#rocco writing

[starbanmk]

roses/smoke

—

“He-” The door swung open, and the Reddoons from last night was suddenly in front of Ash, regarding him strangely. He looked from Ash's face, to his black eye (he didn't even seem sorry), to the bouquet of roses in Ash's arms. Red's unusually calloused hands came up to pluck the blunt from his lips as he exhaled a puff of smoke–

He was smoking. Idly, Ash noted the irony of it.

“It's you.” He said simply, raising an eyebrow.

Ash took in a breath, tasting the smoke from Red's cigarette as it dissipated into the atmosphere. “My name is–”

“Ash.” Reddoons narrowed his eyes. “I remember.”

There was an awkward lull of silence. Ashswagg found himself hating how this wasn't coming as easily as it had. He hated how different this Reddoons seemed to be from his own. He hated that he still loved him. He hated the entire multiverse.

“What do you want?” Red finally snapped. “What's with the roses?”

Ashswagg was a god. He wasn't made to be quiet. Still, he whispered. “They're for you.”

“I told you, last night.” Reddoons reiterated, beginning to close the door in Ash's face. “I'm not a rose guy.”

—

[end of part five]

[momijigari]

Kiss of life - Pirates edition

[tankgotstuckinthecircusgate]

Every city's got a graveyard The service bought and paid for Now I'm sleeping in the backyard Passing out as night turns into day

[litgwritersroom]

Could you write something for Rocco, please? Poor boy needs some love - and a redemption arc. In villa, post villa, AU...

I will also accept food truck smut 🤣

THE COLOUR THAT YOU ARE

Rocco / MC - 3000+ - @mrsbsmooth

A mess of auburn curls, tanned skin, eyes that looked like nature.  And around him, an explosion of colour.

For as long as she could remember, Freya had been able to see things that no one else could see. Her Yaya called it the gift. She was proud that her granddaughter had it too.

Freya’s siblings rolled their eyes whenever she said anything, and the kids at school made fun of her. So she stopped telling people.

It was hard, sometimes, to see past the colours, but she mostly learned to ignore them. Most people were brown, which Yaya said meant they were just normal, everyday people. Materialistic people who hadn’t opened their minds; who trudged through their everyday routine, focused on nothing more than their own problems. 

Yaya was blue. She’d always been blue, but the colour seemed to change with the day. Some days, it was warm and sapphired as the ocean, and others, light and airy as the sky. She could always tell Yaya’s mood based on the colour; swirling and dancing through the air around her body. Lighter meant she was feeling good. Darker meant she was tired. And towards the end of her days, Yaya’s aura was navy; such a deep, shimmering blue it was almost black. 

It was Freya who held her hand as she passed.

She didn’t care much for people’s colours after that.

Occasionally, she’d see someone in the street that caught her eye. Like the broad, business-type man, screaming about stocks into his mobile phone, whose magenta-pink aura betrayed his inner kindness. The small girl in the tutu, whose cloud of tomato-red made Freya giggle. Impulsive, impatient, and probably a little fiery. Her poor parents. 

But every now and again, someone would see hers, too. 

They were always older - and often unassuming. A man at the park. An elderly lady on the bus, furrowing their brow as they looked at her before their eyes widened, and they smiled at her. Freya didn’t know what colour she was. She’d never tried to check. She knew what the colours meant, and she didn’t want to know. 

In fact, she hated that she could see them at all. 

It felt intrusive, in a way, to know so much about a person without even knowing their name - without them knowing that she could see their very soul; the very essence of their being. She hadn’t asked permission to see them so clearly, and it felt so wrong that she could do it without asking. She certainly didn’t like the idea that strangers could know so much about her. 

So she kept her eyes to herself.

Until him.

She hadn’t planned to go to the park that day, but warm days were rare in a Belfast autumn. She’d overheard some high school students on the bus talking about a food truck that was stationed out there. They’d laughed and made fun of it, giggling about the loser who owned it, an older guy who flirted with everyone, and smoked too much weed to care that he was selling alcohol to minors. 

So she’d slowly walked, soft music in her ears until she’d seen the truck. There was a line of people, most of them young, and as she drew closer, she saw the sign.

Cocktails & Cronuts.

She couldn’t help but be confused by the weird mix of breakfast and late-evening treats, but something drew her closer. She joined the back of the line, the girl working the counter smiling broadly as each customer stepped up, quickly pulling pastries from a cabinet behind her, and talking animatedly to someone in the back. But as Freya drew closer, she started to feel… weird.

There was something in the air; something wiry; as if walking through a cloud of static electricity. She tried to keep her eyes focussed in front of her, but the girl working the counter seemed to furrow her brow as she approached. The girl kept glancing sideways, growing seemingly concerned, talking hurriedly to the person that Freya couldn’t see. But with every step, the feeling only grew stronger, and she fell within earshot of the girl at the counter. 

“Rocco - are you sure? Do you need to sit down? You’re looking–”

And then Freya saw him. A mess of auburn curls, tanned skin, eyes that looked like nature. 

And around him, an explosion of colour.

There were so many she could barely take him in, a mess of hue and pigment, like an artist’s palette discarded at the end of the day. Orange, green, white, red, yellow, blue, indigo; he was every colour at once, dancing around him with not swirl, but floodwater. There was something so unsettling about it, like she could feel the restlessness within him.

She’d never seen anyone like him.

Orange people were creative, and had to learn lessons from experience. Indigo people were empaths, who absorbed the trauma and emotions of others. Green people couldn’t be tied down, but red people were stubborn. Blue said ‘ungrounded’, but white meant ‘perfectionist’. 

How could he be all of them at once?

He must’ve felt her gaze, because he turned toward her, his brow furrowing as his eyes met her own. He looked at her; really looked at her; that stare so focussed and intense, as if pleading, begging her to see him. She couldn’t tear her eyes from his, something about him drawing her in. There was something about him, something about the tumult of his soul that had her aching to know him. 

To know how someone could be so many colours at once.

But before she could even say anything, he looked away. Almost in an instant, she saw his colours darken, as if by seeing him so clearly, she’d somehow bruised him. It hurt her to watch, a pang of pain through her stomach as he turned his entire body away from her. 

“I’m gonna take a quick break,” he muttered to the girl behind the counter, before hurriedly moving through a curtained-off area.

The girl frowned, but turned back to face Freya with a smile. “Sorry about my brother, he’s a bit of a weirdo.”

Freya smiled politely back at her, and ordered her food, deciding at the last minute to skip the cocktail. She took her cronut to the far side of the park, spreading her jacket out to sit against a tree, and tore piece after piece from the flaky pasty. 

Who was this guy? His sister had called him Rocco. How could he be so many colours at once? And why was he so… so…

Scared?

She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

She’d never seen anything like it, and she was almost certain she’d never see someone like him again. She wished for her Yaya, for the guidance she could give, wishing she was more religious so that she could ask for a sign to point her in the right direction. 

Google was no help, neither were any books she found in Yaya’s things. Freya paced around her apartment, trying to figure it out, on the verge of calling one of those psychic hotlines and asking someone who actually knew what they were doing. 

She knew she should just forget it. She knew it was weird that she was thinking about him this much. For all he knew, she was just some girl; staring at him way too hard, and coming back to stare at him again.

But she just needed answers.

It was almost a week later when she finally went back, and when she did, Rocco wasn’t there. His sister was running the truck by herself, laughing and kidding around with the few customers she had. But as Freya got to the front of the line, she seemed to brighten. 

“It’s you!” she gasped. “You’re back!”

Freya looked up at her questioningly, and the girl beamed at her. 

“Rocco’s been rambling about you all week. Freaking out, and going on like ‘she saw me. She could see me’. None of us have any idea what he’s on about.”

Freya took a deep breath, almost closing her eyes, as she let a small smile pull at her cheek. 

“I know what he means.”

The girl shook her head, laughing to herself. “Well, that makes one of us. He’s just gone off to clear his head. He should be b— oh!”

Freya felt him before she saw him, his presence warming her back, even though she could feel that he was still quite a distance away. She turned, and was almost blinded once more, his disarray of colours even more muddled than before. 

It was like staring too hard at a Monet, watching the watercolours bleed together in a swirl of uncertainty. It was beautiful, in its way, but so… so…

He paused as he saw her, before taking a deep breath of his own. He reached her side, meeting her gaze once more, and exhaled, a single word parting his lips.

“Hey.”

They walked for what seemed like hours, sometimes in silence, sometimes making small talk, but not yet acknowledging what they both already knew. They came to a stop at a small clearing, and he sat, leaning against a large oak tree, his arms resting on his bended knees.

“I don’t know why.”

Freya sat on the ground beside him, watching intently as he stared off into the distance.

“I don’t know why I look like this,” he frowned.

“Can you see it?” she asked, but he just shook his head. 

Freya furrowed her brow, silently asking him the question, and he spoke softly.

“I had someone tell me, once. An old lady in Greece. She pulled me aside and told me my aura was… different. I didn’t really understand what she was saying. I thought she was just a bit, you know, off. But she–” He turned his body toward Freya’s, meeting her eye once more, sending shiver down her spine. “She looked at me the same way you did. Like she could see something really bad. And I just… I don’t know why.”

Freya nodded, holding his gaze, almost distracted as his aura began to grey.

“I’ve never seen one like yours.”

He waited patiently for her to continue, the breeze blowing softly through the curls that made him look like some kind of fallen angel. 

She smiled softly at him. “It’s not bad, at least I don’t think so. It’s just so… different. Most people have one colour, maybe two if they’re in a transition period. But yours is everything; every colour; every emotion all at once. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He furrowed his brow, pursing his lips together. “What does it mean?”

Freya shook her head. “I don’t know. My Yaya was the one who knew what it all meant, and she died a long time ago. I can see the colours, and I know what they mean individually, but I don’t know what it means to have so many at once.”

Rocco paused, looking over at her once more, and she held his gaze. 

“What do you think it means?”

“I told you, I don’t know. I just–”

“Please.”

There was something so honest in his eyes, and she was suddenly overcome with the realisation. 

He believed her. 

No one since her Yaya had believed her when she’d told them about her gift. And here he was, this guy she’d barely met, and he did. She could see it in his eyes, in the honesty of his colours, the purple seeming to pulsate as he trusted his intuition. 

She could feel him, every swirling cloud of his presence, almost like he was drawing her in. There was something there, just under the surface, something she could almost see. She closed her eyes, letting the colours engulf her, feeling them instead of seeing them.

So looked up at him once more. 

“I think it means you’re trapped. It’s like your soul is being pulled in sixteen different directions, and none of them are what you want. It’s torture, and it’s breaking you apart from inside, like you have no idea who or what you’re supposed to be. When I look at it, there’s no sense to it, there’s no consistency. The colours around you are like an oil slick on top of water. It’s beautiful, so very beautiful; but there’s something about it that’s just… so–.”

“Suffocating."

She watched as he whispered it. He swallowed deeply, as if trying to suppress the emotion that had just risen in his throat. There was such pain in his eyes, as if she’d brushed by a part of him that he never realised was hurting. She couldn’t help but wonder what had brought him there. Was it a girl? Or just the weight of his own expectations; choking him with each day that he woke up to walk a path that seemed to trip him at every turn?

She wondered what it would be like to see him without his aura, to see him as others did; and she furrowed her brow. 

A little dishevelled. Tiredness under his eyes. A frayed bracelet that had meant something once, but now, he wore just to look like he had a story. The impractical sandals for the brisk autumn day, the loose shirt and the earthy smell of weed in his hair. He looked broken, like he'd had his face shoved into the dirt one too many times. Like his carefree facade was a single judgemental glance away from falling apart forever.

How could they know - how could any of them know? They couldn’t see him the way that she could. They could see the outward appearance. They could see the truck, and the weed, and the rampant flirting. 

But they couldn’t see him. 

They didn’t see the creativity in his orange. The compassion in his green. The kindness in his pink, or the empathy in his indigo. They couldn’t feel the warmth of his blue, or the energy of his red. There was a universe inside him that only she could see. That even he couldn’t see. 

And it was beautiful.

As the sunlight softened his features, she looked harder, her eyes searching for a pattern in the mayhem of hues. It was there, she knew it was there, she just needed him to breathe. 

Freya took his hand, and he almost recoiled, but with a slight reluctance, he laced his fingers with hers. She said nothing, just held his hand, as the two of them stared at the distant horizon, lingering in the comfortable silence.

There was something so wonderful about his presence; in the warmth of his hand, and the way that setting sun illuminated the gold in his skin. The steady rumble of his breath, and the sound of his voice as he finally spoke.

“Do you believe in fate?” he asked, still not looking at her.

She smiled. “I suppose?”

“Do you think that we were maybe… supposed to meet?”

She didn’t react, just looked over at him, smiling encouragingly as he mulled over the thoughts in his head. 

“Because when you first came last week… I felt… something. Like I knew you were there before I saw you.”

Freya nodded. “I felt it too.”

“So what does that mean?”

She smiled, shrugging her shoulders gently. “Who knows? Maybe we were meant to meet. There’s no way of knowing, really.”

They fell into silence once more, and she brushed her thumb over his hand. He responded in kind, relaxing with each trace of her thumb over his skin. 

He was so out of place in this cold, dreary autumn, like he’d been born in the wrong place. Perhaps it was her own fascination with him, but the few rays of sunlight that still shone seemed to focus on him. They caught the green in his eyes, the pink of his lips, the dark auburn of his hair; the masterpiece of beauty and colour that she couldn’t understand why people couldn’t see. 

“Have you ever travelled?” she asked. 

He shook his head. “One trip to visit my Grandmother in Greece. Other than that… never.”

And suddenly, she knew the answer. 

She turned her body to his, squeezing his hand tighter as her heart began to race.

“Let’s go together.”

Rocco turned to look at her, his brow furrowed, and his colours began to swirl with excitement. His eyes were focussed. Serious. Present.

“Go where?”

Freya couldn’t help it, that same electricity burrowing deep under her skin, as that energy between them seemed to charge.

“Wherever you want to go.”

As they made their way back to the food truck, there was something different about him. The colours were still there, of course they were. But now, they seemed to… shimmer, like they, too, had felt the electricity. Rocco and Freya arrived back at the food truck, and he stumbled over his words a little as he excitedly told his sister he was going away for a while. She raised an eyebrow, but ultimately, smiled and shook her head; as if she’d known that one day, she’d watch him do something exactly like this. 

Freya stopped by her apartment, letting her landlord know she’d be gone for a while, threw some clothes and shoes in a backpack, and grabbed her passport on the way out the door. She hopped on the train to the airport, and walked into the international terminal, the electricity growing with every step.

And there he was. 

He looked up at her, and smiled, looking as nervous as a kid on his first day of school, his rucksack thrown over his shoulder. As soon as she reached him, he slipped his hand into hers, and she could feel he was shaking. 

“What do you think?” she asked, turning his attention toward the board of departing flights. “Peru? Kenya? Indonesia?”

He looked over the board, his brow furrowed, but paused. He closed his eyes, taking a breath, and opened them again, smiling softly to himself. He stepped closer, wrapped his arm around her waist, and pulled her into his side.

“Thailand.”

She nodded, before standing on her tippy-toes, and kissed his cheek. Rocco smiled shyly, that same beautiful energy radiating from his skin, his eyes full with gratitude as she saw him in his entirety.

He was beautiful. He was so beautiful, in his mess of colours and tones, in his opposites and his hypocrisy. He was real, so unbelievably real.

And he was here.

She ran her fingers through those auburn curls, holding his gaze, and smiled softly back at him.

“Let’s go and find out who you are.”

[fox-from-fairytale]

Talia, Lottie, Lucas and Jake would have destroyed Kat, Suresh, Finn and Alfie.

[littlecajunlady]

Aiden is so cute. And tall!

[codename-mango]

Returning!Rocco

Rocco shifted in his chair uncomfortably. The cool morning air, the sun beginning to warm the earth, the gentle breeze through his unruly hair should've calmed him. And he tried to let it. However, the thoughts that gently swirled around his head since being sent home were now a hurricane.

He stood up and started to pace. Maybe getting his blood pumping a bit would help?

Why wasn't she here yet? Rocco started to fear that maybe she had already seen him and turned around and left. The producers assured him that she wouldn't, and simply couldn't, refuse this date. But maybe that makes this so much worse. Maybe picking her was a huge mistake. Maybe coming back was a huge mistake.

He asked a camera man how long he had been waiting at that table. It felt like an eternity. It had only been fifteen minutes.

Rocco paced for a minute longer, before settling down to sit on the grass. He crossed his legs, and rested his hands, palms up, on his knees. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.

No more thoughts. No more Villa. No more cameras. Just him... Existing...

"Rocco?"

His eyes flew open and he was met with the sight of her; the woman he had to leave behind.

"MC!" He scrambled to his feet and adjusted his hair and clothes. He winced at the realization that sitting on grass covered in morning dew was a terrible idea, and tried not to groan at the realization that she came up the hill to witness him meditating.

"Classic Rocco," she said. With her delicate smile, Rocco dared to hope it was affectionate.

"You took the words right out of my mouth," he said sheepishly.

After a moment's hesitation, she closed the distance between them and hugged him. He could tell he wasn't out of the woods yet, but her touch alleviated a painful weight on his heart. Once again, the world disappeared around him, but this time, he had her. It felt right.

But the tranquility didn't last forever, as she pulled away.

"You look good," she said.

"You do too. Like, really good."

"Not as poetic as I remember," she teased.

Rocco laughed. "I... worry that might have been part of my problem the first time around. Too romantic for my own good."

MC's smile faltered. She nodded and looked away.

"Yeah, that's probably what it was..."

Rocco didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say. He should've written everything he wanted to say beforehand. But nooo he had to trust his heart on this. Nevermind the fact that his head was refusing to form words.

MC looked back at him and gestured towards the table. They both took their seats, and Rocco started pouring her a glass of champagne. It was half-full before he caught himself.

"I'm sorry, I should've asked if you wanted this-"

"It's okay! I was going to get it anyway. Uh, thank you."

"You're welcome," he mumbled as he finished pouring.

"I'm surprised you didn't invite Marisol."

And there it was. It hurt, but he knew he deserved it. At least he was prepared for this part.

"I'll pull her for a chat later on. But I didn't want her to get the wrong idea..."

"And what idea might that be?" MC said, careful not give anything away by her voice.

"I'm not here to break up Marisol and Graham. My personal opinions aside, she seems happy with him." Rocco swallowed. "And you seem happy with your partner. The difference is..."

He trailed off, and MC leaned forward. "Is...?"

"... I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. About what we could've had."

"We did have it, in case you've forgotten."

"We had something, but I think that we could've had something real if-"

"So what we had wasn't real?"

Panic.

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

Panic.

"What I meant was- was that I- uh-"

"Rocco..."

Panic.

"Can I start over? I really need you to know where my head's at, but I know I've already fucked this train of thought."

MC's frown softened. She sat back and waved her hand.

"I'm the type of person who says you need to be true to yourself. And before, I thought it was enough. I could still be happy with myself at the end of the day, because at the end of the day, I was honest. But I wasn't as honest as I should've been. I wasn't honest about how insecure Lucas and Henrik made me feel, and I wasn't honest about my feelings for Marisol... I wasn't honest with either of us. I didn't tell you that I was thinking about Marisol until after we kissed during the challenge. And it wasn't until I left that I realized Marisol and I were mainly into each other because we were both insecure."

"You could've told me you were feeling insecure," she said. "We could've talked through it, I could've..." She trailed off and stared at her hands.

"I know. I should've known after I talked to you about uni that you were someone I could trust. Someone I could be vulnerable with. But when you had both new guys thirsting after you..."

Her expression quickly darkened.

"I was worried you'd leave me for someone who's actually confident because I was only pretending to be."

"Next time, don't make assumptions. Just talk to me."

"... There's going to be a next time?" Rocco said, smiling.

She rolled her eyes. He was just about to give up, just about to apologize for dragging her out of bed for this, when she said,

"If you want me, you have your work cut out for you."

"I don't expect any different."

[subsequentibis]

HI i wrote a pilot podcast episode of underbelly to get a feel for the tone & flow of things. it was fun!!

[masquenoire]

OOC// What are some things that make Roman feel sad?

Few things make Roman Sionis feel sad. Years ago, it might have been a different story; he was a very lonely child for the most part whose parents made it crystal clear to him how unwanted he was, how much harder he made their lives and berated him constantly for how he couldn’t even begin to live up to their lofty expectations. It wasn’t much better elsewhere; Roman had few friends even amongst the other children of Gotham’s upper class families, a little too ‘odd’ and cursed with no filter to be able to truly fit in. Fortunately there were a few positive influences during this time. A few employees hired to take care of the family household and chores treated Roman well enough, caring more about the child than his own parents did. It was the chauffeur who realized he’d gone missing during one particular party and ventured out into the forest to bring him back when he’d been bitten by a rabid raccoon, though had been threatened by Mr. and Mrs. Sionis to not speak about the incident or else lose her job. Receiving so little genuine consideration throughout his life has long since burnt out Roman’s ability to feel sadness, because if nobody ever felt sorry for him then why the fuck should he feel the same about anything (or anyone) else? He’s older now, capable of looking after himself and everything he’s got is entirely his own doing. He doesn’t need empathy, to give or receive and frankly, such feelings are only weaknesses to exploit in Gotham’s crime-ridden underbelly where everybody’s out to get you. On rare occasions, Roman will notice a child who is not happy, clearly not loved or cared for by their parent/s at all. It’s a stark reminder as to how he once was, a haunting memory of how he’d once been and had nobody in his corner. For the briefest of moments he’ll feel the sharp, painful sting of sadness, memories of times he’d thought he’d long since gotten over... until familiar rage overcomes him, wanting nothing more than to -lash out- at the closest thing. To Roman, anger is much more familiar and preferrable to grief.

[rocco-the2ndstormfilearchiver]

Lust.

it is.. interesting to say the least, in most media lust is portrayed as a muscular attractive man or a busty woman with a cunning trickster or perhaps slutty personality but I don’t feel like that’s what lust would be. No I think lust is quite the opposite.

Lust in media is depicted as the thing ones lust over which yes make sense, but what if lust represented the people lusting? This in my head has been my take on lust and I feel like I wanted to share it in detail of what I think. Cause honestly I am very tired of lust (or the seven deadly sins in general) portrayed as these typical disney looking villains, though no shade towards creators who do so with their takes cause to me all is acceptable, I just wanna share my thoughts.

So we are focusing on Lust, and the embodiment of lust if it were represented as the people who lust.

My take if taken visually would be very Rain World or OFF inspired visually, just cause those are really rad. Anyhoo..

First off, if this is based off those who lust, the first thing is oddly enough something you wouldn’t expect!

Blindness

Odd isn’t it? Lust is a thing of visual desire, the looks of someone’s body! But I think that from my time on the internet there are so many fetishes and desires that when looked at do not really make sense, yes you could look at it scientifically but really from an outside view there is no sense to a lot of absurd fetishes. And that’s where blindness comes into play. When you are attracted to something (especially of a more odd type) your mind is almost clouded with what it actually is in reality, I’m not exactly sure if I wanna list off fetishes I think this relates too but I feel you could kinda get a message, basically just you’re just sucked in and can’t understand it is gross or odd. That is why lust is blind, only through other senses to they get their pleasure, but if it opened its eyes it would realize just how foul and disgusting what it enjoys is. Only liking something for the small amount of pleasure given.

Now Lust isn’t attractive, no, lust is a very ugly beast, that be it how you think ugly looks, lust appears as that, a goblin of sorts, with enlightened senses other then sight just to absorb the disgusting nature of what pleases it.

Lust also, even if very very pathetic looking is an undying creature. No matter how many times you try to rid of it, kill it, or harm it, Lust will always return, and when Lust sees something it likes, it will do anything in its power to get it, even if it has to hurt itself or others in the way.

Idk these are my thoughts, I thought I was gonna expand on this more but idk. I hope this might help writers or artists wanting to make a character based on lust, hope you all enjoy!

[starbanmk]

"oh, I'd do so many things for you..."

—

“Ashswagg. Ancient God of Smoke.” The mortal bowed his head as he spoke the forgotten God's name. Ash blinked his many, tired eyes, awake for the first time in centuries.

It was a roman. A roman who had done his research. How had he gotten into Ash's temple? His walls, his body, had long since been overgrown, the native bushes of roses curling around his pillars like a lover hanging off their partner’s arm.

Ash refocused on the roman who was watching him carefully.

“You've woken me.” He said plainly, shifting his form to something similar to the mortals. More smoke pooled onto the floor as he did, tickling their feet.

“I am in your service.” The roman said, extending a rose he'd been holding out to the God.

Ashswagg laughed, he could tell it hurt the roman's head. “What do you think you can do for me?”

“Anything.” The roman (Ash supposed he was his roman now) blinked hard, taking a courageous step forward, urging Ash to take his rose. “I’d do so many things for you.”

“You're a roman.” Ash observed. “You have your own gods.”

“My name is Reddoons,” He said, “Only the gods I believe in can dictate my fate.”

Ash narrowed his eyes. “That's silly. Your fate is not something I care to dictate.”

“So be it. I guess I'm on my own, then.” Reddoons shrugged, then nodded to the flower in his hand. “A rose?”

Slowly, Ashswagg stepped forward and took the rose. It's thorn pierced his skin, but he didn’t feel it. He was a god. “Thank you.”

Reddoons grinned. Ash inspected the flower. What an interesting man.

—

[end of part one]

[tankgotstuckinthecircusgate]

i didn't get rocco's character i just made a delusional young version of him that i like

[theloveinc]

Also to be honest I just hate where my writing is at right now, too

[codename-mango]

Just One

Rocco reflects on the past at Magnolia's wedding.

[mangowafflesss]

HATRED FOR YOU | PART. 1

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Fem!Writer!Reader

Summary: You are a writer who spends most of your days and nights writing your next book in the series. The man next door who you don't think likes you very much is obsessed with your books. What will happen when he finds out you are the very writer he loves so much?

[Part 2] [Part 3]

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The rhythmic tapping of your fingers against the side of your desk filled the room as you thought of something to write for your book. It was the fourth in your most popular series and you were… stuck. 

Glancing down at the time on your computer screen you groaned when you realised you stayed up the whole night staring at the bright light of your screen. It wasn't all too bad though seeing as you wrote a whole entire chapter with the little burst of motivation you had at 9pm. 

Feeling the slight rumble in your stomach you sigh softly while making sure everything was saved and okay before turning off your computer and swivelling your chair from under your desk. Rubbing your eyes, you trudge out of your office and go searching through your kitchen pantry looking for something. Anything. 

Frowning, you sadly couldn't find anything quick to snack on that didn’t have to be put in the oven or have multiple ingredients added to it. Your fridge didn't have much luck either with just some cheese and condiment bottles lining the door. 

Looking at the time again - noticing it had only been five minutes - you scrunch your face up at the thought of leaving your apartment so early but you also know your favourite bakery down the street had just opened five minutes ago. 

“Fuck it, I deserve a treat after what I just wrote” you say to your reflection as you slid on some shoes by your front door. The mirror on the wall showed the real you and it was something you hated, the tired look on your face that you cover with a smile or a ‘I’m okay’ if someone asks you something. 

Blowing out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, you wrapped your coat around yourself and also a fluffy scarf to keep the colder morning away from your neck as if it was a vampire. 

Pulling open your door you're met with quiet and softly closed the door behind you, not wanting to disturb your still sleeping neighbours. You pressed the button for the elevator and waited for it to arrive while looking out of the window that was next to you. It was foggy and looked cold, you loved the cold but sometimes it was just a little bit too cold. 

Getting into the elevator you pressed the button to the ground floor and rolled your shoulders to relieve some of the tension you have in them. You knew sitting at your desk for hours every day was bad for you but the benefits from doing so was worth it. You have gotten many messages from readers all around the world telling you all about how they love your books and how somehow they've helped them. It filled a sense of pride in you that you didn’t know you needed. 

When you got to the bakery you smiled so hard when you smelt the familiar scent of sugar and vanilla. This will always have a special place in your heart as this is where you spent most of your time writing your first book, where you also felt the sense of hopelessness for the first time. The owner, Rocco, had helped pull you out of that stump with his wise words and baked goods - and a lot of them - you dedicated the first page of every book you’ve written to him and it will never change. 

Pushing open the heavy door, the scent from the outside got stronger the further to the counter you went. You felt as if a heavy blanket got placed over your shoulders at the familiarity of the small bakery, it made you feel as if you were home. 

“Y/N?! Oh my, what do I owe the pleasure so early in the morning” the tanned blonde called out to you as soon as he heard the door jingle. 

“Some of those shortbreads you know I adore” you looked at the display case that showcases the specials for the day and also the classics everyone loves. 

“Hard night or should I say morning?” He laughs while placing three equal pieces of shortbread into a small paper packet. You sigh while resting your arm on top of the counter while holding your head up with your hand “Do I look that bad?” You ask with a groan which just makes the man laugh. 

“Do you want anything else?” He asks while taking a sip from his coffee. You hum while sliding your eyes over to the case again. “I’ll try the midnight delights, they look delicious” your mouth was practically watering at the sight of them, you didn’t know what was in them but as long as they taste good as they look you don’t care. 

“Do you have any food in the house? Need Steph to get you anything?” You shake your head while hiding a yawn behind your hand “Nah I’m all good, just went grocery shopping a couple days ago” you lie straight through your teeth but you know Rocco could see through your lies. 

“Alright, here’s your stuff, now get out and get some sleep” he pushes the paper packets your way and you hold a hand over your chest feigning disgust. 

“Is that a way you should be treating customers?! How dare you, I’ll be leaving a bad review after I eat these delicious goods!” You say while slamming some cash into the tip jar and blowing a kiss as you back out of the door. 

You giggle the whole way back to your apartment with your hand full of your favourite things. Once you stood in the elevator you pressed the button to your floor and snapped off some shortbread before plopping it into your mouth. 

The doors to the elevator stopped and you looked at the gloved hand that was in between them. The doors reopened and a man strode into the elevator, he stood next to you and pressed the number which leads to the same floor you are on.  

Oh. 

You try to catch a glimpse at his face but it's covered with a scarf and you didn’t want to catch him staring at you like a creep - especially if he is your neighbour. You really want to see his face, but how? 

You clear your throat before holding up your bag of shortbread “Would you like one? They’re freshly baked and really tasty” you rattle it to get his attention and he looks down at them before raking his eyes over to your face. You give him a friendly smile but it was a sort of grimace due to you having zero energy. 

The elevator stops and the doors open to your floor, he walks out immediately and you stand there with your arm still up in the air looking like an idiot. You watch as he marches down the small hallway with his bag swishing as he moves. Okay, maybe he doesn’t like shortbread. 

Shrugging your shoulders you go to your door and unlock it but before you walk inside you see the same man looking at you over his shoulder before walking into his apartment and shutting the door behind him. 

You look around your apartment and sigh as you take in the dirty atmosphere, there is a small layer of dust on your things and a pile of dirty dishes either in the sink or on the counter. Placing down the baked goods you take off your coat and shoes before rolling up your sleeves. It wasn’t going to get done and it will probably be on your mind the entire time you even try and get some sleep. 

You cleaned your little home in an hour and stood in the middle of your living room with your hands on your hips taking in your work. You had your eyes locked onto your vacuum cleaner and made a noise with your mouth as you thought about it. You eventually decided against it when you realised it was only eight in the morning and it wasn’t probably what people wanted to hear right now. 

Taking a quick shower, you then crawl into your bed but accidentally stubbed your toe on the bed frame with how fast you were moving. “Ah, fuck me. Stupid bed frame” you crumbled onto your bed and cradled your foot in your hand while rolling on your side like a foetus. When you finally got over that little moment, you got under the covers and closed your eyes tightly before dozing off into a land of dreams. 

On the other side of the wall, however, Ghost sat awake. He had heard you hitting your toe on the side of your bed and could hear the cars moving around outside of his open window. The cool breeze made the room drop in temperature but Ghost didn’t mind and much preferred to sleep in these conditions. 

He wouldn’t be able to go to sleep yet so he reached over to his bedside table and picked up his copy of ‘Hatred for You’ and turned to the first page. The pages were worn and he had read it many times along with the others in the series but he wanted to read them all from the beginning. He'd never wanted anyone to know he read such books and didn’t ever let them leave his apartment but he was obsessed with them. 

He loved the writer. 

The writer who was currently on the other side of his bedroom wall sleeping.

[my313]

instagram bf!beomgyu 🐻📷

now playing 𝄞₊⊹ love - rocco

⋆ pairing: bf!beomgyu x f!reader

⋆ warnings/themes: fluff, pda, paris trip w gyu, has some insta story pics, suggestive at the end but not rly?, i love writing cute whipped men beomgyu will not be exempt!!!!

a/n: only a few days until cb!! so have this hehe <3 been thinking abt it since he opened his insta acc .. and the amount of pics hes taken for user page.soobin!!! me 🤝 beomu photographer agenda

your friends compliment how well your paris pictures turned out, gushing about how they can tell you’re glowing even through their phone screens. one of them even asks how you smile so genuinely. your colleague asks how your candids look picture-perfect, as if the sun knew when to kiss your skin, or when the moon illuminated the swell of your cheeks, and especially as if the camera just knew when to shoot.

there is no magic to your pictures, but you have something — rather, someone — quite close.

your boyfriend of many years, choi beomgyu, had always had a knack for making things appear more beautiful in his capable, calloused hands. though, if he heard you now, he’d give you a scolding, “the camera just captures your beauty. it’s not any of my doing, babe.”

maybe that’s a half-truth, but you know that your boyfriend definitely works his magic on you.

because when beomgyu has a lens in his hold, be it your phone or an ebay-bought digicam; it’s his love for you that carries. every frame that manages to reach yours or his instagram following, even the ones tucked safely behind your phone case and in his wallet.

it’s all a culmination of beomgyu’s lovestruck gaze, his animated attempts of hyping you up, the jokes you pass back and forth, and the utter adoration you have for him.

you vividly remember the night you and beomgyu aimlessly strolled around paris. the streets would appear dull to many, but you and beomgyu could make any city an enamoring experience with your uncontrollable fits of laughter, mischievous giggles, and the comical sway of your clasped hands back and forth.

like most tourists, you end up by the eiffel tower.

when beomgyu unclasps your hands to paw at the lens cover of his camera, you laugh. “isn’t it illegal to take pictures here at night?”

he moves the camera to his face, trying to look through the viewfinder with one eye shut. “you know what’s illegal, baby?” he redirects his gaze to your unassuming face, the camera moved to the side.

“hm?” your head tilts, genuinely curious.

beomgyu bites down on his lip to hide the growing smile he always can’t seem to control when you’re at mercy to his foolishness. one of the things he loves about you is the way you’re simultaneously gullible and quick enough to join the banter he sets up.

his index finger positions itself on the button readily, shifting back to cameraman mode with the chunky piece of technology blocking out his face.

“to not take photos of my gorgeous, most prettiest, scrumptious, girlfriend that i can frame and put up everywhere.” click.

you stare at him, dumbfounded. even more confused by the click of his camera. you don’t hear it again until seconds later when you throw your head back to let out a boisterous laugh; the ridiculous kind that only beomgyu loves and other tourists hate. click.

when your face is back in the viewfinder, beomgyu shoots again. it feels as though the lens is brought to a new life when you’re the muse, because beomgyu’s rose-coloured gaze shifts the world the camera sees through a pinkish filter — one with hearts and sparkles everywhere. all because of you.

the warmly-lit eiffel tower shies in comparison to the warmth of the grin etched on your lips, cheeks about to burst. click. click. click. one more with flash.

beomgyu makes a halt, capping the lens and slinging the camera over his neck again. you’re calming down from your laughing fit, but you still clutch at your stomach breathlessly. beomgyu takes this as a chance to walk over and take you into his arms.

he nestles you into him, letting you rest your head on his chest like you were too shy to look up at him. a chaste kiss to your forehead prompts you to look up at beomgyu. he smiles fondly at you, “wanna see the photos?”

you grumble, falling back into his chest. his hearty laugh makes you feel the vibrations, and you can’t picture being with anyone else in this lifetime or the next. “i guess…”

he lets you pull away, but only so far. beomgyu’s arms never stray too far, especially when he’s not holding your hand. he wraps an arm around your waist and huddles you in, like showing you these candid pictures of you laughing at his nth stupid joke was some top secret.

“this one’s gonna be a banger, babe…” he scrolls through the camera’s memory roll. “credit me when you post, okay?” he pouts at you.

you roll your eyes, more dotingly than in irritation. “clout chaser…”

“nooo..” he whines.

“i just want people to see who’s behind the camera, making you laugh, seeing you at your most beautiful.” beomgyu’s shift from teasing to sentimental has you cooing. you can’t help but give him a little head pat, one of his favourite forms of affection. like a puppy.

you nod, laughing along. “don’t worry, everyone knows. but i’ll do it for you, my struggling artist~”

“i won’t be struggling anymore if you gimme kiss,” back to taking jabs. his lips are in a pout and you’re tempted to pinch them with your fingers, knowing he’ll grumble cutely.

“c’mon, it’s commission for the photos. good deal, right?”

you peck his lips multiple times, then one on either side of his cheek. by the time you finish, he looks like a smiling fool. you poke at his whisker dimples while your other hand holds his hand.

“i’ll give you an even better payment if we go back to the hotel now. what d’you think, pretty boy?”

beomgyu has never walked that fast in his life.