaction. You sounded crazy, and you felt it too.
Jaeyun’s eyes widened and you took a step back at the heat of his gaze, of the recognition that slowly began to build in his eyes. He smiled and your breath hitched.
There was something beautiful about his smile, something ancient, something homely. You wanted to stay in this moment forever but you couldn’t shake the feeling of trepidation off your shoulders.
“I’ve seen you in mine,” he softly confessed. His lips quirked upwards at the disbelief that flashed through your eyes. “I think we have met before.”
You shook your head, a bit out of reluctance and a bit out of sheer desperation. “No, that’s impossible. I would have remembered you.”
And I you, he thought. He sees you in his dreams every night, and he has longed for you for years, and now, here you are standing before him. He has to know you, to have known you.
Jaeyun took another step forward and he gently raised his hand. You stared at the pale hand with hesitant eyes, before gently bringing your hand up to touch his. Your fingers brushed against his palm and you both inhaled.
Memories of another life flashed before you. Images of you and him flooded your mind and sunk into your blood; stills of you running to him, of his declarations of love, of a life you had shared. A history that belonged to you had finally been returned.
With a loud gasp, you pushed yourself away from him, tears streaming down your cheeks. You both opened your eyes at the same time, unable to comprehend it all.
You wiped the tears from your cheeks, staring at Jaeyun with apprehensive eyes. “Who are you?”
You knew who he was, who he had been to you. You felt it in your bones, pushing against the back of your mind. You couldn’t believe it though. You never thought you’d see him again.
Love can’t transcend lifetimes, unless, of course, it can.
Jaeyun smiled, one that reached his eyes and made the corners of his wet eyelids crinkle. The smile was honest, full of love and sadness and you almost crumbled at the sight of it.
“Y/n,” Jaeyun twinkled. “I’ve finally found you.”
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A/n: this song played for the first time in a while and i knew i had to write something. 90% of this was stolen off my other blog, so if you’ve read it before, shhh
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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 5 months ago
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Tempest
Pairing: Michael Gavey (Saltburn) x f!reader (third person, no use of y/n) Warnings: Very brief mention of drug use, heavy petting. Word count: ~2k
Summary: Michael provides shelter when they get caught in a downpour, and reveals some uncomfortable truths.
Author's note: Happiest of birthdays to @dreamymoomin // @in-a-mountain-pool - hope you enjoy this little gift! No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.
It’s mid June in Oxford, a time when the air hangs thick and humid, the rain showers and storms as frequent as the blazing sunshine and cloudless skies. It’s an odd time of year, the feeling of transition as apparent in the weather as it is in the nearing finality of the end of term.
Exams have descended upon the students of every course, and while everyone studies hard, the need to let off steam is as burgeoning as the pressure in the atmosphere that promises thunder and lightning. The parties get wilder with every weekend that passes, a celebration of the turning in of coursework, completion of written assessments and an undeniable sense of finality; first year is drawing to its close.
She steps out of the wine shop on Turl Street, the nicest bottle she could find for under seven pounds wrapped delicately in navy blue tissue paper. Her friends in this city are of a different breed to what she’s used to back home; turning up to a party with a litre bottle of cider or a four pack of WKD Blue is social suicide. There is an unspoken, but incredibly obvious air of refinement, and if your face doesn’t fit then you’re destined for an incredibly lonely three years.
So, she has learned to play along. Turn up with fancy wine, pretend she’s one of them, until Felix and Farleigh show up with a wrap of cocaine and a bottle of Jägermeister, and things inevitably degenerate. They always degenerate. She makes her excuses and leaves whenever they arrive, she knows better now, having attempted to keep up in her first week, and then waking up the following day with an impending sense of dread and a general feeling of sickness that had continued to outstay its welcome after two days.
The social protocols are something she has perfected to a fine art; turn up, bring a bottle, ensure people see you, talk just enough to ensure you’re invited back next time, and then leave before things get too messy. It’s lonely, exhausting, and utterly unfulfilling, but it’s better than the alternative of being ostracised from her course mates.
As her feet land upon the pavement from the shop doorway, the sky blackens. Thick, grey clouds roll overhead and she looks up just in time to feet the first raindrop splash upon her cheek. Shit.
The sudden downpour makes her gasp, and though Trinity College is only a five minute walk away, she knows she’ll be drenched by the time she makes it back, so she runs in the direction of the Brasenose, seeking shelter beneath the covered entryway as she waits for the rain to pass.
She shivers, hair sticking to her neck, cursing under her breath as she watches the tissue paper that had been covering her wine bottle disintegrate in her hands. She shuffles to the side as she spots someone in her peripheral vision step beneath the entryway, giving them space as they lower the jacket they had been holding over their head.
“You’re not staying at this college.”
The brusque statement isn’t a question, it’s almost accusatory, and she snaps her head up, looking into the face of a person she recognises, but doesn’t know the name of.
“No…sorry,” she utters, awkwardly turning her bottle in her hands as more paper sloughs off of it. “Just waiting for the rain to pass.”
The rectangular glasses, sandy coloured hair and angular features are unforgettable. She had seen this guy hanging around with Oliver Quick towards the start of term and in the lead up to Christmas. When they’d all come back from break, she’d stopped seeing them together. Considering that Oliver now hung around Felix Catton like a shadow, it wasn’t hard to guess what had happened. She felt sorry for him.
“You could be standing here for a while,” he tells her.
She watches as a droplet of rain drips from the cleft of his nose, before her eyes flicker up to his. “Better than getting soaked on the walk back to Trinity.”
He hums under his breath, regarding her warily. “You could make it back in under five hundred steps if you walked quickly.”
“Or you could invite me in until the rain passes,” she replies hopefully, her eyes meeting his.
She watches him carefully as he blinks once, twice, three times, his mouth twisting in a mixture of confusion and apprehension as he considers her proposition. She is certain he’s going to refuse, until he utters a clipped “fine”, before turning to open the door.
Following him in and up the staircase, she wonders why she had been so bold. There is no denying she is curious about him, the maths genius that everyone says had shouted “fucking ask me a sum then!” during the Fresher’s dinner, but she would never ordinarily ask a complete stranger to allow her into their room. He’s not even leading her to the common area.
As the door to his room clicks closed behind her, she takes in her surroundings. It could not be more different to the rooms of other boys she has visited during her time at Oxford. It’s clean, tidy to the point of being orderly, everything has its place. The bedspread is pulled taut against the mattress, pens and pencils are lined up perfectly straight next to the neat pile of notebooks on the desk.
She feels her skin heat up when she sees him standing there staring at her. She hasn’t even introduced herself.
“Sorry,” she says, giving her name with an embarrassed smile, “probably should have told you that before inviting myself up. And you are?”
“Michael,” he says, “Michael Gavey.”
He reaches for her hand to shake it, but withdraws upon seeing the soggy blue tissue paper it’s coated in, and she silently prays for the ground to swallow her up as fresh humiliation burns hotly through her.
“Here,” he says, passing her a towel that had been carefully folded over the back of a chair, “dry yourself off.”
She gives a quiet thanks, setting her bottle down on the bedside table, before toweling her face, hair and hands. It smells faintly of Head and Shoulders shampoo, and it’s oddly comforting.
Passing the towel back, she busies herself with opening the wine as Michael works to dry himself. Using the end of a fork that has been left upon the bedside table, she pushes the cork through into the bottle.
“What are you doing?”
She looks up, watching as he wipes at the lenses of his glasses with a cleaning cloth. He’s actually quite beautiful without them, less severe looking, his eyes are strikingly blue. Forcing herself to avert her gaze, she replies: “well, I can’t see a corkscrew.”
“No, I mean, why are you opening it?”
She gives an easy shrug. “Something to do while we wait for the rain to stop.”
Taking a swig of the cheap chardonnay, she winces slightly and holds it out to him. He hesitates, eyes shifting between the bottle and her, before he tentatively reaches out to take it from her. His own face contorts in disgust as he drinks, causing her to laugh.
“Only the finest for five pounds fifty!”
“Christ,” he winces, passing it back to her. “So, what are you reading?”
“History of art,” she replies, slugging from the wine bottle once more.
“Fucking hell,” he scoffs derisively, mouth turning up into a sneer.
“Oh fuck off,” she shoots back playfully, perching herself on the edge of his bed. “We can’t all be maths geniuses.”
He eyes her curiously. “How do you know I’m reading maths?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
Recognition flickers in his eyes for a moment and she sees a tinge of pink flush his cheek, as he averts his gaze in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts hurriedly. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s impressive, really, it is.”
“I don’t need one of Felix Catton’s vapid cunts to validate me,” he retorts, his tone suddenly icy.
Her brows arch, eyes widening as the comment hits her like a slap to the face. “I’m not…I’m not making fun of you,” she says quietly, “and Felix isn’t my friend, not that that’s any of your business.”
He narrows his eyes at her, putting his glasses back on. “Well, go on then.”
“What?”
“Ask me a sum. You’ve been dying to since you first saw me.”
“It’s fine. I wasn’t going–”
“Just do it,” he interrupts with a sigh.
She chews her lip hesitantly, placing the wine bottle on the bedside table, before leaning back on her palms against the bed as she sits on its edge. “Alright. Two hundred and eighty four divided by sixteen?”
“Seventeen and three quarters,” he replies instantaneously. 
It shocks her, he doesn’t really even have to take time to think about it.
“I’ve got no way of verifying if that’s correct,” she says, chuckling nervously.
“Hmm, why don’t we even the playing field then?” He says, coming to sit beside her.
She feels her breath hitch as the mattress dips beside her, his closeness making the humidity of the air seem hotter still.
“What do you mean?”
“You ask me a maths question, I’ll ask you a question, and it’s up to us if we believe each other’s answer.”
“Art history questions?”
“What do you think?” He shoots her a withering look.
“What sort of questions then?”
“Just ones about you. You’re in my room, after all, makes sense for me to get to know you.”
She swallows thickly, nodding. “Okay, that seems fair.”
“So, why aren’t you friends with Felix Catton?”
“I don’t like him,” she says honestly.
“Why not?”
“That’s two questions.”
“Just answer it.”
She wets her lips, considering her answer. It’s not something she’s ever really even admitted to herself before, let alone said aloud to another person. “I–I don’t like how he makes me feel…about myself.”
“Your turn.”
She turns her face towards him, noticing how close they’re sitting together. The smell of Head and Shoulders shampoo is more fragrant on him than it had been on the towel. “Eighty eight times ninety one?”
His skin breaks out into gooseflesh at the feeling of her breath upon it, and she smiles to herself as she watches him shift upon the bed, his answer slower than the first time. “Eight thousand and eight.”
He looks at her, his face so close to hers their noses almost touch. “Why do you hang out with Felix’s friends if you don’t like him?”
Exhaling shakily, she dips her face into the crook of his neck, feeling him tense beneath her touch, the proximity causing her own heartbeat to quicken. “Because I don’t want to be lonely,” she whispers. She ghosts her lips tentatively against the flesh of his neck, delighting in the way he shivers. “Six hundred times three hundred and twenty one?”
When he breathes out, it’s audible, the faintest hint of a whimper carrying alongside the expulsion of air. “One hundred and ninety two thousand, six hundred,” his voice is strained as he replies, an indication that he’s struggling.
He reaches across, long slender fingers gripping her thigh, out of desire to touch her or simply to ground himself, she is unsure, but she takes the initiative, slinging her leg over his lap. She can feel the rapid hardening of him through the fly of his cargo shorts.
“Why did you want to come up today?” He whispers, turning his head, nuzzling into her still damp hair.
“To get out of the rain,” she utters, gripping the front of his t-shirt as though it’s a lifeline.
“Liar, the rain’s stopped now.”
The darkness of his tone causes her core to squeeze involuntarily, excitement making her tummy flutter. “I was curious about you, you seem lonely too.”
“Do you want to stay?”
“That’s two questions,” she chides, pulling back, resting her forehead against his.
“Answer me,” he insists, his grip on her thigh tightening.
As she looks at him, his pupils dilated, full lips parted, she knows she has no intention of going to the party later. From the moment she met Michael, her plans had changed without her ever being aware of it.
“Yes, I want to stay.”
He leans in, lips pressing feverishly against hers, and as she kisses back, savouring the taste of cheap white wine upon his mouth, it feels as though the pressure has finally lifted. She hopes it rains forever.
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