#but shinier and without the earrings

[nekonaps0]

No kisses!? Pt3

✦part1 part2

✦fem!reader

✦characters: second year (except Riddle, Azul and Jamil)

✦how would the boys react to a minor silly argument that leads to their partner refusing to kiss them for days

Ruggie Bucchi

The Argument:

It all started when he made a joke while you were fixing your hair in front of the mirror.

You had been fussing over your reflection, adjusting things for the third time. Ruggie, lying back on your bed and munching chips, said with a teasing smirk

“Y’know, for someone who looks cute already, you sure spend a lot of time getting ready. When will you be ready?”

You paused. “Are you saying I spend too long getting ready?” You raised an eyebrow.

He blinked, suddenly realizing what was coming. “Wha—no, no, I meant you look good already! Just that! y’know… it’s kinda funny—HEY WAIT! DONT TWIST MY WORDS!!!”

You stood, arms crossed. “Fine. I will be ready soon and you don’t get kisses until you learn how to compliment someone without making it sound like a complain.”

He sat up, eyes wide. “No kisses?! Just for that?! C’mon, that was barely even an insult—!”

You grabbed your bag. “See you, hyena boy.”

“WAIT—!”

Day 1:

Ruggie wandered around pouting like someone stole his wallet. He sulked into lunch beside Leona, grumbling into his sandwich.

Leona gave him a side glance. “You’re twitchier than usual. What, your girlfriend finally dumped you?”

“…She said I don’t get kisses ‘til I learn manners.”

“…Pfff...”

“IT’S NOT FUNNY, DUDE!”

Day 2:

Ruggie showed up to your class with a paper bag of your favorite snacks, a can of your favorite drink, and the guiltiest grin on his face.

“Heyyy, best girlfriend in the world. Missed ya. These just… fell into my bag. Weird, huh?”

You took the bag but didn’t kiss his cheek like you usually did. You just smiled sweetly. “Thanks. Still not kissing you, though.”

He fake staggered like you’d stabbed him. “You’re killing me here, babe…”

Day 3:

You walked into your dorm to find Ruggie waiting for you. He was holding a wrinkled piece of paper and looked like he was fighting off second hand embarrassment.

“…Okay. You want compliments? Fine.”

He cleared his throat.

“Your hair is shinier than a fresh donut glaze. Your eyes sparkle like the school store vending machine lights. Your laugh makes me feel like I didn’t grow up poor.”

You blinked.

He continued, dramatically. “And your kisses are a national treasure, which is why I’m in mourning. Now please, for the love of all things good and sugary, kiss me before I die of emotional malnutrition.”

You laughed…hard. “I can’t believe you wrote that.”

“I was desperate…”

You reached forward and cupped his cheek. “Okay, okay. Desperation looks good on you.” And finally, you kissed him.

He instantly lit up, tail wagging, grinning ear to ear. “See? I knew flattery would work. Who says I can’t learn?”

You smirked. “Next time, just try being nice or just shut up.”

He winked. “This was nice. Mostly. Ninety percent. Maybe eighty-five.”

Floyd Leech

The Argument:

It started when you two were hanging out by the Mostro Lounge. Floyd had draped himself over your shoulders like a weighted blanket while you were talking with Jade and Azul. You were mid sentence, explaining something you were excited about, some new club project, and Floyd kept poking your cheek. Over and over.

You gave him a look.

“Floyd. Stop.”

He grinned lazily. “But you’re so squishy~ Shrimpy’s got a blobfish face today!”

Azul and Jade exchanged a glance as you blinked, stunned. “A… blobfish?! That’s not even a compliment!”

Floyd chuckled. “It is in my book~ I like blobfish!”

You turned, swatting his hand away. Eyes twitching. “Well this blobfish is swimming away. No kisses for you until you learn how to compliment your girlfriend!”

He watched you walk away with a visible pout forming.

“…Wait—huh?! What did I do?!”

Day 1:

Floyd made it exactly four hours before declaring a full blown personal crisis.

He burst into the Monstro Lounge’s kitchen, throwing himself dramatically over a prep counter.

“I’m dying. Shrimpy won’t kiss me. This is emotional neglect. This is ABANDONMENT.”

Azul rubbed his temples. “Floyd, I am working. Could you—?”

“NO. I’m going to wither and shrivel up like a sad little sea cucumber.”

Jade, calmly dicing herbs “Perhaps you should reflect on why she might be upset.”

“…Because she’s too cute and sensitive for this cruel world? And she don’t think blobfish is cute?”

Day 2:

You got a surprise visit during break. Floyd barged in… yes, barged… with a bouquet of lollipops tied together with glitter ribbon and an “I’m Sorry My Mouth is Dumb” note stuck in the middle.

You burst into laughter immediately.

But still… no kiss.

Floyd stared at you in horror. “…Still no smoochies?! Not even a tiny one?!”

You patted his head. “You gotta mean it, Floyd. Not just distract me with candy.”

He groaned. “This is torture. Do I have to write a tragic love song. It’ll be called ‘My girlfriend breaking my heart’…”

Day 2… after school:

You were walking back to your dorm when Floyd suddenly grabbed your hand and tugged you behind a tree on campus. His mismatched eyes were weirdly serious.

“Okay. Real talk time.” He held your face gently between his hands and leaned in close. “I don’t like when you’re mad at me, y’know. Even when it’s just a little bit. It’s… too quiet. So listen here. I think you’re the most attractive person I ever met, and I love how soft you are and I love squeezing your because I like to feel you close…”

You blinked. His tone was different, more grounded, more vulnerable. “You really mean that?”

He nodded, lips quirking up slightly. “Yeah. And I really miss you and your kisses. Like, seriously. My heart’s all pouty.”

You laughed softly. “You’re such a menace.”

“Yup,” he grinned. “But I’m your menace.”

You kissed him then, long and warm and maybe a little dramatic.

He pulled back with a huge grin. “Ooooh, there it is! I’m cured~!”

Then he tried to lift you up off the ground in a victory spin. “Let’s make up properly now, eh~?”

You shrieked between giggles.

“Floyd, put me down!”

“Not until I get at least three more!”

Jade Leech

The Argument:

The two of you were in the botanical gardens, your favorite place to spend time together. You were excitedly talking about a new rare plant the science club was cultivating a vine that changed colors depending on mood.

Jade had been mostly quiet, smiling with that usual composed expression, until he made a small comment

"Hm… It's quite fascinating. Although, I imagine it would be difficult for someone like you to manage. You’re quite emotional, after all."

You froze. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head, completely unbothered. “I didn’t mean it negatively, of course. Just an observation. I find your… expressive nature very entertaining.”

“Entertaining?” You glared. “Wow. Glad I could amuse you.”

And you stormed off. No kiss goodbye. No soft look back. Just cold silence.

(That’s prove point…)

Day 1:

Jade was… intrigued.

He didn’t expect you to take it that personally but now that you were ignoring him, refusing even a peck on the cheek?

Fascinating.

He cornered you after class. “My, still avoiding me? You must truly be upset.”

You didn’t answer. Just lifted your chin and walked past him.

He blinked. Then smiled slowly to himself.

“How adorable.”

Day 2:

He tried subtlety first. Helping carry your books. Offering you tea. Sending you your favorite dessert.

Still no kisses.

He upped the game.

“Did you know,” he said, leaning beside you in the library, “there’s a rare sea slug that, when rejected by its mate, releases a cloud of toxic ink and sulks for a week?”

You gave him a look.

“I am that sea slug,” he said smoothly.

You stifled a laugh. But still… no kiss.

Day 3:

Jade finally gave in to sincerity.

You were watering the plants in the botanical gardens when he approached, holding a small, potted cutting of the mood changing vine. It was blooming, its petals a soft shade of blue green.

"I’ve been observing this one," he said, offering it to you. "It turns this color when surrounded by someone it’s… fond of."

You blinked at him.

He added, quieter this time, “I may have let my curiosity go a little too far. I didn’t mean to make you feel like a specimen. You’re… far more than that.”

You sighed. “You’re a smug eel.”

“Yes, yes I am.” he agreed easily.

You smiled finally and leaned in kissed him gently on the cheek.

He smiled, eyes gleaming. “Mmm… I’ll take that. But I was aiming for the lips.”

You laughed. “Earn it.”

“Oh,” he purred, “with pleasure.”

Kalim Al-Asim

The Argument:

It started when Kalim casually mentioned during lunch that he might let Jamil pick out your next date location because "he’s really good at planning things."

You blinked. “You’d let Jamil pick our date?”

Kalim laughed brightly. “Why not? He always knows what I forget, like sunscreen, or forks, or where we’re even supposed to go! It’d be great!”

You crossed your arms. “So… you don’t remember our dates?”

He paused, mid bite of his mango. “Huh? No! I didn’t mean—wait, is that what I said?”

You stood up from the table, expression flat. “Great. Then Jamil can go on the date too. Maybe he’ll kiss you.”

And you walked off.

Day 1:

Kalim sprinted after you but tripped over his own feet. (Classic.)

“Wait! I didn’t mean it that way! I love your dates! And your kisses! Especially your kisses!”

You didn’t look back.

He turned to Jamil, panicked. “I messed up! I really messed up! She’s not kissing me anymore! WHAT IF SHE DONT LOVE ME ANYMORE?!?”

Jamil sighed, rubbing his temples. “Maybe let me plan your apology too...”

Day 2:

Kalim overcompensated.

Your dorm room door opened to reveal twenty seven heart shaped balloons floating inside and a trail of golden flower petals spelling out: “I MISS YOUR LIPS”

You slammed the door…

Five minutes later, he knocked again. “Okay! Okay! Maybe that was too much! But can you at least take the mango cupcakes I made?! I even piped little heart shaped sprinkles on them!!”

No answer.

He whimpered. “I’m wilting without your love…”

Day 3:

He found you alone in the courtyard and finally approached without a smile, just soft, sincere eyes.

“I didn’t think before I spoke,” he said. “I never wanted you to think that I wasn’t care about our dates. I love our dates! And every time when we plan one I can’t wait for the day come because I know I will get to spend the whole day with you! You make everything magical just by being you. I don’t need Jamil to remind me or plan my happiness. That’s always been you.”

You glanced at him.

He lowered his head. “I’ll stop being annoying now. I just… miss you…”

You sighed, walking up to him, and tugged on his shirt to pull him closer. “Idiot.”

You kissed him, soft, warm, long enough for him to stumble backward in joy.

Kalim gasped like he’d just been resuscitated. “I’m alive again!”

You laughed into his chest. “Don’t let Jamil pick the next date. And use your brain to remember it.”

“I won’t! I swear! I won’t let him help!” he shouted, spinning you around with a huge grin. “You’ll plan it, and I’ll love it, and you can kiss me before, during, and after!”

Silver

The Argument:

It started with you teasing him after he fell asleep mid date…again.

You’d been talking about your favorite childhood memory, and halfway through your story, Silver’s head drooped, his breathing evened out, and he slumped softly against the park bench.

You stopped talking, and you just sighed. You were not mad, you were aware of his condition, so you just let him rest on your shoulder.

When he woke up ten minutes later, he looked confused and adorable, rubbing his eyes with a soft, “Mmh… did I miss something?”

You folded your arms. “Just everything I said. Again.” You giggled.

He blinked, still half-asleep. “Oh. Sorry. I guess your story was little tiring…” he said half asleep.

Your jaw dropped. “Seriously? So I’m boring?”

“I didn’t mean—wait, that’s not—!”

You stood and walked away without another word.

Day 1:

Silver panicked.

He followed you for half the day, yawning, stumbling, trying to apologize in a million different awkward ways.

“I wasn’t saying you’re boring,” he mumbled while handing you a apology letter. “You have the most calming voice in the world. It’s like… rain on the rooftop. Or a lullaby. That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

You took the letter but said nothing. And you didn’t kiss him goodbye that night.

He didn’t sleep well.

Day 2:

He asked Lilia for advice.

“Make a grand gesture,” Lilia said, gleeful. “Sing beneath her balcony! Climb a tower! Challenge a suitor to a duel!”

“…She’s not seeing anyone else.”

“Well, pretend she is! That’ll wake you up!”

Silver groaned and decided to go with his instincts instead…

That night, he visited your room. Quiet. Nervous. Holding something in his hands.

“I made this for you,” he said, handing you a carved wooden hairpin shaped like a bunny. It was… surprisingly delicate. “I couldn’t sleep. So I stayed up. Thought about how I made you feel. I didn’t listen properly. That was wrong.”

You softened but still raised an

eyebrow. “And you think one bunny hairpin fixes it?”

He looked down. “No. I don’t think anything fixes it… except you forgiving me.”

You studied him, how his lashes dipped low, how his hands stayed behind his back, like a knight awaiting judgment.

Then you leaned forward, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “ha… I’m not mad… I know it’s not your fault. Maybe I overreacted.”

His breath hitched. “So… then… maybe I deserve a full kiss?”

You pressed a kiss to his lips this time, soft, lingering, like a secret. “I’ll finish my story later. You better stay awake.”

He smiled into your mouth. “I will. Even if I have to tie my eyelids open.”

..............................................................................................................................

[lorelune]

hi lore! for your game, oliver aiku + oil stains!

ohhhh bitti tempt me TEMPT ME!!

oliver + oil stains

(minors dni // situationship reader x oliver)

you awaken to a warm hand running up and down your spine. lingering a little too low for your sleeping body to ignore any longer, you crack an eye open. gold bathes the bedroom, cascades over rumpled sheets.

the hand drifts to the base of your neck, squeezing there.

"good morning," oliver hums. "i can tell your awake."

shifting, you groan into your pillow. even tilting your hips just a little... hurts.

"let me sleep." you kick at his legs weakly. "i deserve it."

"oh?" he sounds pleased. "why's that?"

"you broke me. my bones hurt. let me rest."

"i made your bones hurt? wow, maybe i should pat myself on the back."

"you're the worst."

and yet, you're tucked in his bed.

you're not sure... when this started. for the longest time, oliver (politely) kicked you out after your hookups. he has practice, or at the very least a workout, every morning, and having you linger disrupted his routine. that was the excuse, anyway, but you always understood that he was more than likely telling you to scram because that's his preference following a hookup regardless.

you can't blame him; you didn't then.

but, at some point, you started staying the night.

the first time, he fucked you so well and long and stupid, that you were barely lucid by the end of it. you fell asleep against your will and by the time you were roused, you had still felt loopy and out of it. you came to with oliver rather gently cleaning up between your thighs. he told you to use to the restroom and then come back and crash. there was a spare toothbrush in the bathroom for you.

it's weird, oliver really got more attentive after that.

now... this is a thing. you stay the night, like you're his partner and not the his favorite random fuck.

(it's weird too because you know oliver used to have others in his bed besides than you. you can't say for certain if that has changed.)

"i am, aren't i?" oliver laughs, good-natured. his voice is rough and ragged from the night before. it's unfairly hot and you hate the fact that your probably-still-puffy cunt flutters around nothing with the sound. fucker. "maybe a few more minutes then, as a penance."

you hum, burying your face back into his pillow. you are tired.

oliver settles behind you. it's his preferred position. you can feel that he's damp, which means he somehow snuck out for his morning practice without waking you. it's a considerable amount of effort and thought to show you. it makes your guts twist.

"what were you wearing last night?" oliver asks, breath warm against your ear.

"lingerie," you remind him with a huff. "you tore it off me, remember?"

"oh, i did, didn't i?" oliver sounds far too pleased with himself.

"you better pay me back for it."

"sure, sure. but, i didn't mean that. i meant on your lips."

"my... lips?" it takes you a moment to recall.

you were wearing some pretty makeup. the kind the smudges out under your eyes when you get teary from the insane way in which oliver undoes you. the unholy things which he can do with his cock usually make you cry, at least a little. you've noticed he likes when you look fucked out, smudgy and satisfied by the end.

"lip oil." you tell him. it was a new brand for you, the shade a lighter than you normally wear. juicy and a little more natural looking.

"is that different than lip gloss?"

"somewhat. it's a little more... slippery, shinier."

oliver taps his fingers next to your head, you feel it against the pillow even with your eyes closed.

"'think it stains?"

that makes you rise, just enough to prop yourself up and look down at the pillow you've been glued to.

sure enough, streaked across the pillow case is half-formed prints of your lips. dappled in pink, smeared against the cotton. from when oliver had you on your tummy, fucking into your from behind, pinning you to the bed with a hand braced on the back of your neck.

you flush; you can't help it.

"i can wash that it for you—" you barely keep yourself up on your elbows. you want to bury yourself in the sheets and hide.

oliver doesn't let you. he guides you by the jaw to look back him.

he's... so smitten. so satisfied and smug and fucking smitten. the smile he wears is so intensely pleased with himself as his thumb runs under your eyes, undoubtedly over your still smudged makeup.

"no need." he presses over your bottom lip. "i'm thinking about framing it, what do you think?"

"oliver—!" you groan, and before you can admonish him anymore for teasing you in your state, he kisses you.

it's different than it was in the beginning. those first moments of intimacy were meant to serve a function. extinguish those shared, carnal urges that begged to be satiated. there was passion there, of course, oliver is a good lover even when he isn't dedicated or all that caring about the other person.

but now?

oliver kisses you like a lover. his head tilts just right and he cradles your jaw to follow his rhythm. he delves into you with a nip and a swipe of his tongue over your lips. you're helpless to this version of him, the version he has started to grow into. you moan against his mouth, leaning back, craning your neck for more—

he breaks from you, only to mouth at your neck.

"get your extra sleep." oliver tugs you closer by the hips. "i'll make breakfast when you wake up."

"i'll need to shower." you're a particular brand of filthy given oliver's treatment of you and your sex. you've been dripping him for the past six hours.

oliver clicks his tongue, "aw, without me?"

"i didn't say that."

"aren't you sweet."

"keep that tone up and it will be without you."

oliver laughs. he seems content regardless of your thorns. you think he likes them, actually. you're showing more of yourself to him, more sharp edges and less manicured rounded bits. it feels natural as your entanglement continues to change form.

and for better or for worse, you like showing yourself to him. you like seeing him too. the exchange is still comfortable and you'll enjoy it while you can.

(even if you can feel the fleeting nature of it transmuting, albeit slowly, into something richer. the type of feeling that can fill your chest guiltlessly.)

for now, you give him a kindness. you crane your neck back to press a kiss to his stubble and revel in the rubble of contentment that echoes from his chest. he presses into you, arms tightening around your waist—

like he really, really wants you there.

[adoresia]

BREAKING NEWS !! giant gets gianter… based off that official art he’s wearing heels in for some odd reason because i was bored, could’ve been revising but like nah

cw // crack crack crack craxk

Nagi doesn’t like going outside. doesnt like the blazing heat of the sun, the people, the walking, the conversing with random strangers and having to force a smile, the prices, the lines, the “can I help you with anything?” literally all of it. and usually when you drag him around from store to store he lets you, quietly grumbling once every fifteen minutes before melting back into your side

but today he was too cute to bother :( dead asleep in your bed with one leg kicked out dramatically to the side, blanket halfway off his body and his head burried in a mountain of mismatched plushies. his hair was stuck to his cheek and his mouth was barely parted, so you left him… you kissed his forehead, whispering a silent “I’ll be back.” took your bag and went out to do the shopping yourself.

Unfortunately…you deeply regretted this decision when you returned with seven bags and no one to help you carry them inside. so you called Nagi to come out and help you. you called, it rang, it ended. so you called again… and then again… and then.. again?

finally after the ninth missed call your phone buzzed with a single sluggish facetime request. you answered to an angle of his neck and a bit of his chin “…what.”

“sei…I told you to help me when I got back.”

your voice strains under the weight of the bags, phone wedged between your shoulder and ear as you try not to drop a handle. “oh, I was sleeping.” he sounded like hes talking through five layers of fog, voice raspy and not even fully awake, and you swear you can still hear the faint crinkle of your sheets in the background. “You’re always sleeping...”

“and I was doing such a good job at it…” you hear him yawn and something shifts in the distance — probably his leg falling off the bed. “come help me i’m outside. My arms are about to fall off.” theres a pause and an expected heavy groan, and then the sound of fabric being shoved back lazily. then a shuffle, and a dull thud as if he dropped his phone on the floor or maybe even walked into a wall. another beat of silence. then the call disconnects, you roll your eyes.

two minutes later the front door creaks open and there he stands, on the porch, wearing your red heels?? They’re visibly too small, you can see toe poking out the side; his pajama pants are crumpled just above his ankles; his shirt is half tucked; and there’s still a faint crease on his cheek from your pillowcase as he walks towards you with a stuffed frog tucked under his arm as if he forgot he was holding it.

the sun frames him like some ridiculous renaissance painting, its warm and soft and makes the heels look shinier than they deserve to be on his feet. He looks completely unbothered, like this was the most normal thing ever. “Sei…where are your slides?”

“couldnt find them” he shrugs. “these were near the door.” you just stare at him “…Are you being for real right now.” he yawns “didnt wanna go barefoot.” You drag a hand down your face but he just blinks at you, head tilted like he’s waiting for some kind of praise. you walk over to him half ready to strangle him — yet you stand there for a second tilting your head up to kiss him, or atleast attempt to…

he shifts backward in response and you squint. “hello why are you dodging me”

“…not dodging.”

“you literally backed up??” he scratches the side of his neck. “It’s just weird.”

“me kissing you is weird now?”

“no… im too tall. dont wanna bend down so far” you blink up at him, realising that the do in fact heels make him cartoonishly taller. you roll your eyes and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your head against his chest. “…your so silly sei. was 6’3 not tall enough for you? I can’t even reach your mouth without a running start.”

“Then get your own heels” he mumbles, jokingly. Yet he still puts down the groceries he’s carrying and dips down slightly — just enough to plant a kiss to your temple. You melt into him, heels clicking quietly beneath him as he shifts his wait from one foot to the other, almost as if he never planned to go back to bed at all

a/n :: ENOUGH NAGI NOW omg his masterlist is literally overflowing thats enough sorry i cant stop help. ‘and’ ‘and’ ‘and then’ ‘and’ bitch expand your vocabulary??? does anyone want to send me a list of synonyms 💔 does this count as a drabble or is it leaning towards a oneshot its 722 words… hmmm… who is playing halo by beyonce outside my window hello

click here to get notified whenever i post a fic !!

gen taglist : @livteracts @s6rine @mayyhaps @lizbix @l4zystab @arisreadsalot

[maybe-moonchild]

5/29/2014

WC: 5.3k

Strawberry vodka lemonade was your liquid courage. 

It was what drove you to excuse yourself from under Trent Warren's arm that was thrown over your shoulders. Your friends boo’d you from across the pong table, but you were already slipping away. 

Flash’s living room was stuffy, the entirety of Midtown High’s senior class packed inside, bodies spilling into the backyard. It had been your requirement that all seniors be invited to the party. No one left out, no hurt feelings, or unwelcome to the celebration. 

After all, you had all graduated today. 

Peter’s head was easy to spot as he pushed through the crowd and towards the back door. He’d always been tall and lanky but, sometime during high school, he’d filled out. It wasn’t weird that you’d noticed. Everyone had noticed. Come on… how could you not?

Your grip on your solo cup tightened as you maneuvered through party goers that were too drunk to notice where you were going. Maybe no one cared anymore. Now that everyone was graduating and moving on to what was hoped to be bigger and better. 

Who peaked in high school wouldn’t matter. Who dated who, slept behind their friends' ex was no longer important. Who punched who in the face over a rumor that someone started would be forgotten and replaced with newer and shinier memories.

You just knew that you would never be able to forget Peter Parker. 

Thinking was easier once you’d stepped outside. Without the overwhelming stimulation, your eyes and ears adjusted to the quiet and lack of flashing lights. You searched every face, standing on your toes and straining to catch him before he was gone for good. You managed to get a glimpse of the back of his head before he disappeared around the side of the house. 

You called out,  “Hey!”

Grass tickled the soles of your feet as you jogged to catch up. Your sandals had been forgotten somewhere in Flash’s room from when you’d helped set up his place to host the party. What was more important was that you managed to catch him. 

Peter was right at your fingertips. 

At the sound of your voice, Peter hesitated. Like he was debating whether he should stop and turn around or just keep going all the way home. But he stopped. 

It took him even longer to actually turn around. 

Neither of you said anything for a few long seconds. You were nervous- the most nervous you had felt in a long time now that you were standing closer to him than you had in longer than you could remember. More nervous than cheerleading tryouts freshman year when Nancy Lewis, the captain, had it out for you but you made the team anyway. More nervous than when you clicked submit on your NYU application 7 months ago. 

You gave him a timid smile, “Hey.” That one word dripped with everything and nothing all at the same time. Years of dependency and avoidance all rolled into one. 

His teeth chewed at the inside of his lip and he paused long enough to make your smile falter.

“Hi.”

It was awkward; the kind of quiet that no one is sure how to fill. Clearing your throat and squaring your shoulders, you relied on the strawberry vodka to carry you through.

“I didn’t know you were coming tonight. I mean, I didn’t think you would.” you practically blurted the words out just so you wouldn’t lose your nerve. Shaking your head, you try to relax. “Not in a bad way. Just… you usually don’t, but I’m glad you did-”

“I didn’t plan on coming.

That time, your smile really faltered. His eyes were hard but the second he saw your expression, he felt guilty and quickly looked away. It was harder for you to recover this time. 

“I’m glad you did.” The strawberry vodka coated the words and stung your tongue. At least taking a sip of your drink gave you something to do as you thought. 

You took a breath and tried again. 

“We haven’t… Well, we haven’t really talked in a while. So… I was- well I was hoping to run into you again. Since we graduated and all,” you stumbled through. Even if you sounded awkward, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

You just wanted to try.

Peter didn’t know what to say to that. He was trying really hard to be nice but, god, it was harder than he’d thought it would be. It wasn’t like he was a mean person. It wasn’t even that he wanted to be mean to you but something about your unsure smile made him want to tear it down. 

He can’t exactly say, ‘I don’t want to look at you’ or ‘I was hoping to have evaded you entirely, gone off to school and tried to forget your existence that always seems to be pressing on the back of my skull even when you’re nowhere near’. 

So he settled for something neutral, a little vague.

“Yeah.” 

He swallowed, nodding slowly before tearing his eyes from the ground and finally meeting your gaze. A nervous tic took hold of his forehead and he rubbed it idly like he could somehow rub away the scowl threatening to slip through. He fought the urge to run by shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

“I didn’t know you wanted to run into me,” he muttered and you just shrugged lamely. If you talked right now, your voice might’ve cracked. Yet again, you focussed your tipsy brain on keeping the smile up. 

Peter couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t help but shove his hands into his front pockets and add, “Considering you didn’t want anything to do with me for the past four years.”

The smile fell off your face. It didn’t come back. 

His words did what he intended: hurt you. 

You pressed your lips together to keep down the scoff burning in your throat.

“That’s not true and you know it,” you argued.  “I never replaced you. I might have made other friends but that didn’t mean I just cut you out.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” he muttered, an edge creeping into his tone as he stared at you intensely. He wanted to see you hurt but the only reaction you gave was the twitch of a muscle in your neck.

Peter was pissed off.  He was pissed off that he wasn’t good enough. That you chose others over him. That he’d  never been enough. That maybe he never would be. 

Peter did a bad job at feigning indifference. The jerky movements and harshness of his voice gave away that he wasn’t all that detached like he was trying to seem. You could tell considering you still knew his mannerisms like you had four years ago. 

When you said nothing, he couldn’t help but keep going. Alcohol didn’t have the same effect on him ever since he got bit by that spider two years ago. Not like he’d been a big drinker before then anyway; Peter wasn’t exactly making it to the top of the guest lists. Booze metabolized too quickly in his system for it to do anything besides give him a brief buzz and a three minute hangover. 

But when Ned had begged and pleaded (like literally on his knees and gripping the bottom of Peter’s shirt because ‘it was the last high school party he could attend to try and woo Katie into elopement), Peter couldn't say no. So he really tried to keep as heavy a buzz going as humanly possible.

It worked. Maybe a bit too well. 

Which was why he was drunk and wouldn’t shut up.

“You always had plans with other people, always busy with cheerleading or making rounds to different tables at lunch after sitting with me for five minutes. I’d be lucky if I got to walk to a class with you.”

“That’s not how it went and you know it,” you countered with a step forward. 

“Just admit you traded up. That you got exactly what you wanted.”

You stopped short, the close proximity between you two feeling like two opposite ends of magnets.Your breathing was a little rapid, pink flushing your cheeks from the alcohol. Or it could just be the blood rushing to your face from anger because, yeah… you were mad. 

“And what would that be? What exactly was it that I wanted, Peter?”

It was the booze, that’s what you both told yourselves. That the bottle of rum you’d giggled into with Flash and Katie as people started arriving was finally hitting you full force. That the beers he’d choked down just so he had something to occupy his mouth with instead of talking during the party had him chatty now.

Alcohol seeped beneath the hard exterior of everything you’d been sitting on for the past four years as it all bubbled to the surface. 

“Really?” He leaned in closer, the citrusy vodka strong on his breath. Peter's eyes flickered around your face like he was looking for the truth. “Who was the one that always said it would be you and I against the world? How many nights did I crawl in your window when you were too scared to be home alone and your parents were at a conference?”

When you didn’t have the answer, Peter leaned a little closer.

“How many times did you show up late to the movies an hour late because practice ran long?  How many times did you invite a new friend along to our plans that only acknowledged my existence because you made them? How many times did I help you with your homework because you let some moron quarterback keep you up all night and you forgot?”

“Are you serious right now?” It was the most you’d raised your voice the entire conversation. 

“I’m just saying,” Peter shrugged. He raised his hands in surrender, nothing sincere about the action. 

“Just saying what? That I’m a whore?”

Peter's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. His scowl dropped to shock. “No!” That was certainly not what he was saying. Not ever!

“Well, that’s kinda what it’s sounding like,” you snapped. 

“Well, that's not what I- I’m not saying that. I’d never say that-” he cuts himself off with a huff. “I’m just saying that- I was there. For you. I was there for you.”

The hole he was digging himself in just kept getting bigger and bigger. If he was lucky, he could crawl inside and bury himself in it like a grave. Lay to rest all the thoughts of you that had been sitting in his head so long they’d practically atrophied into his brain tissue. 

The statement made you feel defensive, arms folding over your chest like you could protect yourself from his words. Scowling, your fingers flexed on the half filled solo cup, the plastic crinkling under your fingers. Even though it was late May

“What has that even got to do with anything,” you cried out in frustration. Even though it was just the two of you out in the open yard, it felt harder to breathe out there compared to the cramped party inside. 

You still didn’t get it. The realization was agonizing, that you just didn’t understand what that had to do with everything. 

He stopped thinking entirely. 

So without  thought, he stepped forward, cupping your face in his hands and towering over you. 

“Because I was jealous, you idiot.” 

There's a deafening quiet once those words are out into the world. He could never take them back. You could never truly pretend you’d never heard them.

His eyes bored into yours, big and brown as their intensity slipped to distress, his breath rushing over your mouth. You were so still that you weren’t sure your heart was beating. If you really thought about it, you would easily be able to put together why he would be jealous of some football player having your attention for a week or two before you got bored. 

If you actually thought it through, you would have to accept that he didn’t just feel resentment for you. 

Suddenly, the hum of anger that had been buzzing in your body is replaced by something else entirely. Something you cant quite place or name or- fuck, you dont even know if you want to know what it is.

Peter's whole body wanted to sag, to sink down into your touch and just give himself a moment to simply be. To just be with you without the entire weight of the world weighing down his shoulders, without having an explosion hanging between you two like a cloud. 

His heart was racing in his chest, thudding so hard it hurts as it slams against his ribs. Peter stared at you with disbelief, the booze having stunted his own thinking. 

You were so beautiful, so damn beautiful with your cheeks flushed pink and your parted lips. Your eyes wide and bright as they remain locked with his own because neither of you could seem to look at anything else. Maybe there was nothing else worth looking at. 

His thumb stroked your cheek, his voice faltering as he leaned closer, 

“This,” he says and pulls your face closer.

You went  rigid for barely a second when his lips pressed against yours. It wasn’t like it was the first time you’d ever kissed him either; in fact, it was the third time. 

You had just never thought you would do it again. It was why you didn’t think, you just moved. 

Kissing Peter was almost instinctive. 

Your eyes fell shut but it didn’t make you any less aware of every single detail about him. The solidness of his forearms that your fingers were curled around as you leaned into him. How 

Strawberry vodka and Peter Parker had to be the best thing you’d ever tasted. 

If you thought you were drunk before, you might as well have blacked out now. You were even drunker on the feel of his hands moving to tangle in your hair, the swipe of his tongue on your lips. When he deepened the kiss, it made you stumble back in the grass. He kept you upright, going until he had your back pressed against the siding Flash’s house. 

If you were able to think, you’d think this was stupid. 

Not thinking sounded a fuck lot better than acknowledging that. 

A sound of protest died in the back of your throat when he removed his hands before they’re back on you. They found their way under your thighs in an instant, hiking them around his waist like you weighed nothing. It surprised you enough that you gasped into his mouth. You looped your arms around his neck for both support- but also so your fingers can twist and tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. 

How long had Peter wanted this? 

When he was nine, he wanted to hold your hand, to sit pressed up against you when you watched cartoons or link arms as he pulled you around the street on his skateboard. After he kissed you the summer before sixth grade, he wanted to do it again. Nothing more than pressing his lips to yours and pulling away after a second. At fourteen, he still didn’t really get the whole kissing thing. 

Then he dated Gwen Stacy all of junior year and half of senior year. Gwen was amazing. She was kind and brilliant, her spot at the top of the class securing her spot in Oxford which meant she would be moving to another country at the start of fall. When he acceptance letter came, Gwen and Peter’s breakup was amicable and they’d spent the last few months easily falling into friendship. 

So maybe it was around then that he was able to put a name to what he thought about when you crossed his mind. Of kissing you with everything in him, burying his face into your neck, holding you the same way you held him when Ben died. 

You deepened the kiss when he groaned, fingers pressing harder into the flesh of your thighs and you nipped at his bottom lip in response. It was hard to focus once he’d moved his hands when they were touching anywhere they could. 

Cupping your face, gripping your waist, tangling in your hair, resting on your neck. You could barely keep up but he didn’t care when he finally got to feel you. 

It was a stupid night, a stupid moment, a stupid everything.  Neither of you cared.  

The two of you pulled each other close and closer, the heat of the moment drowning out the voices of reason in your head.  

It felt so right. Nothing but your lips on his in the night and the sound of the party a million miles away.

Over your high school career, you’d been on some dates, had some flings with different variances of the same kind of asshole. The ones you’d kiss, or more, were nothing like this. 

 Not even kissing Trent Warren felt like this- Fuck. 

Why did you have to think?

“Oh my god,” you breathed out once you managed to pull away. Your hands flew to cover your swollen lips, eyes wide and frantic. Peter let you pull away even if it hurt him. 

Confused, he gently set you on the ground once you unlocked your legs from around his middle. Your shaky hands shoved the hair out of your face, pressing a palm against your forehead in shock. 

It wasn’t like you were dating Trent. That was never going to happen, you were satisfied with the little fling the two of you were likely going to carry out for some of the summer before he left for college. 

You didn’t even freaking like him that much so it didn’t even have anything to do with the star of the soccer team at all. 

But this? It felt like you were taking advantage of Peter- not because of your mutual intoxication but because…

You weren’t sure, okay? All you knew was that there was a reason, so deep down into your brain, that you couldn’t grasp it. 

This was all wrong. You were both drunk. Tensions were high. Neither of you were thinking clearly. Both of you made mistakes that you will regret the moment your hangover hits in the morning. 

Just like that. His heart fell to his stomach as he watched you look around, searching for anyone that might’ve seen the two of you tangled together.  He didn’t know what to say, what to do. Everything was happening so fast.

Swallowing, he said your name so softly it was almost hidden by the loud shriek and splash in the pool around the side of the house. Neither you or Peter even flinched at the sound. When you didn’t speak, the backs of his fingers found your chin, gently lifting your eyes to his. 

“Leave him.”

“What?” You practically blurted the word out. If you didn’t think your eyes could get wider, you’d be wrong. Your hands fell to your sides to hang limply and useless and the abruptness almost made you reel back. It feels like he’s just said something absolutely preposterous, like he’s Spiderman or something. 

"Leave him," Peter repeats. Pleading, his eyes searching yours. “you’re too good for him. You always have been.”

It’s so stupid but Peter’s heart had always known. He had always wanted you. He has just never been dumb enough to do anything about.

Until now, he guessed.

You leaned away from his hand to make space as you slipped around him. His body turned with yours but you weren’t doing it to get away. You just couldn’t stand being stuck between him and the wall you’d just been pressed up against. You paced, shaky hands pressing against the heat on your face. 

“We’re drunk,” you tried to rationalize with a wave of your hands. “Neither of us knows what we’re doing… or saying.”

His heart sank even further with each word. 

Peter nodded curtly in agreement, “We are drunk.”

But deep down he knows better.

He wanted this. Always. 

He wanted you. Always. 

“But I still mean it.”

You halted to a stop so fast that you nearly tripped on your own feet. Peter knows he's pushing the line, doing something they can't come back from but he has to know. There was no sign that this was all a joke. 

“Peter,” your voice was thick with desperation. “You can’t mean it.”

“Yeah, I can.”

“No. You can’t.”

His eyes met yours, determination unwavering. He wanted you too much for his own sanity. “You can’t kiss me like that and say it doesn’t mean anything.” Because it did. It meant something to him.

The only reason you bit down on your lip was because he was right. You couldn’t say it didn’t mean anything. Not when you kissed him back the way you did. You twisted your shaky hands into the fabric of your dress like it would somehow give you some semblance of control over the way your head feels like it was going to explode. 

“Pete.” The nickname fell from your lips like it had millions of times. You don’t know what to tell him. You didn’t think there was anything you could say to fix things like you’d hoped to when you chased him down. Not when his expression was so desperate to hear what he wanted. 

“You were my best friend-” you started in the hopes of explaining but just shook his head and laughed. The sharp and bitter sound was enough for you to cut yourself off. 

“Right, right, of course.” He looked away, staring off into the dark yard. You looked as hopeless as you felt. 

"Can you just..." you stepped forward, barely moving closer but trying nonetheless. "I didn't... I wanted to fix things. I wanted to make things better."

The sound of your voice cracking at the end made his heart lurch. Peter actually managed to peeked up at you from the corner of his eyes because. Looking at you directly would burn like looking directly at the sun. The sound of your voice broke at the end, the crack making his heart lurch.

“Make what better? I thought you were perfect,” Peter snapped quietly. His head turned away from you again so he didn’t have to see the damage of his words. 

That hurt, cut through your chest and forced you to inhale sharply. It just made the lump in your throat so much worse. 

You focused on anything else as you blinked hard. Fresh cut grass, the sugary vodka still clouding your senses, and whatever floral Bath&BodyWorks perfume Katie had doused you both in earlier. All too overwhelming and not overwhelming enough. 

"You know it's never been like that." Squaring your shoulders, you triked again. "It's never... You know I never wanted you out of my life. That it was never about  picking you or them. I tried to do both. You're the one that pulled away."

Peter just scoffed again, shaking his head like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. Your mouth snapped shut in, trembling lips pressed tightly together. 

“Maybe I was sick of waiting for you to remember the loser across the street that used to be your friend.” 

Your jaw practically dropped at the implication that you would ever think that. Something about the way he said it made it feel like it had come from your own mouth. You clenched your hands into fists at your sides. 

“I never thought that,” you shot back, mouth still hung open in disbelief. “You were the one that pulled away when I had more than just you in my life.”

Peter scoffed but you keep going. 

“I invited you to games so that you would watch me cheer and you made it clear you would rather die than go. If I tried to stop by at your place after practice, you would tell May to pretend you weren’t home.”

Peter had never been all that great at sharing you. 

Before you moved in across the street, he’d started approaching that age where he realized that he didn’t have all that many friends. Aunt May was always hinting at him to invite kids in his grade over after school and Uncle Ben didn’t understand why Peter wouldn’t, at the very least, try a sport for a single week. 

Then you moved in across the street and he had a best friend that he could do everything with. Even when you played with other kids, you always came skipping back over to his house the second you got home. Sometimes you even dragged him along with you. 

When high school approached, he’d been more concerned with getting lost or failing his classes. 

You were more concerned with being singled out as a target or being lost on the outside. 

Everything was fine between you two until the second week of school. Wait, that wasn’t true. You hadn’t actually done anything wrong but when he walked into school that morning, expecting you to be waiting at his locker for his arrival, you weren’t. Instead, you were on the other side of the hall, chatting excitedly with two girls on your cheer team. 

Deep down, he had known you were talking to them to pass the time while you waited for him to arrive. 

But when you didn’t notice his presence the entire time it took for Peter to open his locker, exchange his things, and walk towards his class, he’d held it against you. Just like he held it against you when asked if your weekly movie night could be rescheduled to Thursdays because Fridays were gamedays. Or how, you were okay when some of your other friends joined the two of you at lunch. 

Peter just couldn’t stop. 

Anytime you apologetically told him you had plans, it was another tally accumulating how many times he’d been scorned. Even if the next words out of your mouth were asking if he was free the day after, it didn’t change anything. The cycle didn’t stop until November of freshman year. 

That was when you’d stopped trying to chase him down. Decided to not call him on the phone just to hear it ring twice before he sent you to voicemail.

“So I was supposed to sit alone on the bleachers while you cheered for a bunch of assholes that shoved my face into a locker freshman year?” His head cocked to the side but, hey, at least he’s actually looking at you. “Drag me around behind you like some kind of pet?”

“No!”

“So I could’ve stood alone in the corner at a party? Still making sure you got home safe? Wait on the sidelines until all the cool people were busy and I got called off the bench? Be there to comfort you when you picked, yet another, asshole that broke your heart just to break mine again and again?”

You couldn’t blink because if you do, the tears that had welled up in your eyes were going to start to fall. Those words make the lump in your throat so big that you can barely swallow it down.

“That what you wanted?” He asks and throws up his hands.

You told yourself you were both just drunk. Peter didn’t actually mean it. You told yourself that over and over again, the tension in the air was so heavy that it practically crushed you from the weight. He didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean it… The mantra repeated in your head like a prayer in the hope you’d believe it. 

You couldn’t convince yourself that it wasn’t the truth. 

When you didn't answer, he stepped closer. Your voice cracked but you managed to force out, “No.” Peter couldn’t help it, a cold and bitter chuckle slipped past his lips. He was pissed off, that much was clear. 

“No?” he asked. He was close now, his chest brushed yours with every breath. It was so far from what you ever wanted but you could barely shake your head no, your hair shifting along your shoulders. “I think you did, whether you realize it or not.”

Even though his voice has dropped, he might as well have screamed it at you. It didn’t make it any less deafening to hear. 

“Anything else you want to say?” You were quiet too, the words felt like glass in your throat. So you swallowed down the shards, finding that glass would hurt a lot less than having to stand here and listen to him much longer. 

He ran his hands through his hair and paced a few steps away from you while wiped at your face. It only took him a few moments to turn back a second later and step back up to you. There was barely an arm's length between you two but it still felt like you were on opposite sides of the solar system.

"You want to know what I think? What I really think?"

You had to grit your teeth just to keep your bottom lip from trembling. 

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “I really do.”

He stared down at you, his breathing still ragged. He wanted to say things, terrible, awful things. He wanted to cut you deep - to hurt you like you hurt him. 

Instead, he stepped closer. Close enough that he was in your space, his chest practically brushing against yours. 

And then he was talking, the words falling from his lips before he could stop himself.

"I think,” he murmured, wetting his lips before continuing. “I think that letting you patch me up when I fell off my skateboard nine years ago was the biggest mistake of my life."

For a long moment, you said nothing. You didn’t move, you didn't blink, you didn't breathe. If you didn’t take a few seconds to calm yourself, you were going to start bawling before you could make it to the safety of Flash’s bathroom. 

With a shaky breath, you stepped back, forcing your trembling lips into a tightlipped smile. A part of you wanted to mean it, like it could somehow reassure him.  So you sniffled, wiping your eyes with the back of your hands. Peter just frowned and waited because he couldn’t do anything more. 

Your laugh was pathetic and watery. Nothing was funny. 

Aside from you because you just felt like a joke. 

You gave him a curt nod and stood straightened. “Okay.” It’s all you could get out. 

So, with one last look, you bent down to pick up the discarded solo cup. You’d never be able to drink strawberry lemonade vodka again after tonight. All you’d ever taste is him. 

He watched you carefully, the anger leaving his body in waves and dissipating into the night. Every time you took a step away from him, he felt more and more like a jerk. 

You don’t turn back around as you slip back around the side of the house. 

It was that look on your face, like he broke you with his words. The look on your face that cut through every last bit of anger and resentment to get at what lay underneath. 

Love.

And it kills him. 

It kills you too. 

The next time you see him again, you’ve both graduated from college; celebrating in some divey bar where you accidentally spill your drink on him.

[whalesforhands]

the flowers that bloom without you (tartaglia x reader)

warnings: I LOVE CHILDE SO MUCH, angst, blood and slight gore descriptions, hanahaki au, reader is not traveller, reader is childe’s childhood friend

“Does love truly need words?”

Ajax never really understood what you meant by that. Never really got your cryptic bouts of speech as you stared out the window, blanket tucked over your form as you listened to the bustling of the city, your face looking weary, bags under your eyes dark, skin almost icily cold whenever he would lay a hand upon you to personally check on your condition.

From personal nurses, personal doctors, hells, even researchers that he paid extensively to search for the cause of your illness. Yet, an answer had yet to be found, he’s growing restless with every passing day, anger and irritation swirling in his head with every lower-rank recruit he inevitably beats to a pulp to release stress.

Just what was the source of this stubborn disease?

Your condition would never get better if you had stayed in the cold, unforgiving climates of Morepesok.

You would only seek to worry him whilst he was out on the job, thousands of miles away from you. His family can only do so much by informing him of your worsening, deteriorating self. Your insistent coughs, your shortened breaths, a body that seemed to be growing colder and colder that rivalled the icy winds of the small fishing village that you both grew up in.

Another thing Childe has noticed in the time you spent writing each other, was that you liked to prance around the truth.

You weren’t getting better like you claimed in those letters.

He doesn’t ever wish to come home only to see your tombstone. He could never begin to even fathom the thought. So upon the news in which he had orders to depart to the warmer atmosphere of Liyue, he whisked you away.

(Despite your initial rejections.)

He’s not taking anymore chances. Not when you had insisted that it was nothing, that you’ll be fine, only for it to end with you collapsing to the ground right before him, mouth spewing globs of blood that had caked up and solidified within your throat. He didn’t know whether he was more disgusted to that sight, or of himself for being too patient with you.

Though, you seem to be having quite the improvement to your wellbeing ever since you’ve arrived in the bustling city of Liyue.

“A crush? All of a sudden?” He’s chewing on some sweet potato snacks he had bought for you to come try together, a bag of the aforementioned snack on his lap as he opens his mouth to let you throw another into his mouth for him to catch. The odd, salty sweetness is actually quite addicting.

(And so were the giggles you made whenever he successfully caught one.)

“It’s not all of a sudden!” You’re huffy, defensive, angry and quite frankly, offended as you cross your arms, lightly smacking him as he feigns pain, an overly dramatic yelp and rubbing of his injury following.

“I had it— Since—“ It’s cute how you fight to find the words, puffing your cheeks up, growing determined as you look back up at him. “Since a really long time, okay?! That’s how you know feelings like that are real!”

Always the hopeless romantic. He laughs at you as you continue to blow a fuse, warmth emanating in his chest as he notices the drastic improvements to your health.

You’re looking bright today. Face more coloured, hair even shinier than usual, eyes brighter than they have ever been before. Maybe you were getting better.

A light flick to your forehead as he watches you swipe at his hand with a blush and a smile.

“Why don’t you just confess then?”

You grow silent.

“I… don’t think I could find it in my heart to.” Your tired eyes trail out to the bustling city of Liyue as your demeanor falls back into a calm, eyes blanking out as murmured words are caught on his ears. “Falling in love is so unpredictable…” His fists clench.

He thinks you’re stupid, foolish even, to keep those messy, deep feelings hidden from this secret crush of yours. Those stringent secrets you keep, never telling them. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

You slap your cheeks, as if to snap out of your trance choosing to smile up at him from atop your bed instead. l swear I will find that strength one day!”

You’re so stupid. Yet, he still loves you all the same. You are his dearest childhood friend, after all.

(And that’s all you’ll ever be… Right?)

——

The festival is loud this year. You stare out of your bedroom window, barely able to see the explosion of colour against the starry night sky, obscured by tall buildings and infrastructure.

“Miss Lumine invited me to watch the lantern rite with her today!” His eyes are alight with mirth, his grin excited and just so… Full of life.

Ajax always looked the prettiest when he was happy.

So it’s okay. Whatever is okay as long as he is happy. Anything for him.

You don’t even mind the feeling of the flowers blooming deep within you. The itch in your throat, the fluttering you had to endure in your lungs.

You do it for love. Love so deep-sated and rooted to your very core, it hurts. Love so hard to describe, you sometimes fear that it doesn’t exist until you see him walk into the room, causing the blooming, the feelings literally swirling within your lungs, shortening your breaths as the petals flutter about in your heart.

You’re in love with him. Unbelievably, helplessly so.

You can’t even feel the hot tears dripping onto your hands as lights of the glowing, festive explosions shine through your window, casting you in an almost apologetic glow as you hear the laughter of the common folk outside.

He chose her in the end. You’re not surprised, really. Who would even want to spend their time with the terminally ill? Who would ever want to watch the fireworks from within a glorified hospital room? The scent of iron with an undertone of flowery fragrances, paired with quite frankly, a shitty view?

“Ajax— Would you have time to watch the fireworks with me this year…? Since you have—“

You take in a breath, your hands trembling as they dig into the skin of your thighs, your blanket obscuring them where you laid. “Plans with Miss Lumine.”

Lumine, Lumine, Lumine. The traveller who had stolen his attention away with barely a twitch of her pinky finger, the one who had a natural disposition for battle, a prowess for duels. She who was charming, skilled and everything you weren’t.

It hurts all the more at the thought of what a wonderful person she is. Everything that you could never even hope to be.

You can’t even resent her, for her kindness and willingness to help those who needed it preceded every silver of hatred you built. She was simply… Her. And you could never find it in yourself to hate someone who had as much goodwill as she did.

A contemplative hand is placed under his chin, before that stupidly pretty smile on his face breaks out. “Of course! I’d be stupid to not come spend time with you.” A wink is sent your way as he holds your hand, winding your pinkies together.

You want to cry.

“Love can be so fickle, Ajax.” You’re staring straight into his eyes as that promise manifests from the entanglement of your fingers. Are you… Tearing up?

“For if you get caught in it’s arms,” You’re still smiling as he throws you a look of utter confusion, patting your head as he showers you with attention, unwinding your fingers to bring out a handkerchief to wipe at your tears for you. The bouquet of glaze lilies by your bedside shimmering in the afternoon sunshine.

“You’ll be happy even if you di—“

“There you go being cryptic again,” He’s sighing, absolutely confused as he lightly dabs at your eyes. “You’re going to make me sad, you know?” All this talk about death… He wants to keep you smiling, even if it’s just for a little while.

It doesn’t matter that he broke that silly promise. He’s happy, so you are too. That’s all you could ever hope for.

——

“I’m surprised you picked me.”

“Of course, comrade!” He’s smiling, twirling a lone Glaze Lily in his hand as he regards the traveller, leaned back and elbows rested upon the railing as he looked up at the brilliant sky.

“I’m not one to turn down a good time. Plus,” The flower is held between his fingers as he straightens his back. “I’m here to collect my insider information from my favourite errand girl.” A handsome grin growing on his cheeks as he sees the golden-haired girl stand beside him.

“I want information, comrade.” The chopsticks in his hand are fumbled with, the mechanics of it lost. “On someone precious to me.”

“Hanahaki.” Lumine’s voice is dead serious as her eyes get lost at the sight of the lanterns above. “A terminal illness that stems from love, causing flowers to take root in their lungs.” An ironic disease, taking ‘blooming feelings’ far too literal, utilizing such a pure emotion against the victim. It makes him sick to his stomach.

Good. As expected of the famous, reliable little traveller. More competent than any goon he’s ever had.

He’s growing anxious with her words, though. “And the cure?”

“Surgery. It’s possible for a procedure to be done to remove the roots on the lungs. There’s a surgeon in Inazuma that—“

Then it’s done. That’s all? Then you’ll be cured and won’t be bedridden? He’ll arrange for it at the earlie—

“But,” Lumine’s voice is slightly shaky, her grip on the rails tightening as the feel of the metal digs into her palms. “The feelings of the victim will disappear.” Her golden eyes meet a palpitating, uneasy blue. “Sources cited that… The surgery will remove any and all emotion from them.” He knows what she’s implying.

You’ll never fall in love again.

“I don’t ever want to let them go, Ajax.” Your hand is over your heart as your shy gaze meets his. “It’s so precious to me.” The smile on your face begets the stuttering in his chest, the sweat on his palms.

Beautiful.

No. He— Can’t. The thought of you never able to think of another person romantically… Is sickeningly appealing. No. He can’t do that to you. Not if you’ll be unhappy because of it.

He gulps, as if swallowing the lump stuck in his throat. “Is there no other solution?”

“Reciprocation of their feelings.” Lumine’s straightforward, quick to the point. “True reciprocation.” Requited love.

He grits his teeth. So he has to track down whomever you admire… And make them love you? That’s… Honestly not that hard of a request. You’re… Lovely. The loveliest person he has ever had the honour of knowing.

It’s hard to not fall in love with you. And he…Doesn’t like the feeling, the idea of you being in love with someone else. He never did. And he doesn’t think he ever will if it’s not—

(What is he going on about? This isn’t the time for this!)

“Fine.” It’s spat out in disgust. “Do you have any leads on the bastard?” It’s a last resort, a manifestation of the fact that he would do anything for you.

(Even if he feels the ripping, clawing pain at his heart.)

Lumine looks… Absolutely unimpressed. Hand massaging her temple as she fought the urge to wring the Harbinger’s neck.

——

It’s a rush he never thought he had to face, didn’t want to face. How is he so dense? So stupid?

“So? Who is this crush of yours?” The smile is unsteady, almost forced on his face as he watches your expression switch to one of embarrassed shame, almost choking on the scallion pancake in your mouth as he pulled the fork away from your lips.

“He— He’s…” He’s right before you. Closed eye smile, teasing grin and absolutely, infuriatingly cute.

“You can’t just ask that all of a sudden!” Your hand lifts up in defensive, pure embarrassment, not taking into regard how much the adrenaline of love can give you so much strength.

It ends with you coddling a weeping Ajax’s head in your lap, stroking his hair as he continued to fake the apparent agony you caused him, letting him snuggle himself into your arms and overtake his ‘competition’ vying for you.

Good. It’s good that he was the one filling your mind. He doesn’t like it when that secret admirer of yours is the one that takes over your thoughts. He doesn’t want to admit how warm you make him feel on the inside despite how cold your body is.

He doesn’t want you to want that stupid loser of a person who made you so fluttery, making you akin to a blushing schoolgirl whenever he brings that crush of yours up.

Was it stupid of him to not have noticed that he was in love with you all this time? How long had he been tying himself back? How much longer does he have to give to you?

How long did he make you suffer?

Time has been cruel to him, to you.

——

You’re smiling. Why are you still smiling? Aren’t you in pain? Aren’t you scared that you’re going to die? Why are you spending your last moments like this?

He hears it, barely even breathed out from your choked throat.

“Ajax…” You coughing fits are acting up again.

“If- If in another lifetime…” It’s getting worse, your breaths are hacked, blood spilling from your lips with every syllable forced out. “If you could ever learn-“ A multitude of bloodied petals bloom within your throat, suffocating your words, a final attempt to save you the heartbreak you knew all too well. “To love me-“

He calls for the doctor, turning away to grab their attention before your fingers weakly tug at his sleeve.

Your face is aghast with the pain, your mouth stained with blood, crimson petals discharge from within you, stalks entwining and curling itself around your heart, a final comfort and a warning of your last moments.

“Would you please have me?”

Realization strikes, the feeling finally settling down in his stomach in an odd satisfaction, the dull throb of pain in his brain as his breath hitches.

Why? Why why why why why why? Why now?

He doesn’t say anything, trembling hands grasping your own in his before he leans in to capture your cold, colourless lips with his own, returning every ounce of unsaid affection, every bit of undivided attention he owed you.

Childe— No, Ajax doesn’t care that all he can taste is the vile flavour of petals mixed with blood and bile, he can only feel you through this kiss so raw and emotional, that all he can comprehend is the texture of your bitten lips, the slipping warmth of your skin, the feeling of loss that envelops his entire being.

He pulls away, hoping, praying that you understood his reply to your confession. That your eyes will flutter open, staring at him as if he picked the stars from the sky and placed them in your hand, tears that stained your cheeks flaring within your eyes from happiness, skin reinvigorated by the jubilant feeling of having this silent love of yours finally being heard by the object of its affections.

It all goes quiet save for the sounds of his despaired sobs as the wind carries your final breaths away.

Too late.

[diam0w0nd]

Daisy | Starprince Prompt

As always, the young Sirius Black is bored. 

The summer afternoon stretches out like a restless shadow, and the grass beneath him feels warm and pliant. The world smells of wildflowers and dusty, golden sunshine. Voices rise and fall further up the hill — his classmates’ bickering, too far away to matter — so he lets his hands roam idly through the grass until they catch on a stray daisy. 

The little bloom looks impossibly pure up close, its tiny white petals fanned around a perfect yellow centre like a miniature sun. Its slender green stem looks lively and innocent between his calloused fingers. 

And without thinking, Sirius begins to pluck it apart. 

He loves me.

A petal flutters into his palm, and absurdly, the softness reminds him of a rabbit — one that might scamper through these weeds with long, twitching ears and a cute quivering nose. Exactly how Snape looks whenever Sirius strays too close, all skittish and quick to dart away. The image of those wide, cautious eyes sends a thrill up Sirius’ spine; a hunter picturing his prey. 

He loves me not. 

They are so large and dark they seem bottomless — like a doe’s, Sirius thinks. That hair, too, casts him in such a girlish air, long and lank and ink-black, forever curtaining his gloomy paleness. Hideous, really. Sirius tosses a lock of his own hair back, smug at the thought that his is silkier, shinier, much more voluminous. 

And yet, Sirius catches his gaze drifting to those stringy strands more often than he’d ever admit, wondering if they feel as greasy as they look.

He loves me. 

Then there are Snape’s hands, pale and long-fingered, forever smudged with ink and whatever nonsense Slytherins brew up in their dungeons. Almost delicate, until Sirius remembers the way they can gut fish and crush beetles without batting an eyelash. 

And oh, speaking of eyelashes, Snape’s are his most unfair feature — ridiculously long and elegant, casting dusky crescents across his cheekbones. 

He loves me not.

No matter. Even if his eyes are strangely entrancing, his entire face is simply a mess of angles and contradictions. That sharp nose — too large, too hooked — ought to ruin it entirely. And his mouth is much too thin, too often twisted into nasty remarks and haughty sneers. The way those lips part a second before one of those scathing insults slips out… Merlin, it makes Sirius want to lean in and — 

He loves me.

“Black.”

Sirius jolts, thinking at first that he’s conjured him up with his wild imagination. But Snape is actually there. He can tell without even looking, by the faint trace of damp wool and bitter herbs that follow him everywhere. 

“Mutilating weeds, are we?” drawls Snape, standing with his arms crossed and one brow arched in evident disgust. “Truly living up to your future career as a killer.”

Before the boy can come any closer — before those pesky eyes can read too much into him — Sirius tosses the daisy aside. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he replies breezily.

Snape’s brow furrows. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” Sirius says too quickly, rubbing his hands on his robes as though to erase the evidence. His face prickles with heat. 

Snape narrows his eyes suspiciously, probably searching for the barb that never caught; some hidden insult that might explain the odd, breathless edge in Sirius’ tone. But eventually, he just huffs and turns away, robes stirring the grass like the wing of a brooding crow. 

And Sirius stays where he is, hands empty, heart knocking against his ribs. His gaze falls to the last stubborn petal clinging to the fragile stem, and his lips twitch into a smile before he can help it. 

He loves me not, he thinks, and for some reason, it feels more like a dare than an answer. 

[stinkysam]

Monkey D. Luffy - When are they gonna kiss ?

Warning : none

Genre : fluff

Synopsis : "Opla!luffy x male reader, meeting a powerful devil fruit user who’s fairly attractive and luffy is super shy about it and his crew is just confused" + "OPLA fic of Luffy here he meets a reader and they're really flirty with him and the others are just like "get together already" and maybe if you're okay with it you could have a bit of smut as well." - anon 1 + anon 2

Reader : male (you/yours)

A/N : Part TWO

Now, this is new for him.

In all his life, Luffy has never stopped anything for someone good-looking. Hell, he didn't even know what the world saw as a criteria of beauty.

You're handsome if you're cool looking, right ? Like cyborgs, for example. They're so cool they have to be handsome for everyone !

So for Luffy to find you attractive without being a cyborg, you have to be a special kind of handsome.

And that you are !

Cool, handsome, strong, you have it all and Luffy can't help but look at you with wide eyes as he smiles.

He almost asked you to join his crew before knowing what you were capable of doing. You were too cool/handsome to not be on his crew.

But when he saw your power and how you used it, yeah you definitely had to be a part of his crew.

Talking about them, the crew, they have noticed the way he looks at you, stealing glances your way, eyes shinier than usual, acting as if he's being giddy.

At first it was weird to see him act like this, although they only knew Luffy for a couple of days, watching him stop running everywhere for someone attractive was definitely not on their bingo cards.

Sanji, Nami and Usopp were quick to see Luffy's crush on you. While Zoro only thought he acted this way because you looked cool. Like a kid being shown his Christmas presents before opening them.

Oh, he was wrong of course. With the way Luffy's heart jumped in his chest each time you made a comment, a flirty remark always well placed.

Unable to feel anything else other than sheepish, grinning broadly at each of the words you threw his way. Like a dog hearing "treat".

People would be wrong to assume Luffy isn't touched by flirting. The way he perks up each time you flirt with him. Which is all the time. Always flustering him.

The rest of the crew didn't mind your dynamic with him, you seemed like a good person and seeing how you flirted with him, you were clearly both on the same page. They're just waiting for you two to get together, this chase, with the way you're flirting and how he's reacting, grew old pretty quickly.

"When do you think they're gonna… ?" Nami asks, her head resting on her hand as she sat outside on the Merry.

"Kiss ?" Asked Usopp. "I don't know."

"I feel like [Name] is a gentleman." Sanji chimed in. "Even though it's hard to see with all the flirting."

The two others hummed, as Sanji gave them a little en-cas.

"It'll take time." He added.

"Will you please tune it down ?" Said Zoro, trying to nap. Sanji rolled his eyes with Nami as Usopp focused back on what he was doing.

The four of them were unaware of what you two were doing in the cabin. Both growing really close and touchy. More than just kissing.

Each time you two would get intimate Luffy couldn't help but get shy, your pretty remarks making his brain short-circuit and unsure if he's doing the right thing.

Smiling almost maniacally as a light blush spreads to his cheeks while you say the prettiest and dirtiest things to him.

It's relentless, even when you pound into him, short gasps and moans leaving his lips as you whisper dirty things in his ears. His arms wrapped around you as if to keep you against him forever.

God, you're always so beautiful it's breathtaking. Even when you're covered in sweat and panting, you still look as attractive as ever with your voice slightly shaky from the effort and your dilated pupils.

[writingfromasgard]

Unmasked [Soap]

Masterlist || Requests || gif by unknown

cw: mentions of violence, grown man crying

Johnny knows why the life he snuffed out tonight effected him more than any other life he's taken. He had watched them gurgle on their own blood, eyes glazing over as he stood above them. Their eyes had looked too similar to yours and he couldn't keep the picture of it being your actual eyes out of his head. He crushes the palm of his hand against his forehead, begging the thoughts to stop returning as he sat on the stoop in front of your shared home.

His brain plays it on loop, a fear that is unreasonable by any measure. He's damned worried he'll turn the knob and find you on the floor with eyes no shinier than the deadman's. His mind took it ever further now; feeding him flashes of a bloodied body that's cold to the touch.

The door creaks open behind him, a gentle touch of your hands landing on his broad shoulders. He swallows the lump in his throat, tuning back into his body as he feels the chill on his skin.

"Johnny, you're freezing. John said you hadn't checked in with him either." His bastard name sounds so sweet when you say it like that, filled with worry over a man who kills for a living.

He works hard to keep the tremble out of his voice when he responds, "Aye, I needed tae clear my head a bit, pet."

His hand reaches up to cover your hand on his shoulder, giving it a nice pat to reassure you. You take a step to look at his face, concern etched on that lovely face of yours.

"Can I stay with you until it's cleared?" Gods, what an angel you are for saying that.

The harmless question comes with its own set of claws that rip into his heart, forcing him to shut his eyes tightly. His hand leaves yours to run over his mohawk, now damp from the early morning mist.

"Na, I'm comin'." He forces himself to his feet, eyes glancing downward until he faces you.

His normally vibrant blue eyes look into yours, dark crescent shapes under them. Those damned images flash back into his mind despite how lively you look. You stumble backwards as he curls his hulking frame around you, dragging you into the tightest embrace he can.

The noise you make and the insistent tapping on his side make him loosen up, still keeping your bodies flush with one another. He's soaking in the warmth of your body, the smell, the fabric of your pajamas.

"Cannae live without you." He whispers, burying his face into your neck. "You ken that? You ken you're my world?"

You melt against him much to his pleasure, wrapping your arms around him. "Of course I ken."

He laughs at your attempt to copy his accent. It sounds hollow to him, probably you, too. He starts to sway a little, indulging himself in feeling how you move against him. You aren't limp or cold or dying. You're alive with warmth that you're lending to him.

"Let's get you into a hot shower." You whisper against his ear. "You're too cold, Johnny."

"Never cold with you." He mumbles, walking you backwards through the door.

He closes the door with his foot, finally letting go of your body. His hands cup both cheeks of your face and he stares for a long time, committing those shining orbs he fell in love with to memory. No, committing the liveliness in them to memory.

"Don't ken what I'd do without you." He pecks your lips far more innocently than he's ever done before. "Don't ever want to know."

He hears the voice crack and sees your hand reaching up, wiping at his own cheek. "What happened? A close call?"

He shakes his head vehemently. He knows he's crying, can feel the snot start to clog up his nose. "They had your eyes. Same shade. Same speckles.. I.. I cannae stop seein' you behind their mask."

Your expression squeezes his heart, so compassionate, so much worry. He knows you don't know what to do. You're probably freaking out in that pretty little head of yours, too. No one wants to hear that their significant other pictured them dead, shot by their hands.

You slip out of his hands, pressing against him again. Your hand pulls him in by the back of his neck, your noses bump against each other before your lips meet.

"I'm here." You whispered against his lips, diving back into another kiss. "I'm here."

He can taste the salty tears slipping between your lips, his arms crush you against his chest again, lifting you slightly. He walks both of you through the threshold, foot closing the door behind him.

He lets you break from him, following behind you like a lost puppy as he wipes away the snot and tears. You undress him, kissing his skin. He loves when you do this, grounds him unbelievably well. A shower later and he's right where he wants to be again.

Johnny has one of his arms hooked around your waist with a light blanket over the two of you. He buries his nose in the crook of your neck, listening to you read a chapter of a book the two of you picked together.

[loser4loserswhok1ll]

Oh my gosh I just read your recent one shot about Asa reacting to the nickname. It was so frickin good!! Could you please write more about him punishing the reader? (Sorry I'm a freak lol) Maybe about how he'd break them in during the early days of their captivity?

u r literally the sweetest ever THANK YOU!!

i hope i match your freak on this one lolsies

NOTE: i just finished writing and wow it got a lot longer than i expected. oops. also a lot darker and more confusing than i started with. oh well ^-^

TW: torture, graphic descriptions of violence on the reader, asa is actually fucking insane guys please stop making him seem normal, sexual undertones turn into sexual torture, abuse, graphic description of gore

if you get freaked out by needles, bugs, gore done to reader, then please take care of yourself and dont read this :] ily guys

you were so unfathomably fucked. the cold metal seemed like it would never warm under your skin, your skin bare and freezing over. this basement is cold and the looming dark walls were a reminder of just how stuck you were. your wrists were tied above your head, spread to reach each corner, as well as your feet. you were pinned, a dead bug ready for framing. there was this buzz, this buzz that would sometimes feel like it got louder. youd focus on it, there was nothing else to focus on. it hurt your head, or maybe that was whatever brain injury your captor had surely given you. you stomach felt hollow, empty. asa had given you a sandwich 2 days ago. after a week of no food at all. you only get to drink water, and sometimes its dirty if youve pissed asa off. this time, you did. you didnt listen, bit like a bad dog when asa tried to pet you. you still have training to go through, and asa loves to train you. a cold sweat covered your skin and it seemingly always did. you were always scared here, on edge, mortified. even your own breath made you jump.

but this time, you didnt jump for nothing. boots echoed off of concrete stairs, an echo you have filed away in your brain as his. if one day you get out of here, you'll never be able to hear anyone walk again without your breath hitching. the steps got closer. one thing about being here is that your hearing has sharpened. you have the ears of a rabbit now, and its funny how much youve become just another prey animal. the boots stop and to your right, asa stands. his hand reaches out, the latex warm from his body heat. they always look colder than they are, his gloves. but even with that warmth, it sends a near painful shiver through every of your aching bones. this is how it begins. asa plays with his food slowly. first, the anticipation, then it gets worse and snowballs. it becomes silent staring to touching to needles to knives. its a system, and he doesnt often free himself from it too much. he does different things, yes, but they all follow the same pattern when in terms of intensity. you want to bite, rip his jugular out, watch his blood spray out like a waterpark all over the floor. the same floor he made victims bleed out onto in quite a similar manner, if not less animalistic and more scientific. you want to bite so badly, but thats how you got here in the first place. muzzled, tied to a table, and naked save for the bodysuit of your sweat that covers every centimeter of your form.

its slow, the anticipation agonizing and brutal, the touches just enough to jolt, and you miss the slowness once you hear the metal tap of a tool being pulled from a metal tray. he plays doctor, hes a surgeon sometimes. other times hes a vet putting down a feral cat that has scratched too much and refuses not to hiss. sometimes, hes a blacksmith. beating down on the metal to form it into something he could use. and sometimes, hes just asa. which is the scariest option to face. you have yet to meet the other things you cant list. youre a young pup here, fresher than the others, a shinier toy than the rest. and every day you wonder if you'll meet something new. right now, its the vet. theres a needle in his hand and nearly as soon as he lifts it just enough for you to see the liquid hes going to inject you with, he sticks it right in the pit of your elbow. with precision, that vein is punctured and violated. it makes you jolt, makes you body pull and arch awkwardly from the table like you have any chance of escape. you dont, and you know that. especially when the effects start to settle in and you feel that familiar wooziness. it feels like being drunk and hungover and high and sleepy and pumped with adrenaline all at once. its a hazy clarity, an understanding that your body is now weaker than it already was, and all thats left is your mind to keep hold of the image of all of this.

after a few moments, once asa is content with the way you fall limp and your eyes start to gloss over like a blinding cat, he begins. as hazy and helpless and paralyzed as you feel, you also feel everything in such sharp clarity that its agonizing. if hell exists, youve died and stumbled into it. here and now, youre dead and dying and alive and never have lived at all. theres another metal clank or two, and suddenly youre aware of the cold blade finding the perfect point to start. asa always does this, teases. he touches the blade to skin enough to feel but not enough to cut. and once he finds the spot he likes most, theres a dull pain that turns quickly into a sharp throbbing heat. it sends your brain into panic, the feeling made even worse by the fact that you are entirely incapable of moving. you just have to take it, be trained. you can be a good dog, probably. he slices in long calculated lines. its not deep enough to reach that yellow fatty layer. not yet, at least. it repeats. the light touching, then the dull into sharp, then the agony in being able to do nothing. tears are hot down your cheeks, and you blink them away as they burn your eyes. the muzzle on your face rubs horribly, and now the rubbing is made worse by the wetness your tears are supplying. everything asa does is calculated so perfectly to bring suffering to his victim. theres a few more cuts, and then the metal clank. you take a deep shakey breath as he chooses what to do next. it doesnt take long, and theres a new sensation. maybe this is a new thing, the vet being switched into a curious kid. he pokes a finge into one cut that is particularly deep down your sternum. it aches and thrums and sizzles and itches and burns and feels so cold all at the same time as he pushes in further and further. you feel so aware of your body from the outside, but when something is pushing inside its so hard to tell just how far its gone. you imagine his fingers ripping through dermis that he didnt cut with the scalpel. you imagine its past that now, weaving through the hypodermis until your split down the middle and wide open. you could see him cutting you like a cadaver, then folding your edges and pinning them to a table. youre a dissected frog now. and your organs are on display to take photos of for a whole class of highschoolers to see and learn about.

thats in your head. his fingers have already left your violated wound. though, the feeling of them sticks like a splinter you cant pull out. metal clank. a typical tool, but its out of order. its a large needle, a thick gauge. theres a hole in the center and the metal looks hefty. theres not much thought you can put into it before its shoved into the skin surrounding your larger cut. he pokes and emerges, multiple times. and suddenly your torso looks like the side of a ship panel without its screws in, just large open holes. that doesnt take long either, and in your dazed state you watch as the aglet of a regular shoe string is pushed then pulled through the hole. hes lacing you up like a pair of converse. this is new. you can even pinpoint what version of him this could be. as he does so, the fabric string making the holes sting as it passes through, theres that familiar low rumble noise. purring, his purring. its low, and sounds far from what a cats purr is like, though it has the same meaning. pleasure. you wonder for a second how that vibration in his throat would feel against your teeth. bite like a dog. you could, you wish you could. the lacing goes on for too long, too slow, and the purring becomes just as loud as the buzzing of the fluorescents. you focus in on it just the same. it would be soothing if it werent from him. cat fur crosses your mind. soft, warm, the purring. everything aches. in the real life, everything fucking sucks.

his purring turns into creaking as he loosens a joint on your table and adjusts it. now youre pinned but upright in a standing position. your head falls forward and asa catches it, his purr so close to your ear. hes really close, you hear his labored breath and feel his heat. he props one of his feet up onto the footboard of the table. now hes basically straddling your one bare leg. your brain short circuits, deciding like a broken pressure gauge between if this feels nice or if youre digusted. you bleed down yourself, its hot to start then painfully cold when the air swallows all the heat. he nuzzles his body against you. hes a cat. the fur, his sweater fabric, the purring, his warmth. its all confusing, this haze, the blood, the warmth. his tongue slowly unrolls from his mouth, pokes past his mask. he licks a disgusting hot stripe up your cheek. maybe hes a dog too. hes all too much like a dog when the leg he straddles becomes his teddy bear and he starts to hump. slow rolls of his hips against you. this has never happened before, this is new. you wonder how many people hes gotten sexual with. its clear he gets hard from it, the torture. youve notices the bulge in his jeans many times while on this same table. that bulge is now rubbing on raw skin. it hurts, like rugburn. an for a second you think about being a kid and playing freely. thats quickly washed from your brain when a sharp pain shoots from your nipple. hes biting. bad dog. and for a second you think you two are similar in that aspect. bad biting dogs. if only he were tied up and muzzled in your place and you could torture him. he bites hard enough to mske your whole body feel it, and when you look down theres blood coming from your chest. he spits, and you realize he bit a chunk from your nipple. its disgusting and you want to die. maybe he'll kill you tonight, shove those canines through the teeth on your neck and rip your jugular out. its funny how things go, and suddenly your bite turns into a quivering lip and trembling breaths. god knows how long this will go on for tonight. if god did, surely even he would stop it. this isnt gods plan, nor satans, nor his. hes an animal now. pure instincts. and the rest of the night only spells deeper terror for you.

[suntamer]

PROMPT : Armor. DRAGON AGE: INQUISITION ERA. Words: 1042. Characters: Suri Cadash, Blackwall, Leliana, Josephine Montilyet.

“It’s… shiny.”

Blackwall laughed suddenly and despite himself, clearing his throat with a raspy cough when both Leliana and Josephine narrowed their eyes at his unhelpful addition. Neither of their reactions drew any notice from the Herald – from the Inquisitor, from Suri – who was entirely too distracted by the golden chestplate emblazoned with the unsettling eye-sword-and-sunburst symbol of their order.

She rubbed her thick-knuckled fingers over the unblemished surface of the armor. Volcanic aurum wasn’t used for protection by dwarves; it was purely ornamental, used more often for exports than their own, personal crafts. When she tugged at the raised lip that ran across her ribs and pointed down towards her navel, the suit’s leather straps did much to ensure the chestpiece would not budge. She tugged it again, then nodded to herself, finding the fit more than suitable.

“Well, shinier than I’m used to, at least,” Suri continued, though even she caught the doubt that crept into her voice. Ears as sharp as Leliana and Josephine’s wouldn’t miss it. “It just doesn’t feel like me, s’all.”

Josephine opened her mouth to speak, but clamped them together just after. Nothing important, then. Or, at least, she’d quickly convinced herself not to say what she’d felt in an instant. It wouldn’t be the first time the Inquisition’s diplomat corrected her pronunciation of something. All she could do was try not to take it to heart.

Suri understood why they’d cast aside her usual and dressed her like this instead. 

There was a certain amount of gravitas surrounding the title of Inquisitor. Her role was an important one, offered up to her for reasons she couldn’t explain in any amount of detail. There was a green hole in the palm of her left hand, and with it, she closed the even bigger, greener hole in the sky. If there was anything else that distinguished her from the others, she couldn’t know what it was.

No one had bothered telling her why she was so special.

“So… uh,” Suri began, fumbling pitifully through the half-dark of silence. She reached for something – or, rather, someone – familiar. “What d’you think, Blackwall?”

The Warden had been up in her quarters when Josephine arrived with a pair of Inquisitor soldiers carrying a massive and seemingly heavy crate, delivered straight to them from an armorer in Orlais. Behind them, Leliana followed. When he offered to excuse himself alongside the agents, Suri was the one who reached out.

“Can you stay?” she’d asked without hesitating, without thinking. “It’d do me a lot of good. Show me how soldiers might see… all of this.”

Blackwall paused for just long enough to look her up and down. 

“A show’s a show, but you’ll put on a fine one in that.”

“A show is a show, as you put it, Warden Blackwall,” came Josephine’s immediate, but delicately worded interruption. “But naming Lady Cadash the Inquisitor is more than mere pageantry or puppetry. It will not be a simple show of strength, but a moment that will be scrawled upon the pages of history for even those who are not present.”

Suri’s conflicted stare broke away from the warden and the diplomat, circling back around instead to the spymaster. She caught the woman stroking her gloved thumb over the point of her chin as her eyes roamed from her boots to the highest fold in her samite collar.

“The druffalo hide is the color of cat sick,” Leliana said just loudly enough for all those gathered to hear. “Send the atrocious coat back for something prettier. Snoufleur, perhaps?”

Suri couldn’t stop herself from laughing, and once she did, the others followed suit. 

Blackwall snorted. Josephine’s giggle was swept aside with a delicate – and disapproving – sigh. While Leliana often proved herself blunt for a former bard, none of them had been prepared for the words she cut from her own tongue.

“I still have mine.”

Suri squirmed out of the coat, only noticing once she’d been freed of the thing that the leather did look the exact sickly brown-green color of cat vomit. Her duster had been shoved unceremoniously into a chest at the foot of her bed once they arrived at Skyhold, but it was there. It was an option… and one she wanted to take.

“Send this one back, but don’t have another one made,” she continued. Tossing the coat into Blackwall’s arms before moving around her bedside and dropping to her knees in front of the massive trunk, a certain glimmer of confidence swelled inside her chest. Maybe she wasn’t comfortable in the gold, but she’d be comfortable in something else. “A little something shiny, a little something worn – it’s the best way you could dress me.”

Stealing a glance at Josephine over her shoulder, she caught a smile tucked into the corner of Blackwall’s mouth. 

“If you are… absolutely certain, Inquisitor.” Varric called Josephine Ruffles, and from the sight of her ruffled feathers, she could tell the nickname suited. “I assure you that the issue is not monetary in nature. We only lack time.”

Suri issued an involuntary grunt as she hefted the heavy chest open. The first scent to hit her was smoke, caught in the lining of her coat from their last night in Haven. How it managed to cling onto the fabric, even after her walk through the snow, even through their exodus to what would be Skyhold… 

She shook her head to clear the memories away. 

“I know it’s not a money thing,” Suri said under her breath. “But bronto’s better, and the quality isn’t bad, no matter how old it is. I’ll have them see me in this.”

This time, when Blackwall cleared his throat, he did so to draw her attention towards him rather than swipe it away from himself. He held the cast-off coat in his arms, both hands curling deep into the rumpled fabric.

“I’ve always thought you look well in it.”

Don’t grin. Don’t grin. You’ll look like a little girl. Don’t grin at him.

Suri beamed, all flushed round ears and dimpled cheeks and creased skin around her dark eyes. There was no stopping the inevitable.

“This coat wins, then,” she laughed. “And I’ll be keeping all that flattery in my pocket.”

[cillslover]

Not hungry // Part 11

PLEASE PLEASE READ WARNINGS BEFORE READING!!

Pairing: Modern day Thomas Shelby x Female Reader

Warnings: heavy mentions of an eating disorder, mentions of weight loss/body dysmorphia, emotional distancing, mental health themes, anxiety, food avoidance, internalised guilt, angst, slight hints at self-harm (non-graphic), intrusive negative thoughts. Mentions of self-hate and unhealthy coping mechanisms, Heavy hurt/comfort themes, purging.

Summary: After a night out at the Garrison, Y/N misinterprets a cruel comment about her weight as validation, fueling her disordered thoughts. Later, while purging in the bathroom, she forgets to mask the sounds. Thomas hears and confronts her gently, sensing something is wrong, but Y/N lies—claiming she’s just unwell. 

────────────────────

Y/N’s POV

The Garrison hadn’t changed.

New faces, maybe. A shinier chandelier. A private back room made even more exclusive over the years. But the feel of it, the low-lit haze, the hum of expensive whiskey in crystal tumblers, the tension curled between each drink and drag of a cigarette, that remained.

So did the eyes.

They always looked. Always scanned. Always judged.

Y/N adjusted the black silk of her dress as they walked through the heavy doors. She hadn’t eaten all day, the nerves had made it impossible and the fabric felt like it clung too tightly to her frame, every inch of skin screaming that it was exposed.

Thomas’s hand slipped into hers.

“You alright?” he murmured, glancing at her sideways.

She gave a nod. Barely.

He watched her a beat longer. Didn’t push.

He never did, not in front of others.

But she knew he saw it. The way she held her arms folded over her stomach. The way she stood a little too stiff. The way her gaze stayed just left of anyone's eyes, avoiding mirrors, windows, anything that might reflect her back at herself.

Still, she had made an effort. Her makeup was soft, understated. Her hair done loosely at the nape. The diamond earrings he’d given her on their anniversary catching the low amber light whenever she tilted her head.

She didn’t feel beautiful.

But he looked at her like she was the only person in the room.

Thomas’s POV

She was quiet.

Not just her usual kind of quiet, this was that other sort. The kind he recognized now. The one she slipped into when she felt like she had to perform.

She held herself too tight. Her smile was just a little delayed. Her laughter too soft, too rehearsed.

But she stood beside him anyway. Arm tucked gently through his. Sipping water in place of champagne. Nodding politely at congratulatory handshakes and backslaps.

He hadn’t left her side once.

And he wasn’t planning to.

Later in the night, they all gathered in the back room, the private one. The one lined with cigars and expensive bottles and polished wood chairs around the long table. Laughter echoed. The whiskey was flowing. Arthur, John, and everyone else in the corner, smirking at something one of them were saying.

Arthur was deep into his drink, already past the point of no return.

Thomas sat back in his chair, one hand resting on Y/N’s leg under the table, his thumb drawing a soft, steady circle on her knee. He felt her tense every so often — and when she did, he just pressed his fingers more firmly, anchoring her back to him.

Y/N leaned in slightly. “Can we go soon?”

He turned his head slightly. “You tired?”

She gave a small nod. “Just a bit.”

He kissed her temple without a word.

But before he could stand, Arthur, slumped in his chair with a nearly empty bottle of Whisky in front of him — laughed suddenly, loud and obnoxious.

“Fuckin’ hell, Tommy…” Arthur slurred, pointing his glass lazily toward the pair of them. “D’you feed your wife at all these days? She looks like she’d blow away if someone sneezed too hard.”

The laughter stopped.

Thomas’s hand froze on her knee.

Arthur grinned. “What? It’s a joke, come on. Just sayin’, she’s lookin’... a bit thin these days, eh?”

Y/N’s breath hitched. Her spine stiffened.

John chuckled nervously, trying to steer the tension. “Arthur—”

“Stop it Arthur,” Tommy said quietly.

Arthur blinked. “What?”

“I said stop it.”

Arthur looked around, amused. “What’s your fuckin’ problem? I’m jokin’, mate. It’s a compliment, innit? Women like that kinda thing—”

“You think it’s funny?” Thomas snapped suddenly, pushing back from the table, his voice rising like a fuse had been lit. “You sit there, drunk off your arse, and talk about her like she’s not even in the room?”

“Jesus, Tommy, calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to fuckin’ calm down.”

He stood. Eyes locked on Arthur now. Cold. Controlled. But beneath it, a storm roiled.

Y/N’s heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear.

“Tommy,” she whispered, tugging gently on his sleeve. “It’s fine—”

“No, it’s not,” he said, voice cutting through the room like a blade. “You don’t get to sit at this table and speak about her like that. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Arthur’s drunken bravado faltered for a second, but he pushed forward. “What, you gone soft now? Can’t take a fuckin’ joke about your own wife?”

Thomas didn’t answer with words.

He crossed the table in two strides and shoved Arthur back in his chair so hard the glass flew from his hand and shattered on the floor.

“Say another word,” Tommy seethed, teeth clenched, finger in his brother’s face. “I fuckin’ dare you.”

Arthur surged forward, yelling something incoherent — and in a flash, chairs scraped, arms were moving, and Polly’s voice cut through it all.

“Enough!”

She shoved herself between them. “Jesus Christ, both of you — fuckin’ stop!”

Johnny Dogs was already on Arthur, dragging him back by the collar. John was up too, trying to hold Thomas steady.

But he wasn’t looking at any of them.

He was looking at Y/N.

At the way her eyes had filled with tears. At the way her arms were crossed, pressed tight over her stomach. At the way her body had curled slightly inward, like she’d been struck.

That was all it took.

He walked straight to her, silent and seething.

“Get your coat,” he said gently, jaw tight. “We’re leavin’.”

She didn’t argue.

Didn’t even speak.

She just rose quietly and followed him out the door, his hand sliding into hers as they stepped into the cold night air.

The ride home was silent.

Until they pulled up to the house.

She opened her mouth to speak — to say it was fine, that it didn’t matter — but he cut her off.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do that.”

She blinked. “Do what?”

“Pretend it didn’t hurt.”

Her throat tightened.

He turned toward her fully now, still in the car, engine ticking softly.

“I saw your face when he said it,” he said. “I saw what it did to you.”

She looked away.

His voice dropped.

“I should’ve hit him harder.”

She gave a small, choked laugh. “You didn’t hit him at all.”

“Didn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

He reached over and touched her cheek.

“You looked beautiful tonight,” he said. “You always do. But especially tonight.”

She closed her eyes, swallowing down the ache.

“I just wanted to disappear.”

“You don’t have to disappear, Y/N,” he whispered. “You don’t have to shrink yourself to survive in a room with people who love you.”

She didn’t reply.

But she leaned into his touch.

And that, for now, was enough.

--

Y/N’s POV

The bedroom was quiet.

Too quiet.

She could still hear the echo of Arthur’s voice in her head, louder than any music or laughter or clink of glass from earlier at the Garrison.

"She looks like she’d blow away if someone sneezed too hard."

Everyone had stared. Everyone had gone quiet. Polly had glared. Tommy had snapped. And Y/N-well, she had smiled.

Internally.

She had smiled.

Not because it was funny. Not because she appreciated the attention. But because, for the first time in weeks, she felt seen.

He noticed.

Arthur, drunk, sloppy, insensitive Arthur, had finally said it out loud. The thing she had been working so hard for. The thing she had bled and ached and starved herself toward.

You look skinny.

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t meant as praise. Her brain twisted it and sculpted it until it was. Finally, her efforts weren’t invisible. All the skipped meals. All the quiet nights spent staring in the mirror, hating the softness of her stomach, the curve of her hips. All the hours spent pretending she was full when her stomach screamed at her. It had all paid off.

Arthur had seen it.

And surely the others had too.

Even Thomas—though he didn’t say it, didn’t dare. He was too busy fuming, assuming she was hurt by Arthur’s words. Too busy protecting her from pain she didn’t even feel. Not tonight.

No, what she felt was something darker. Something hungrier. Motivation. Fire.

You’re getting closer. Keep going.

Her dress still felt too tight. Her thighs still touched. Her face still looked too full in the mirror. But the comment had lit something dangerous in her—a confirmation.

And now… now she had to fix what little damage she’d done by eating today. It hadn’t been much, some toast, a few bites of dinner, under Thomas' watch—but it had been enough. Enough to leave her feeling wrong.

She moved on autopilot toward the bathroom, locking the door out of instinct. Her hands moved with trembling precision—hair pulled back, towel placed beside the sink. Her reflection in the mirror stared at her with something like disgust.

"Almost there." Her brain whispered. "You’re almost the girl they want to see."

She dropped to her knees in front of the toilet, heart pounding, shame already crawling up the back of her neck, but she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

The room was spinning now, her palms pressed to the cold tile as she forced her body to expel what little it had taken in. Her chest burned. Her throat felt raw. Her knees ached against the hard floor, but none of it mattered. Not when she was undoing the damage. Not when she was clawing her way back to control.

And then—

Knock knock.

“Y/N?”

Her entire body tensed. Her heart plummeted. She went cold.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Her head jerked toward the door, a wave of horror sweeping over her.

The shower. She forgot to turn on the shower.

Her hands scrambled for the faucet, twisting it hard, water roaring into the sink too late to mask the sound of what he’d already heard. Her mind splintered into panic, shame swelling up her throat as quickly as the bile had.

Another knock. Closer. Firmer.

“Y/N,” Thomas said again. His voice was soft but laced with concern, like he already knew—already saw something forming in the cracks.

“You alright in there?”

She splashed water onto her face. Hands shaking. Lips trembling. Her eyes caught her reflection in the mirror—bloodshot, tear-stained, broken.

He heard. He fucking heard.

Her brain screamed at her to fix it.

To hide it.

“Yeah,” she called, forcing a lightness into her voice that made her stomach churn again. “Just brushing my teeth. You’re hearing things.”

There was a pause.

“You sure?”

“I’m fine, Tommy. Honestly.”

But her voice cracked on the last word.

And she knew he heard that, too.

There was silence on the other side of the door now. A silence that felt too heavy. Too smart. She imagined him standing there, jaw clenched, blue eyes narrowed, not in anger, but worry.

Don’t let him in. Don’t let him see this version of you.

She turned off the water, braced herself, and unlocked the door.

He was standing right there. His tie half-loosened from earlier, jacket still on. His eyes scanned her in seconds, from her flushed cheeks to her trembling fingers wrapped tightly around the edge of the door.

“Open it,” he said gently.

“It’s open.”

“All the way, love.”

Her knuckles went white. She hesitated, then pulled the door back just enough to let him step forward.

Thomas stared at her for a long moment.

“Why’s your face red?”

She blinked. “The water was hot.”

“You’ve been cryin’.”

“No, I haven’t.”

She tried to laugh, but it fell flat. He stepped closer. Too close. Her pulse skyrocketed. If he looked closer, he’d see it. The guilt. The shame. The truth.

“Y/N…”

“Can we not do this right now?”

“You looked pale all night. Barely touched a thing.”

“I told you,” she cut in quickly, voice sharp from panic. “Something I ate didn’t sit right.”

He tilted his head slightly, not buying it. “That so?”

“Yes.”

His gaze dropped to her hands. She shoved them behind her back.

“I’m just tired, Tommy.”

“You’re shakin’.”

“I’m cold.”

He sighed through his nose, eyes flicking between hers. There was a beat of quiet, just heavy enough to drown her.

“I heard you, Y/N.”

Her stomach twisted violently.

“You heard me what?” she tried, voice faltering despite her effort to play dumb.

“You know what.”

“No, I really don’t.”

He stepped even closer now, lowering his voice as if he were afraid the truth might shatter her.

“Don’t lie to me, eh? Not you. Not about this.”

She stared at him, tears springing to her eyes. But not from being caught.

From the sheer ache of it.

He didn’t sound angry. He sounded gentle. Like she was fragile glass. Like she was something he wanted to fix before she shattered.

That made it worse.

She bit her lip, dropped her gaze, and whispered, “I’m just not feeling well tonight. I really think it was something I ate. Maybe that wine… I don’t know.”

“You sure that’s all?”

“Yes,” she said too fast, then softened. “Please, Tommy. I’m okay. Just tired.”

He exhaled slowly and nodded, clearly unconvinced.

But still, he reached out and ran his knuckles gently down her cheek, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. It was so tender, so careful, she almost broke down right there.

“I’m not mad,” he said softly. “I just don’t like secrets in this house.”

She nodded, unable to speak. Her throat was closing up again—but not from purging.

From guilt.

From the fact that she was still lying. Still hiding. And he was trying so damn hard to love her.

Thomas Shelby—the man who trusted no one—was trusting her.

And she couldn’t even tell him the truth.

So she smiled again. Small. Fragile.

“I promise I’m okay,” she whispered.

And he kissed her forehead, lingering a moment longer than usual.

But even as she let him hold her… Even as she buried her face in his shoulder and tried to breathe through the shame...

She knew.

She wasn’t okay.

And one day soon, she wouldn’t be able to lie about it anymore.

[mintmatcha]

can we get some rouge facts? pretty please 🤲🏼 she’s v interesting and i know nothing about d&d so i’m a little clueless about her role in the team. love your world building btw

— 🪐

cw: cisfem reader, reader has a set background and personality, MENTIONS OF GROOMING AND ABUSE!

"Why don't you join them?"

The fiddle swelling and dips and the dancers do the same. You watch where your friends have blended into the crowd, their elbows crooked into the arms of strangers as they prance about. The alcohol has wiped away their inhibitions, but only strengthened yours.

Obsidian has left his partner on the dance floor and returned to you, arm outstretched. He must have seen you watching him and misunderstood that forlorn look in your eyes as something else.

"I'm alright here," you dismiss with a laugh.

"Let me teach you." Obi gestures again, "Or is our fearless leader afraid of the dance floor?"

He hums along to the song, hitting none of the correct notes. Even when he's making mistakes, he's undeniably charming.

"I'm okay, really." You try to laugh again, but the sound is tight in your throat. The crowd spins and laughs and jeers and the sound of it all stuffs your ears. Obsidian steps towards you, closer than a friend should be, with a chuckle on his lips.

"I insist."

Your stomach sours a bit and you aren't sure why. This is familiar in ways you don't want to admit. "Obi, not tonight."

"I simply wish to dance with the most beautiful girl in the room," His fingers loosely wrap around your wrist, but the pressure makes your mouth go dry. There's an ache, deep in the narrow of your bones, radiating out as he lightly tugs, "Come, it will be-"

You rip your hand from his with all the force you can muster. It's much too forceful-- you end up smacking yourself and knocking over your stein. Beer fizzs and bubbles across the waxed bartop, spilling down and over your legs.

"I said no." Your voice aches with the way to rips from you, "Why does no one listen to me when I say no?"

Obi's face drops. Green eyes wide with shock, he simply watches as you push off from your stool and weave out through the crowd. You bump elbows with a poor halfing halfway out the door, only offering the briefest of apologies.

The crisp night air brings you a bit of clarity, but it aches in your lungs. The cotton of your shirt suddenly feels much too tight and you cant help but tug on the edges to free yourself.

You're aware of being followed. It's like a stray dog, tailing behind you just fair enough to avoid any possibility of retribution. He continues until you stop and settle, sitting in the dew soaked grass. It doesn't matter- you're already soaked.

Obsidian stays quiet for a while, rubbing his sleeve against his nose sheepishly.

"Can I sit with you?" he says after a while.

You glance up at the dragonborn. The spot he rubbed is significantly shinier than the rest of his scales, catching the moon shine as he speaks. Your anxious settles just a bit at that; it even tugs a smile onto your face. You pat the ground next to you and the man settles down on to his knees.

"I am sorry," Obi says after a moment, "I should not have pushed you."

You're very aware that wasn't a normal reaction. The shame makes your stomach curl. "It's alright."

"Clearly, it was not." He rubs his snout again, "I should have listened to you."

He places his hand gently on to your thigh- no pressure, just reassurance. "I'll listen now, if you want to speak about it."

The truth is heavy on your tongue. You know better than to speak of it, and yet:

"Adam saved me. I know that," you say carefully. Your husband is always the elephant in the room, waiting to be addressed, "He took me off of the street and gave me a place to live. I'd be nothing without him-- I know that."

Obsidian prickles a bit at that, just the slightest flash of teeth, but he doesn't interrupt.

"He'd bring me to galas. The prettiest dances you've ever seen. I'd wear the nicest dress I could find and he would dance with me until my feet bled from those god-awful shoes." You flex your foot. The thick leather boot barely gives to the pressure.

"I hated them. I hated every minute," you say, "I'd beg him to let me stay home. I'd //beg.//"

You close a hand around your own wrist. Your body has changed over the years, almost to the point of unfamiliarity, but the pressure of a palm against the inside of your wrist always snaps you back to the brittle age of eighteen.

"And he still made you go?"

Eighteen was the first time you started measuring your steps, walking in the shadows to avoid drawing his attention. Eighteen was the first time love felt sour on your lips.

"All anyone would ever say to me was that I was so lucky to be his wife. How he loved me so much." You take Obi's hand from your leg and intertwine your fingers with his. The span and width of his grip are so much different than anyone else you've ever known. "And all I wanted to do was tell them how scared I was of him.'"

"Why didn't you?" He's asking, but its not a question. It's a door, open just enough to let you keep going. "Someone surely would have listened."

"Where would I have gone?" You almost laugh at how ridiculously pathetic you sound. "I didn't have friends, and he was the closest thing I ever had to a father -"

Obi's grip stiffens, and you know you'd made a mistake. His eyes narrow and he knows//.

"Father?" he repeats, voice dark, yet trying to stay even, "He wasn't-- you--- what do you mean by father?"

Those sharp, kind eyes watch you, unblinking, as if he closes his eyes, you'll disappear.

"What do you mean by that, my dear?" he repeats, much softer.

The bar behind you clambors with din, the night is rich with the cicada song, and yet you feel like the world is so, so quiet. All of your words feel earshakingly loud.

"He didn't pursue me romantically until I was eighteen," you whisper, "But Adam took me into his home when I was thirteen."

You brace for what's coming. The anger, the disgust. By the time you realize you've closed your eyes, the silence has stretched out too far. It takes an effort to look at him and face the music.

Obi doesn't seem mad, he's just... sad.

"You were just a child." His voice is so brittle, "I-- Why didn't anyone protect you?"

You wish you knew the answer.

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

VH - Divide And Conquer

(Tw: attempted torture)

“I can't believe we finally have caught the legendary Vampire Hero”, said Villain.

The two Heroes glanced at each other and shrugged. The taller one frowned.

“Legendary ?” he repeated.

Villain looked at him with interest.

“Oh yes,” he said. “Many have fallen before your might, Vampire Hero. At least two or three of my opponents are behind the bars because of you.”

“Two or three and you call that legendary ? You're easy to impress.”

The other Hero was nervously following the exchange. Compared to his companion, he seemed much younger and frailer. His eyes were shinier and shinier with tears that did not quite fall. When at least it looked like he couldn't take it anymore, he stepped between the two, saying:

“Stop ! It's my fault ! It's all my fault if we got caught. Hurt me, not him!”

Villain gave the young Hero an amused look:

“Why is that little thing with you, Vampire Hero ?”

His interlocutor shrugged:

“You know. He's new. I'm supposed to show him the ropes or something. You have to teach them some way or some other. ”

“Is that so.”

Villain lift the smaller Hero's chin with a finger:

“My dear little one, how can I hurt him ? Many have tried and many have failed. I'll just make him have a nice little sunbath so he's neutralized. But since you've asked so nicely, I will take care of you.”

“Surely there must be another way ! I'm sure you can do better. I-I'm sure that deep inside, you're a little pure of heart.”

“ You heard your protector, you need to learn.”

He grabbed Hero by the arm, who turned his head toward the man who accompanied him. The latter just shrugged.

“Do you think he cares ?” simpered Villain to his ear. “Oh, he doesn't. He might be on your side, but Vampire Hero is evil. You're better off with me.”

Hero whimpered but didn't resist as he was dragged into the stairs.

“There are seventeen steps. Do you hear the sound they make ? There's an echo, so the prisoners down there can hear me coming. It’s all in the anticipation.”

In a sweet voice, he kept describing their surroundings while they were both descending into his torture room. During all the way, the small one didn’t dare fight back. He soon found himself tied up to a chair, helplessly squirming, his eyes giving a pleading look more than ever.

“So, young Hero,” purred Villain, “as it is your first time, I will make you a favor.”

“R-Really ?”

“Yes. Do you see all these instruments in the shelf in front of you ?”

Hero looked at the whips, the canes and the nails, and shuddered so violently it almost looked fake.

“I'm going to let you choose one among them. If not, I will choose, and you won't like it very much if I do.”

“You don't have to do this ! I-You just will make Vampire Hero angry and you don't want to !”

“You think he will rescue you?”

“I know he will.”

“How touching. But for now you're mine. So make your choice, before I get impatient.”

Hero pondered for a few seconds, then whispered:

“Um – the taser ? Yes – the taser, please.”

“If you ask so nicely.”

Villain delicately took the black rectangular shape in his hand and switched it on.

“Why, if I might ask ? Do you think it will hurt less than the others ? Let me prove you wrong.”

The half-hour that happened then looked much more pleasant for Villain than for Hero. And yet, as time passed, Villain felt somewhat uneasy. That had nothing to do with torturing a man, of course. He liked the thrashing, he liked the begging, he liked the naive faith of the innocent who was certain that he could be saved. Maybe that had something to do with the other Hero. While Villain was amusing himself, Vampire Hero was out of his sight. He might have been careless. He glanced at his watch, but Hero making a rather unconvincing whimper forced him to turn his head.

Perhaps that was the problem. Villain was used to the sounds of pain – the gasps, the moans, the howls, the cries and the pleas. He loved all of them without distinction, and of course he knew that they were a little different with each person. It was a familiar melody that Hero was singing, but thinking about it, it was slightly out of tune, and it got progressively worse. It was getting on his nerves. These rookies these days – they didn't even now how to scream right.

“Let's have a break,” he said.

“Oh well, I guess I’ve held that long.”

Villain raised an eyebrow, amused:

“Getting defiant, are we ? Careful, you sound like you’re disappointed.”

He stared into his prisoner’s eyes, hoping to get a look of terror, but all he got was a frown. Hero...genuinely looked displeased.

“Sorta”, he said. “In my time I didn’t have this kind of toys to play with. I guess having a little blue spark in your hand looks fun, but that doesn’t look like it does that much damage.”

“In your time ? What are you talking ab- wait.”

Hero tilted his head. For a moment he sounded impassible, but he broke soon enough. A loud, loud laugh resonated in the room, while the prisoner was squirming in his chair for a very different reason than before. His way of moving betrayed no pain at all.

“Are you shitting me,” said Villain, whose voice was now icy.

Hero grinned:

“You tell me, pal. I can’t believe you swallowed my “pure of heart” bullshit. I was laying it on so thick.”

Villain glared at him.

“Not that you were especially subtle either”, Hero added. “Oooh, the anticipation !” Do that again?”

Villain stood up and went to the door as fast as self-respect allowed. There was no one left under the sunlight. The guards were on the ground, unconscious.

“How -”

He turned back. Hero was now standing up, neglectfully throwing away the remnants of the straps that held him a moment before. He dramatically exclaimed, a hand on his heart:

“Oh no, he got away ! My, my. Poor little me. Tell you what, though. If Vampire Hero was so legendary, you should have bothered to know what he looks like. I didn’t mean to pass for someone else, but you’ve so graciously given me the opportunity.”

“It can’t be ! How could the – the other have escaped then ?”

“I hate to break it to you, but they are several heroes with super strength.”

Villain blushed and stayed quiet, his lips pursed. Hero picked up the taser, looked at it with curiosity, and switched it on. With a smile – a very worrying smile - he got closer.

“Hey, I warned you. I told you that Vampire Hero was going to rescue me.”

*

Vampire Hero is a recurring character. His job is to troll current villains. Check the Vampire Hero Masterlist or Tag for more snippets with him.

Or back to Hero x Villain Masterlist.

[payphoneangel]

For the ask game!!!

🎨 ⇢ link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it

🪲 ⇢ add 50 words to your current wip and share the paragraph here

🦷 ⇢ share some personal wisdom or a life hack you swear on

📚 ⇢ what's the last thing you wrote down in your notes app? 

hi this ask has been sitting in my inbox close to a year and its a good fucking thing you put the questions in here bc i would NAWT remember but!! I happened upon my favorite fanart and it made me think of this SO HERE I AM.

🎨 ⇢ link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it

This guy!!!!!!!

as you already know I am a huge fan of this artist (i have two physical prints from his store) so OF COURSE my fav piece of fanart is from him!

I just love the color palette and the backlighting and the expressions and the YEARNING ITS ABOUT THE YEARNING. For only a 4 panel comic w/o any dialogue it does SUCH a fantastic job of conveying its meaning through microexpressions alone. I think its SUCH a good example of the less-is-more approach to story telling.

I could probably talk abt this piece for hours but i'll try to be quicker than that lmao

I love the amt of texture that Mr. Cowboy puts in his digital drawings. There's so much consideration when you look at the different brushes and color contrasts you see in his work that adds SO MUCH detail without the piece feeling too busy. Like seriously go click on the images to enlarge them and just look at the color blocking on the faces and where the highlights are.

This piece is in Mr. Cowboys style while still doing a great job of capturing the likeness of the actors without going into uncanny valley territory of hyper realism (nothing wrong with realism im just not personally a fan of it). I've always appreciated his style bc I love how evocative it is of those vintage posters or pulp fiction novels. And i think Dean and Cas just look real real good in the style. Plus I love some of the personal touches Mr. Cowboy added to their character designs!! Like giving Dean ear piercings and showing a chain around his neck (that is presumably a necklace)

THE RIM LIGHTING. THE RIM LIGHTING!!!!!!! I can't get over it. The highlighted dust particles floating through the air. How their hair and the tips of their noses have an orange/red tinge to them from the warm lamp lighting. How their profiles are haloed by the lamps (which was completely intentional if you read Mr. Cowboys description of the piece) THE FUCKING!!!!!!!! EYELASH HIGHLIGHTS!!!!!! and the way in panel 4 how Dean's eyes just get that much shinier. Like he's holding back tears AUUUUGH MR COWBOY IM CRAWLING THROUGH YOUR VENTS LIKE A RABID SQUIRREL

i am generally just a big BIG fan of like. how do i describe this. blocked gazes/close cropping in art or photos. I can't get enough of it. There's just something about it. Is it my fear of intimacy or eye contact? or perhaps that the piece becomes voyeuristic in nature from the audience's obscured view thereby implying that it is not FOR us and we are only seeing a glimpse into the complex world of the subjects???? Some combination of all of them????????? probably! but yeah i simply ADORE that we don't get to see Cas' expression!

The title of the piece is 'I had a dream and you were in it' which in the tags of Mr. Cowboys post is said to be referring to a Father John Misty song, presumably To S. which i LOVE FJM and im a huge slut for connecting other forms of art to music (hence why i always name my fics after songs)

Ok that was still a HUGE amt of rambling so I will be done now.

🪲 ⇢ add 50 words to your current wip and share the paragraph here

this is from the next part of this series that YES I am still trying to work more on.

🦷 ⇢ share some personal wisdom or a life hack you swear on

STRETCH BEFORE BED!!!! also shower by candlelight for the #vibes

📚 ⇢ what's the last thing you wrote down in your notes app?

But I wouldn't mind it if you did I wouldn't mind if you stayed over I wouldn't mind it if we stayed for the season Discarded logic and reason Found a new reality

uhhhhh i think these were potential lyrics for a song? Seems fun! Guess I'll have to get back to this WIP too lmao

Thanks for the ask <33333

[clumsiestgiantess]

My borrower headcannons:

There are four main subgroups of borrower which coincide with different human styles of living.  Culture and appearance range widely between the types.  Borrowers living in the suburbs and the city have different lifestyles with some similarities, but borrowers living in rural places or completely in the wild have entirely different ways of life, and even different adaptations; they’re nearly two different species.  (Kind of like how polar bears and grizzly bears are technically the same species with different adaptations for their environments)

All borrowers have at least a semi-human appearance, and stay under a foot tall.  (The largest recorded borrower measured 10 inches tall).  They all come from a common ancestor: the feral subgroup, which adapted to an easier lifestyle of thievery over hunting.

Urban subgroup:

They can care less if they’re spotted, most humans just ignore the sighting after a moment anyway.  Being caught is a different story, of course.  A caught urban borrower can let out a deafening shriek loud enough to startle whatever’s caught them to drop them. They can fall a good 30 feet without serious injuries, so being dropped is completely fine.

They’re practically tone deaf, but have heightened visual senses and can even see in blinding light.

Have a type of sign language to communicate, and rarely make noise other than to show displeasure or affection (depending on the sound).

The smallest type; usually grows about 2-3 inches tall.

Homes look like nests stashed with every kind of material imaginable.  This type of borrower is a collector and will steal anything they want without need for it.  The shinier the object, the more valuable it is to them.

Body structure is nearly identical to humans with enhanced reflexes.

Many choose to live solitarily or with a small close family, but some live in larger groups for protection.

Suburban subgroup:

They have a type of sign language that they use between eachother, though most also learn whatever language the humans around them know to at least a basic level.

Homes look drastically different depending on how practiced a borrower is.  A normal home looks like a mix of an underground colony system and a den.  However, the better they are at stealing, the more resources they have to make things aesthetically pleasing.  Thus, borrowers who’ve perfected their skills have homes whose interiors are similar to human ones.

Their average height is 4-5 inches tall.

This is the largest subgroup, and also the most interconnected; they often have hidden meeting places spread out like small towns to come together and share stories, trade materials, get help, find mates, etc.  These are few and far between.  A borrower will consider any place close to these meeting areas prime housing, as living in these meeting areas is forbidden.

Many things are forbidden.  This group put together a series of codes that keep them in ‘perfect’ safety.  They also have professions they take on in order to help the community as well as themselves.  These range from perfecting ‘borrowing’ supplies (this is where their namesake comes from), practicing medicine and healing, crafting tools, becoming strong fighters, studying humans and other animals, etc.

These borrower codes contain many fascinating rules, including a contingency plan if they’re ever caught.  Upon capture, they are to “play dead, play dumb, then run.”  Closer studies have found that these borrowers can vomit bile on command, and use the stench to make themselves seem dead and rotting.  If they’ve been caught in the act, this trick fails and they move to playing dumb.  Using their surprisingly expansive knowledge of small animals other than themselves, they are able to mimic the actions of mice or even bugs to appear less intriguing to humans.  If both ruses fail, they will bolt at speeds seemingly impossible for their bodies to move at, and can maneuver with pinpoint accuracy.

They have longer and wider ears to hear potential danger, double-jointed limbs for maneuverability and manipulation, lankier legs for faster strides.

Rural subgroup:

These borrowers usually live outside the houses they take from, preferring natural burrows and tunnel systems than the walls of houses.

If the home has a garden, there’s a large chance there’s at least a small borrowers’ burrow there to stash items.

Some learn a human language as a second language, but most speak in their own language, which is a mixture of animalistic noises and human ones.  Their relations work more animalisticly; body language is a huge part of understanding one another.

Unlike the first two subgroups, these borrowers will attack when threatened rather than bluff.  Their pronounced canines can leave small needle-like holes in the skin, which can easily heal over and become infected.  When biting down, these borrowers’ jaws can lock into place, making it impossible to remove one without killing it.  Even shaking it does no harm due to its swiveling neck, which can turn 360 degrees in either direction.

Average height is 5-6 inches tall.

Their ears are long and pointed, they have thin tails to help balance their quick movements, and slightly padded feet and palms.

Feral subgroup:

These are, as the name suggests, the most wild of the subgroups, and also the oldest subgroup.  They live entirely away from humans and are completely independent, relying on the things they gather and make themselves.

They are the largest subgroup with an average height of 6-7 inches.

They live in long tunnel systems underground or inside trees.  These tunnel entrances can be told apart from other creatures’ by the rudimentary door system.  

If you see these burrows, DO NOT DISTURB THEM.  There can be as many as 30 borrowers per burrow and they are aggressively protective of their homes.  Springing open a large burrow will lead you to be swarmed.  Mind you, these are creatures that can be nearly as long as your forearm, and a dedicated group of about 5 or 6 can kill you if you don’t fight them off or run.  You will not be able to fight off 30 of them.  If you survive the initial attack, seek medical attention.  Their saliva has a good chance of carrying infectious bacteria.

Another caution:  They can and will lay traps.  Usually they aren’t strong enough to capture a human, and will likely only stun you.  However, again, do NOT stick around or you will be swarmed.

They have clawed fingers, long thin tails, and are capable of running on four limbs for faster movement, as well as the longer ears and padded hands and feet of the rural subgroup.  Their pupils can dilate widely enough to have fair night vision, which is useful for getting around burrows.

They are omnivores that can eat raw meat, and their teeth are sharpened versions of other subgroups’.

Due to the sheer amount of space between the habitats of different subgroups, it’s not often that they meet. When they do, the stories are often chalked up to tall tales. Most subgroups view the other subgroups as cryptids of sorts.

(quick ref I made for body structure & height, penny for scale)

[practically-an-x-man]

More Jessi and/or Hyun-Ki, perhaps?

Oooooh hell yeah!!! I think I'll write something from Jessi's point of view, just to switch things up a little...

____ Picture Perfect

Word Count: 1.8k Content Warnings: heavy emotional abuse and manipulation, toxic relationship (dead dove; do not eat), physical violence, hypnosis and mind control ____

Jessi Juno could confidently say that her life was perfect.

Her name was on every social media site, each one shining with constant praise. Her new single had just hit number one on both the domestic and international charts. She was eyeing a People's Choice Award.

Thanks to her new smoothie cleanse diet, she'd lost five pounds. She was glowing. She'd flown out to Chicago last week to get her hair done by Mario Tricoci, and now it was shinier and softer than ever, her classic pop-star powder-pink. And she'd just commissioned a dress from Donatella Versace herself... perhaps to be worn when she won that People's Choice Award. She was a shoe-in for it anyway. Everybody loved her.

The media was obsessed with her relationship. Jordan Moon had proven to be the boost she needed to really put herself on the map, and all it took was a little sonic schmoozing, a well-timed papparazzo or two, and a few kissy-kissy selfies in Instagram. It was almost too easy.

She was beautiful. She was rich beyond belief. She was on her way to becoming a household name.

She was perfect.

You keep this up, you'll be bigger than Dolly Parton. Bigger than Katy Perry.

No... bigger than Taylor Swift.

Jessi scrolled through her phone, flipping through the #jessijuno tag with detached interest. It was time for her morning post. Numbers were everything. She took a sip from her green smoothie, piecing it all together in her mind. Yesterday had been a selfie, the day before had been an inspo post about her smoothie cleanse, and everything else had been promo work for her upcoming EP. It was time to switch things up.

"Jordan!" she called, and felt her power waver in the air as it left her lips, "Come join me for breakfast!"

She watched him stagger out of his bedroom - of course they slept in separate rooms, she couldn't imagine the thought of sleeping all night with his breath in her ear and his body crowding her space - and trudge dazedly in her direction.

He seemed especially dull behind the eyes this morning, and Jessi suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. That wouldn't look good on her page. People would start asking if he was on drugs, and then there would come the accusations that she was on drugs, because of course she couldn't have a body like hers without a little chemical help.

Fangirls. Ugh. They were always looking for reasons to cancel her. They were jealous of her body, jealous of her fame, jealous their heartthrob K-Pop crush was with her instead of playing into their podunk he-touched-my-hand-once fantasies. She couldn't put that drug-talk into their heads. It would be a nightmare to sort out.

Britney shaved her head, Demi had an overdose, Jessi has a junkie boyfriend.

No, thank you. She had an image to maintain.

She poured a mug of coffee and set it in front of him. Maybe that would perk him up a little.

Jordan took a few sips and muttered something in Korean. Jessi's lip curled before she could stop it. She needed to break that habit, or she'd wind up with wrinkles. Then she'd need Botox - an eventuality she was sure, but she prided herself on her natural features while she had them.

"Speak English," she hissed, "You know I can't understand that shit."

"Sorry, dear." Jordan mumbled, "What's for breakfast?"

"I made smoothies," she said, already pouring him a glass of the thick green slurry.

Jordan let out the faintest sigh but reached for the glass. He'd been in a rotten mood lately, rotten enough that she finally surrendered and bought a jar of kimchi to stick in the fridge... and tossed it out only a day later, because she couldn't stand the vinegary fermented smell. It was stinking up her fridge. He'd just have to deal with it.

While he sipped his smoothie and made a bit of an effort to rouse himself, Jessi plucked his phone off the counter and began to flick through it. She'd made him get rid of the passcode ages ago, and switch to an English interface that she could understand. American couples didn't have secrets, she said. It was so easy to bend him to her will.

Her phone had an 8-digit passcode and fingerprint ID. She didn't let him touch her phone. Of course, just a word out of her mouth and he never even thought to ask. She wondered what he thought about these days. She wondered if he was really able to think about much of anything these days, or if he was just like one of those albino lab rats who mindlessly pressed a button when the scientists dinged a bell.

It was just so much easier this way.

"You called your mom?" Jessi asked, her voice deceptively sweet. Jordan looked up, and she thought she caught a flicker of panic deep behind those dark eyes. She'd caught him.

"She called me." he mumbled. She hated when he mumbled.

"No, this is an outgoing call," she said, "It says so right here on the screen. Don't lie to me."

"It was after the concert. I just called to let her know it went well."

"Hm."

She wondered if he'd remember her phone number if she deleted it from his contacts. Maybe that would fix things.

Or maybe he'd get suspicious and she'd have to put him all the way under again, like the early days. She didn't want him to be a damn vegetable, and the lovestruck puppy act got old too fucking quickly, but then she loosened her grip and he started going behind her back like this. Maybe she needed to tighten the reins a little. He'd hardly know the difference.

"Tell me next time you call her, okay?" she said, which really meant don't call her again. Jordan just gave her a tired nod in response.

Jessi set his phone down and snatched up her own, then reached across the counter for her half-empty smoothie glass.

She leaned in close, pursed her lips around her green-and-white paper straw, smiled with her eyes, and hit the shutter button. Perfect. Jordan was looking down, hiding that dull, drugged look in his eyes, but with the way she leaned in against his shoulder it almost looked like he was laughing at something she'd said the moment before. Jessi's eyes were bright and her skin looked airbrushed, and her hair was just messy enough to appear approachable without being a rat's nest. It was... girl-next-door.

Breakfast with my sweetheart 💖, her mind autofilled, already thinking of the caption as she swiped through filters, Can't believe we've only been together 3 months! You're my everything baby😘😘

Hm. Too formal. Formal was good for promos and sponsorships, not for slice-of-life selfies like this. She decided to dress it down a little, swapping "you're" for a Y2K-chic "ur" and tagging the photo with the mummified ruins of Jordan's Instagram handle. She wished he'd post a little more often. The privacy gag was cute, and pretty convenient most of the time, but her ratings would skyrocket if he just posted a selfie once in a while.

Jessi posted the photo and watched as the likes began to trickle in. She could expect a couple thousand straightaway, but the real boom would come after an hour or two. By tomorrow she'd be seeing the selfie all over fan reels and Pinterest boards. Pictures with Jordan always blew up. People went wild for a perfect little romance.

Of course, they didn't have to know it wasn't a romance behind the scenes. She'd fawn all over him in front of the cameras, but she didn't love him. She didn't hate him, of course - even the social boost wasn't worth bleeding her precious time and energy into someone she hated. He was just... there. Pretty enough and quiet enough to tolerate. Like a kitschy Christmas ornament, she thought, or hotel room wallpaper.

The appearance was all that mattered. She'd collect her accolades, win her awards, and then she'd put her little boytoy back on the shelf when she was through with him. Nobody had to know.

Nobody had to know.

"Jordan," she said without taking her eyes off her phone, "I was thinking later we could brainstorm some new lyrics. The new EP could use just one more song, don't you think? Maybe another collab?"

"Mm-hmm," he hummed, all vague and infuriatingly noncommittal. Jessi rolled her eyes, then sipped the last of her smoothie and slid the glass across the counter.

"Wash this for me, will you? I can't get my hands in hot water with this new manicure."

Jordan stood up without complaint, leaving his coffee and smoothie abandoned on the countertop. He shuffled his way around to the sink, and behind her she heard running water as he began to wash her glass. Jessi smiled to herself. She didn't have to cook or clean. She didn't have to do anything she didn't want to do. She had a perfect, obedient, dead-eyed butler to do it all for her.

Her phone chimed, and Jessi scrolled through it as the notifications poured in. Comments, likes, mentions, keysmashes and emojis and rampant jealousy from a thousand sources. She thrived on it.

"Everybody loves me, Jordan," she chirped, throwing her head back to look at him upside-down. If he spoke at all, it was buried under the sound of running water. Jessi sighed and peeled herself back up with a frown. "Tell me you love me, Jordan."

"I love you, Jessi." he responded in a monotone. Good enough. It didn't really matter if she heard it from him anyway. She heard it from everyone else, all the time.

Her life was perfect.

Something slammed into the back of her head, and her vision went white. Jessi made a sound, a pained confused coo like a wounded dove, and felt herself begin to slide out of her seat. She tried to stand and her limbs turned to jelly.

Another brutal impact, this one joined by the wind-chime tinkling of shattered glass. Hot blood spilled from her scalp and ruined her hair, ruined her Juicy Couture tracksuit, ruined her freshly-waxed kitchen floors.

"Wh....th'fuck?" she slurred, her brain spinning around inside her skull. Dimly, she was aware that she'd hit the floor, and tried to turn herself over to look at her attacker.

He didn't look so dead-eyed now. All she could see was his face, burning with rage like she'd never seen.

He hissed something at her in a language she didn't understand, and the world spun away.