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plasticfangtastic · 8 months

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American Royalty. Ch. 1

A Homelander X F!Reader fanfic

A/N: I am writing this alongside another fic so sorry for the publishing schedule altho I got 2 chapters done, this is my dadlander fic and hyperfixation explorations

Sypnosis: Homelander never wanted to remember you again, but after welcoming Ryan into his life, he thought of you, and the lie that tore you two apart, but now... thinking back, thinking of your betrayal-- was he perhaps wrong about who the father of your unborn child was? Did you perhaps told the truth all those years ago? That it was his.

Tags: mild gore, angst, slow burn, fluff, OC characthers, child neglect, dadlander, romance.

Chapter One

Blue

It had been by pure chance, whether it had been a combination of forced reminiscing and exhaustion that Homelander had thought of you after all these years; These meetings had been proven wasteful of his time, nothing the PR and Digital Marketing departments could come up that was good enough, and somehow he had gone from irritated to just defeated.

He sulked in his chair listening to their meandering voices brainstorming potential ideas as to how Ryan’s new origin story had to be developed and handled, whether it was too squeaky clean or absurd, how much could they risk offending the child, how much of his mother should be kept from the public (not that they were very aware of the fine details, as Homelander had been more than just vague about it, he had simply no intent to divulge about his son’s conception, upbringing or his mother’s fate) Homelander would never allowed the public to look with pity or fear at his son, he would not allow them to brand him as a murdered over an accident– he could still hear his son weeping and shaking in his sleep, waking up in a fright, seeing invisible blood in his hands.

Homelander had grown overprotective of the boy, he was made indestructible but his mind and heart were glass, still pure and uncorrupted by the awful world they inhabited, he would never allow anything else to taint it and bring him nightmares– so this had to be perfect.

To make it worse, the kid was growing impatient and depressed, forced to stay in the tower until this story was concocted, he couldn’t attend school or interact with other children until he was trained and learned his lines, making his father increasingly more paranoid that his son was slowly growing resentful.

“Mister Homelander… what if we base Ryan’s mom off one of your other ex-girlfriends?” A rather tired intern had muttered– preferably somebody dead…”

The room shot daggers at the nameless intern but Homelander simply sat in silence and gave it a thought, he had plenty of unsuited mates disposed and handled in the past, the amount of NDA issued made for a small but noticeable stack alone, he looked at the table and the box of cannolis that the group had been munching on, looking at the small printed italian flag on the box’s side.

That he thought of you for the first time in years.

You had been his new personal chef, your interactions minimal as you brought him his meals, he hadn’t known at first how heartbroken you’d look as he returned half touched dishes over and over, it had become a competition against yourself to make him eat, every leftover morself a cause of grief, as if your honor and ego had been beaten mercilessly with every dirty plate.

One evening, Homelander sat on his couch watching a documentary by Orson Wells, he hadn’t noticed you there as you brought him dinner, the way you looked at him with spite waiting to throw the most likely untouched plate of pasta back at his face, it would get you fired and possibly killed but you couldn’t take it anymore. You were a chef, a professional, you had turned down a dream job and left the restaurant you loved for the honor of being Homelander’s personal chef, the job that would open you a thousand doors but it was without reward now it felt like your biggest mistake, no matter what you made he fucking hate it but offered no feedback, you had no clue what he wanted, what he disliked and liked, what he craved, or how he liked his meals– he simply left your food untouched.

Diverting his gaze from the film, he noted your food and that you were still there with a block of pecorino and a grater in your hands.

He stood up with a groan, lifting the silver cover to reveal boring pasta and bolognese sauce, it wasn’t styled exceptionally, it didn’t even look too appetizing, it was just some fresh linguine covered in meat sauce, he stared at you as if this was some sort of joke but your dead eyed expression was off-putting.

“Would you like some fresh cheese, sir?” Your voice might as well have been automated.

Frankly he didn’t want any cheese but pasta had to be eaten with cheese, he gestured for you to grate watching an off-white pile form on top of his pasta with no intention of stopping.

“That’s enough” he said sharply, he took the plate looking at the mound and then back at you who was still in the room, he wrapped his fork with the pasta doing his best not to stain his suit.

You just wanted to save the time with coming back to pick up the insults, but there he took the first bite of this homely dish heis eyes opened up, there hadn’t been anything special, you simply had taken some left over pasta and brought a jar of your grandma’s sauce, a recipe she had guarded fiercely ever since she stole it from some italian friend’s mom many many years ago, you adored this recipe, it had been the reason why you fell in love with food, you loved visiting your grandmother when it was time to jar the sauce, and when she served you a humbled serving of bolognese– he gave it a second bite letting the tangy and fresh sauce wash over him.

And that’s when he finally noticed you for real, how closely you watched him eat, smiling as he took another mouthful and mixed more of the fresh pecorino, there had been something warm about this meal, it lack pretense, it was something that no high end 5-star restaurant would serve but it tasted… warm.

From that point on, he looked forward to his meals, wanting to see what the fuck had you done to make food taste worthy of his body, noting you would personally deliver the meals after he failed to clean the plate on the previous one, he hadn’t even known your name but he noticed you.

You were cute, your voice had gained some warmth since that awkward first impression, he could tell it was these homemade meals that tasted the best, as if you put everything you had to make them taste delicious, there were no frills with these, just good homemade fair, made with love, he had began asking for things he had been curious but never served as if they were above his status like meatloaf, carbonara, shepherd's pie, etcetera. These were the kinds of meals the families he’d seen growing up behind the screen would eat, he had been the first to strike a conversation.

You listened, you talked, and before he knew it, he had found himself asking for your company at the dinner table. You were hesitant at first but he was handsome and charming, but above all he was the Homelander! While apprehensive you still took to his offer just to smugly enjoy seeing him enjoy your food, proud that you had triumph in this battle where so many had been defeated, you’d cracked the code and god it felt good.

It became part of your weekly schedule, having dinner at his penthouse and chatting about anything, he loved talking and eventually it became apparent that it wasn’t because he was in loved with his voice but simply… he hadn’t got anybody who enjoyed listening to him, you were attentive, you responded well and even if you weren’t sure about something you weren’t going to let him feel as if you weren’t approachable anymore, you were more than happy to hear him explain to you a topic because his eyes gleam like those of a small kid telling you about something new they learned at school– in truth you loved how happy he became when he could rambled about things, as if nobody in the world had ever given five seconds of their time to let him talk about strange events from history and his theories, tonite he wanted to talk about the Dyatlov Pass incident and star formations that he was sad that he couldn’t see from New York, wishing you could see how the sky looked like from his cabin.

You’d spend more and more time in his home as the conversations grew more frequent, as he wanted to hear more about your interests and hobbies.

Thinking of how cute you looked while baking, how cute your laugh was, of the way you always held him after long days, that first real date, that first time you held hands, the first shy kiss after dinner.

As he took a long whiff to catch some of that gentle sweetness, he thought of the last day you were together.

That sound.

The thing that’s the size of a bean.

The anger, his heart shattered, all the colors of the world had dissipated when he saw that tumor growing in your stomach, he wanted to hurt you as much as you did, to shut you up as you threw excuses, begging him to believe you.

But that thing wasn’t his.

It couldn’t be his.

You said it was his, that the baby you didn’t even know was inside you was his, but he couldn’t be the father.

His eyes widened, he stood up and left the room, his mind focused on your name. They had tried getting his attention but could only give up as nobody would dare to chase after him, Homelander found himself entering the analytics offices towards the first chump he spotted.

“Can you find me information on a former employee?” He said firmly, the junior staff jumped at his seat nodding frantically– their name was Y/N L/N.” he said quietly.

The staffer didn’t have to do much work, you were easy to find, your name attached to Brooklyn’s most loved pizzeria for the last couple years, your face on their socials, and even a video from some food channel following what it was like working in Brooklyn’s hottest pizzeria had you in it, your shop had been listed as the best two years in a row, Homelander couldn’t bare looking at your face, but he asked for an address.

That night after spending time with Ryan who seemed to be sulking more and more, as he watched him eat his dinner, he thought of you, the kid was meandering whatever was on his plate didn’t feel appetizing, his meal was no different from what it was served in a high-end restaurant and the kid had no desire to eat it, he wanted Ryan to have the finest things when all he wanted was to have his mom’s tacos– his son opted to head for bed early skipping dinner all together, it was almost 10 pm, a heavy feeling had been boiling in his stomach since that meeting.

Taking flight all the way to some red brick Brooklyn projects, hovering about until he encountered you.

Time had been kind to you but you looked tired, the glow in your skin now dulled, your appearance unkempt, your clothes worn and old, your shoes the nicest thing you worn but they still creased and dirty, you looked beyond exhausted, your eyes half closed and your arms dangling on your sides as you carried a couple grocery bags, he looked around at the constructions and rubbish, at the hooligans and wannabe gangbangers, and the rancid smell. Hundred buildings all the same, he wanted to get closer as he watched you walk alone in those sticky white painted brick walls, you stopped suddenly by one of the brown doors, there were only four other doors in that floor, waiting patiently, an old lady opens the door, you two exchanging pleasantries as you handed the lady two of your grocery bags, a small dog came to say hello and then… there she was.

She was small for her age, she didn’t jump with excitement or say much to you, just a slight bow to the old lady and she walked in front of you as you said goodbye, only stopping two doors down.

Your apartment was small, two small bedrooms, small kitchen and barely sparsely decorated, but it was clean and tidy, your daughter dropped her school bag, and headed for the bedroom while you moved to the kitchen, never really talking to each other, he found himself flying closer just to get a perfect vision of that child.

She was a mini-you, taken so much from you, whoever the father was it didn’t seem to have mattered in the end for the kid got nothing from him, she changed to her pajamas as you sat on the couch after throwing away your uniform to the floor.

You two talked briefly, you didn’t read her any stories before bed or kissed her good night, you simply stared at each other and talked while you stretched your feet.

The little girl entered her room, a tidy space, books piled up on the floor in sharp stacks against the wall, a desk containing some electronics and a couple stuffed animals.

She was a cute thing, just like you had been once, her hair short and her straight bangs covering most of her face, too long for it too be safe, she had your complexion and jet black hair, she sat on her desk turning the desk lamp and picked her Kindle up, looking at her clock then back at her Kindle, she sat there for a couple minutes digesting some pages until it was almost midnight, before heading to the living room– you’d passed out on the couch, she took your phone and put it to charge fidgeting with something before leaving it, turning the TV off, and finally turning around to slip a quilt on top of her mother.

Homelander almost felt sorry for the kid, after all you had done to him only to neglect your child, you were just as much of a scumbag as he had imagined, he had had enough wanting to fly away until he saw the little girl staring back at him.

The lights were off on the home, and it was dark with the streets below shaded piss yellow, he looked around wondering if there was something nearby that caught your daughter’s attention but she was staring straight at Homelander, she forced the window open peeking her small frame slightly out the window, in the dark starless night while strangers made a ruckus a couple streets from here, a bright twinkling of pale blue illuminated your home.

He got closer, something caught in his throat as he came only a meter away from your daughter.

She looked so much like you but her eyes even as they lost their unnatural light were so blue, as if the entire ocean lived in her eyes.

The curtains slid shut, his chin flicked in surprise as he caught the small figure plainly ignoring him, he was loved by all, especially children! Even those whose favorites were Noir, A-Train or Maeve loved him! Yet this little girl had just shrugged him off and ignored him, simply returning to her bedroom to shut the second set of blinds and jump straight to bed.

Homelander was left dumbfounded, not once had he seen such disinterest and callousness from a member of his safest demographic, so he stood in mid-air pondering about killing both of you briefly, just as the heat from his cheeks cooled down, he stared at the now sleeping brat, wondering about that inhuman blue light that glossed her big round eyes.

#homelander #homelander x reader #the boys oc characther #homelander fanfiction #american royalty #my fic tag #personal #dadlander #I been possessed #not proofreaded sorry #homelander x f!reader #homelander x you

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sgiandubh · 6 months

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"He's actually paying those PR people? Whatever for? A drunk wombat would be better at the task." I LOL'd because my god have we been asking this very question of both Sam and Cait for years. They're PR is actually the worst. It's honestly hard to believe at times. Absolutely zero idea who either of them are trying to reach. The recalibrating after that VF disaster sent Cait into hiding, I'm not sure she's done another print interview since Belfast promo ended and if the Sam articles are going to continue on this way, he can quit too. Boring.

Dear Quit Anon,

I am flattered I managed to bring a smile or even a LOL, but I am not particularly glad about it. Unlike droves of people who think this PR shitshow is sad, I actually find it mystifying.

You are right. Goddess C went into occultation after that cursed VF interview. There are clear reasons, I think, for that. Also, please take into account the fact that, despite the illusions peddled by some fuckwits in this fandom, there are many things we simply do not know (nor should we, most probably).

As for S, I guess that ever since she went totally MIA (as I said, make-up and fash-un promo don't really compensate), he is overexposing himself. On purpose. Perhaps to protect her (I think so). Certainly to hide something. Since this is no way in hell about being gay (I will die on that hill and I know I am right), the only thing he could hide is well... I don't really need to draw it, do I?

Smoke and mirrors is always a risky strategy. S simply hasn't got what it takes to play that game long term, probably for the same reasons he was never a serious shortlist candidate for Bond. At this point in time, he'd mechanically go with whatever merde du jour is thrown by his imbecile PR on the table. Still, it's high time he'd seriously pull himself together. He can do better, as I wrote in a comment: he can do NYT and he did it very well, recently. And I was glad to see that. But Metro is just disappointing, clueless and tasteless. And it's padding up a press portfolio with amiable, meaningless bullshit that goes nowhere. Or at least nowhere near he wants to be or see himself in, let's say, five years from now.

OL is going to end. It has to. It's been both a blessing and a curse, I said that before. Then, it will be high time to end the fucking Truman Show. He (abstractly) knows that, he keeps hinting about it. “I’m ready for new challenges, but also nervous about what it’s like in the real world” - for some reason, I found this phrase very telling. But I doubt he internalized what probably still feels like a safely remote occurrence, right now.

What are his real projects? For the moment, zero. Directing? I'd love to see it, but he's got no real credentials for that. Bond? I mean, publicly gushing and insisting is not going to manifest it. He needs a real movie, a good one to break that glass ceiling. Is he going to get it? I hope so. But his personal brand awareness is still low. The PR clowns should stop talking to us, in here: we are already here and not going anywhere. All of us: antis, mommies, shippers, fencers, haters, trolls. They should talk to the people who have no clue who S is, and do it differently. He should step out of his comfort zone, ditch the leeches and refuse to discuss his personal life, for a while. There, I said it.

What are her real projects? For the moment, not much. Sure, we have The Cut, where I gather her part is minimalistic, to be kind. We also have The Amateur, of which very little is known at the moment. However, if I am correct, she is not one of the leads. Enough said. And beyond that? Crickets.

Make no mistake. The real litmus test is not now. The real litmus test is 2025. And then we'll see. And I'll still be here, taking weeping Anons because I don't know who said I don't know what I don't know where. Mark me.

#anon #fandom #shitshow

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ash-and-starlight · 6 months

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hi. So. I feel like I’ve reblogged enough of your art going rabid and screaming about it to actually come here and just tell you. Your art…. I am forever indebted to it. I’m not even joking rn I literally saw your art, realised the link was to tumblr and said: yep. I’m getting tumblr now. I could literally (I’m honestly not exaggerating) write a thesis about how much I love your art buuuuut I feel like that may come across as mildly creepy so I’ll limit it to one ask. Your art is absolutely BREATHTAKING. I cannot express how much I adore it with a passion. Every single time I see it I literally screech and grip my pillows and roll around and cry. You are one of the most talented artists I’ve ever come across. Like I don’t think u understand the sheer POWER that u hold. It’s unmatched, truly. I’ve literally never been so affected by someone’s art in my LIFE and if you ask anyone I know irl who ash is they’ll say: oh it’s that one artist who Sofia is batshit crazy about. You have the most incredible understanding of colours, anatomy, dynamics & poses, linework, emoTIONS, I could go on forever ever. I just hope you know how beloved you are in my eyes and everyone else’s, like we ADORE you and your art. Anyway to summarise this possibly stalker-ish ask. You’re literally the best person ever and your art is my reason to keep going. THANK YOU FOREVER !!! <3333

HIII!! god your tags had me giggling and blushing and kicking my legs for the past few days thank you so muuuuchhh you have no idea how much that means to me 😭😭 and giggling weeping crying abt this message too hello this IS an essay it’s even better than an essay okay!!! holy shit!!?? augh thank youuu thank you thank you so much i have no words like my brain is now just [very loud boiling teapot whistle]

i will think abt this forever and ever, i’m so glad you like my art that much and to know that it affects you so deeply thank you THANKKKK YOUU for taking time to reach out and write so many nice things omg 😭😭

also right back @ u?? im still shook by how you can draw so fast and consistently Good like your style is so distinctive, dynamic and full of life actually let me go get eye enlargement surgery to look at it more

aaaudhshshgds tysm again i’m going to print out your words 2947373 times and use them as wallpaper on my entire house

#WILL NEVER BE NORMAL AGAIN THANK YOOOUUUUUU #ash replies

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remedyturtles · 1 month

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Hi. SO. I just read your newest fic, the human au one, and may i just say....

HOLY SHOT I AM PHYSICALLY IN PAIN MY GOD I AM HURTING SO MUCH LIKE FOR REALSIES

im not much for crying, but there were at least 5 distinct moments that make me full body heaving SOB, like i was reading the fist 1/6th or so in front of my family and then had to retreat so I could finish it in peace.

I know I'd be curious so the 5 parts were

1.) when mikey found Leo outside of Splinter's door and LEo couldn't hug him back so then Mikey hugged twice as hard. yeah that part had me weeping.

2.) When I realized that Leo was really giving up on Basketball, oh my god I had to take a lap my stomach physically hurt thinking about him being in that position and slowly realiizng that he did it to himself I was crying into my little turtle plushie just crying my god

3.) When the family had the little meeting after he offered Mikey the comics, I needed to take another quick little lap because they care about him so much and he can't even see that but they care so much and I just hurt so much for this poor boy

4.) When Raph said something about having a secret group chat MY GOD I literally had to close my laptop and go stim for a second like CAN YOU IMAGINE if they did have one, even one that was well meaning like in death wish just to talk about updates on his condition, if he discovered one that wa even well meaning it would have absolutly broken him

5.) When splinter immedietly ran to him during the reveal like oh god i think i literally just ugly sobbed into my pillow they love him so much good lord-

there was definitly more but those are the only ones i can think of off the top of my head. Anyways, I just wanted to say that I adore all of your fics so so much, I literally have a printed copy of death wish from my friends as a christmas present because i talked about it so much and all of your works just mean so much to me, you are quite literally my favorite author, period. not even favorite fic author, just favorite author.

But yeah, i wanted to make a special trip out to tumblr because you are truly my favorite fic author and to say thank you. I have struggled with a similar situation to Leo's before, unfrtunatly from tenagers and adults, and i struggle with a lot of the things that leo had on his list as well. the anxiety stomaches were also incredibly relatable and i just need to stop because ive been rambling for a while now, but just. thank you. this fic was incredible, much like all your others. thank you so much, i really needed something like this right now. thank you.

WAGHHGH im so glad u enjoyed i loved writing it

omg love that you have a copy :D and AKWAJGH i am incredibly flattered dude thank you so much???? cheers!!!

#rem askbox #FAVOURITE AUTHOR??? that is wild i'm just a nobody ahahahahah

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werewolfnightwalker · 4 months

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Author!Dabi; Part Two

Part One here!

Dabi pretended to forget about the book after a while. Hawks never really brought it up again, though Dabi caught him reading it every now and then.

Sometimes he called Dabi "Raven," to which Dabi replied, "Songbird," but that was it. He never confirmed or denied that it was his book, that he wrote, that contained dozens of poems that were dedicated to his hero. He didn't want to, nor did he need to, so he didn't say anything when he spotted even more books by T. T. Arrow show up on Hawks' bookshelf.

He did watch, though. Watched as the first book- Starless Night and Other Poems- was read again, and again, and again. Dabi watched the spine crack, the page corners get dog-eared, the dustcover begin to tear at the edges.

All from repeated rereads.

"Read any good books lately?" He asked Hawks casually as he saw the hero glancing at the worn tome again.

Hawks hummed, smiling to himself. "Yeah, been thinking about rereading my favorite, though."

His favorite. Not even the five stars and essay-length, raving reviews from critics gave Dabi the same warm, fluttery feeling as that simple statement.

Finally, on a rainy afternoon that had him cooped up in Hawks' apartment while the hero was napping, Dabi got up and approached the bookshelf. He tipped the book towards himself with a finger and pulled it out of its place, carrying it with both hands back to the couch.

He retook his seat and flipped it open, searching the front page for… something. A sign, maybe. A reason, an explanation as to why it was Hawks' favorite.

The pages whispered against each other as he turned to the first poem; Mountainside of Embers was the title. His eyes completely passed over the printed words, so nearly packed into their stanzas, as they zeroed in on the messy scrawls along the sides.

"I'm so sorry." It was written in Hawks' slanted, curly handwriting, next to the paragraph lamenting how hard it was to breathe with lungs full of ash.

"I would have dug you out of the ashes and carried you home." Was scribbled at the end, that compared the mountainside to a graveyard for a single child.

Dabi flipped to another poem quickly; Sleepyhead.

"I wouldn't have left your side." Hawks' pen strokes promised next to the story of a sleeping, yet lonely boy.

"And he woke alone, so alone. Second, he thought of hunger, but firstly thought of home."

The whole line was highlighted, underlined, with a scrawled note beside it: "Come home with me!"

That fluttering back in his stomach, Dabi turned the pages with trembling fingers. Poem after poem was highlighted, underlined, scribbled, and doodled by. Notes and comments filled the margins, filled Dabi's vision and chest.

He turned to the first poem he'd written for Hawks, Origami Butterflies, and quickly scanned to one of the middle stanzas:

"Take my sharp edges and fold me together. Make me something beautiful, something that lasts forever. Tuck me safe into your pocket, Into your heart, into your bag, or your locket. Cradle me in work-worn hands, Promise never to let go again."

Next to it, in red ink and in all capital letters, Hawks wrote, "I PROMISE!"

Swallowing against the tightness in his throat now, Dabi looked through a few more before he finally dared himself to look at their poem, Cage of Bone.

The first page was blank.

As was the second.

The third page, where the story of the raven and the songbird ended, only had a single note by the final stanza:

"Begging forgiveness, as towards dawn they flew, The raven sobbed, "I love you, I love you, I love you.""

The poem ended there, in black, printed ink. But the note, written in blue, added on:

"The song bird settled into raven's chest, into his cage, into his nest, And began to sing into the sunrise, "It's alright, raven, dry your eyes. I am swift, and I am strong, And it was always you who heard my song. My wings do ache, my back is sore, So I will rest with you a little more.

Don't weep, dear raven, for you see, When I'm in here, I am free. I will stay in this cage of bone, So you and I are not alone.

Be my wings, and I'll be your heart, Because from you, dear raven, I wish never to part. So you start the song, and I take my cue, To sing on for forever, "I love you, I love you, I love you, too.""

Dabi closed the book like it would fall apart in his hands, carrying back to the shelf and slotting it into its place with the reverence due a holy scripture.

Wiping the blood from his cheeks, he headed for the bedroom, to do just as his songbird, his heart, had said.

He never fully figured out why it was Hawks' favorite book. But when he looked down at his hero, asleep, his head on Dabi's chest, he realized he didn't need to.

Not when the sound of their heartbeats, the sound of their breathing, the sound of Hawks' wings fluttering and the sheets shuffling and bloody tears pattering off Dabi's chin-

Not when they made a symphony, a song, all their own, that sang more than a raven and songbird ever could.

End.

#conans writing #dabihawks #dabi #hawks #keigo takami #touya todoroki #mha dabi #toukei #mha hawks #bnha hawks #bnha dabi #long post #poetry

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listenbuckaroo · 2 years

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Flowers - Courtland Gentry (Sierra Six) x Reader

Warnings: guns, blood, canonical violence, not too graphic or nothin

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: your high school sweetheart appears unannounced in your apartment

a/n: im back friends :) hope you like this one!

Juggling the keys and grocery bags you had just picked up you trudge through the halls of your small apartment building. Carefully you tried to soften your footsteps so as to not wake your neighbor, who had a habit of yelling at you when you came home from late shifts for making too much noise.

Unfortunately this evening she was already waiting for you outside of her door, maybe it was the obnoxiously loud music you had to blast on your way home from work so as to not fall asleep but you were about to find out.

“Hi Mrs. Cross, how are you tonight?” you attempted to start on a good note before she laid into you.

“Your boyfriend has been in there for the past hour beating and banging on things and it keeps waking me up!” She said in her shrill voice.

But tonight her shrill voice wasn’t the one that was bothering you, the fact that someone was in your apartment and had been for the past hour was. You didn’t have a boyfriend, not since high school and that was a long time ago. Fearing the assumed robbers were still in there right now and not wanting Mrs. Cross to report it you just sighed and said, “Don’t worry I'll handle him. Have a good night!”

Waiting until she was inside and door locked you placed all your bags right outside your door and pulled your small handgun from your purse and pushed on your door. Whoever was in there had left it unlocked, probably assuming no one was going to come back tonight given the hour it was.

The smell of blood hit you before you saw anyone, looking down at the floor bloody boot prints marred your wood floors in a jagged pattern meaning someone was probably bleeding out in your apartment. For a moment you considered that this may be too much, even for you, but shook the thought out of your mind.

And not a moment too soon, a body came barrelling at you from your bathroom in an attempt to tackle you. Sliding forward and tripping him you quickly clamored on top and pinned his arms to his sides so he couldn’t attack again.

“Jesus I’m gonna get so much shit for being topped by a girl.” You heard him wheeze out, as you flipped the nearest light switch in the hall.

Looking down and seeing who you had now pinned to your floor was one of the last people you thought you might ever see again, Courtland Gentry. The pure shock that went through your body caused you to freeze and nearly drop the gun you were holding a few inches away from his face. He looked like he had been in a bar fight with 20 different people in the past few hours, bruises littered his face and neck and the weeping cut on his eyebrow was threatening to gush blood into his eye.

His face contorted into one of confusion, and then blanched like he had seen a ghost, “Y/N?” He questioned in a whisper.

“Courland what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?” You said not moving the gun from his face.

“What am I doing here? You live here?” He wheezed, glancing around your sparsely decorated apartment, which only made you squeeze his arms into his body further.

“Okay, that's a fair move.” he whined.

“Talk, then I’ll move.” you said getting comfortable on your new seat.

“Hmmm, that's classified” he groaned as you jabbed a knee into his side.

“Nice fucking try, you’re supposed to be in prison.” You spat at him.

The pure anger and resentment on your face must have shocked him. He stopped squirming underneath you and looked you in your eyes. You liked to believe that you had kept a front up pretty well. Ever since Courtland had left for prison in highschool, you felt like he took a part of your heart with him.

You two were nearly inseparable, both being from lower middle class families you lived near each other and always hung out every summer which eventually led to you dating in highschool. He was the most gentle person, especially with you before everything happened, and you thought you would never see him again. The last time you saw him he was being dragged away in handcuffs and threw a wink over his shoulder at you.

Your father wouldn’t take you to see him at the trial so you tried on multiple occasions to go yourself, always being caught by school security. It felt like true love, but you eventually came to terms later that you had been swooped up in a summer love affair with a murder and had no busisness missing him.

So you stopped. You stopped fighting, you never tried to go visit him in prison once you got old enough because you knew it'd be too hard. He was probably a deeply changed person and one that you wouldn't recognize or have the heart to actually break up with since you hadn't when he had first left.

"Get to it Gentry I don't have all night." You said moving around on top of him shifting the slightest bit of weight towards his ribs.

He winced and wriggled out of your grasp, done with you annoying his clearly fractured ribs anymore tonight. He grabbed your thighs and shoved you off of him, even though he was bulky you didn’t expect the speed that came out of him. He had your hands pinned and your gun tossed away from you before you could really register what had happened.

"Oh, eat shit." You huffed out finishing it difficult to complete a full sentence with his new found body weight on top of you.

He didn't say anything but slowly put a hand over your mouth as you listened to whatever he thought he heard. You tried to move around and get out from his weight but he gave you a glare that made you immediately stop. Focusing on quieting your breathing you looked back up at Courland.

He had aged, but to be fair it had been 10 years since the last time you had seen him. His dirty blonde hair was longer than you remember, but it suited him. The goatee however, you were on the fence about, you could maybe get used to it. His shoulders were about twice as broad as the last time you had seen him, and he stunk. That was what stood out the most.

After a few seconds you heard footsteps outside that sounded heavy and they were moving with a purpose. Hoping Mrs. Cross didn't step outside to yell at them when they ran by you and waited until Courtland told you it was clear. It was obvious he had extensive training with some organization, but you still didn't know how he was out of prison.

He dropped his hand from your mouth and sat up to his knees in front of you. Still in a haze of panic you back up to grab your gun and aim it back at him. The confusion coursing through your mind made it difficult to process everything that was happening.

He looked down at you sadly almost, he gently lifted his hand and pointed the gun down towards the ground. You let him take it out of your hands and turn the safety on. You stared at him and the blood pulsing down his face from a cut that he had recently acquired.

“Courtland Gentry, what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?” you said once again hoping you wouldn’t have to kick his ass for answers, although you’re not sure if you would win considering how much he had beefed up.

“I swear I'd tell you if I could.” He looked at you, almost as if he was trying to memorize the new freckles and lines on your face.

“Okay, well how did you get in?” you questioned hoping to get some kind of information out of him.

“Window.” he gestured to your living room fire escape and misplaced furniture that was now there, “it looked vacant that's why I came in.”

You glanced back over at him and couldn’t help but smile, he had always given you shit for your subpar homemaker skills when you were younger. You couldn’t cook, cleaned the bare minimum and when you did you somehow did it wrong. Surprisingly, he knew more than you and taught you a lot those years you had the privilege of knowing him.

Your smile quickly faded as you took in the man in front of you. Very far off from the boy you knew and watched go to prison for life. In all honesty you weren’t mad at him for what he did, you would have done the same for your sibling, you were just mad that your best friend was stripped away from you without warning. And without a doubt now you definitely did not know this person. He looked battle hardened and exhausted, far off from the vibrant sweet boy you remember.

“I hate to ask but can I shower here?” he said, breaking the silence between the two of you.

“Oh yeah, do you need help?”

“No, I think I know how to shower.”

“I meant with the cut you perv.” you said, pushing his shoulder as you stood to grab a towel for him.

He giggled and nodded at you as he loudly ripped the elastic of what appeared to be a bullet proof vest that he was wearing.

“Mrs. Cross is going to file a noise complaint if you don’t shut the hell up.” you said throwing a towel at him.

“I’ll get her some fucking flowers if it gets you out of this dump.” he said kicking his shoes off in the hallway, and you missed the following eyes of your former best friend as you made your way to the bedroom.

10 minutes later he was standing in your doorway in the sweatpants you had set outside the door and fresh blood was leaking from the cut on his eyebrow. You grabbed the first aid kit from under your bed and made your way to the bathroom.

“Sit.” you said and pointed at the edge of the bathtub.

He happily obliged and waited on you. Removing the antiseptic ointment and sticky gauze you had planned to use on the cut you turned your attention back to the man in front of you. Being as gentle as possible you pulled his chin up so you could see the cut in a better light. It wasn’t deep enough to need stitches so what you had here would be fine.

Reaching back to grab your supplies you tenderly helped Courtland, something you hadn’t been able to do in years. He surprisingly accepted it, you’re not sure if it was the exhaustion that he was suddenly wracked with or the fact that 10 years had really changed the people you both were. Nevertheless as soon as you finished he offered you a soft, “Thanks honey.” in his tired state.

Making your way to your bedroom you offered him the bed, and you were headed to take the small futon that sat in your living room.

“You can stay here too, I won’t go anywhere near you.” He said as you got up to leave.

“Courtland it's been too long I don’t..”

“Just shut up and lay down.” He said seeing the exhaustion on your face as well.

You snuggled tightly on your side, almost feeling like you were in the same bed as a stranger, but then again you weren’t. You shifted towards the middle of the bed giving the all clear that if your bodies made contact on your small bed that night you would be okay. Then before you knew it, a strong arm was slung over your midsection dragging you into a deep sleep.

—

Cortland knew leaving this bed with the love of his life would be one of the hardest things he’d ever do. When the sun began to peak through the window in Y/N’s bedroom a deep sense of dread came to life. He didn’t mean to break into her apartment, it did look vacant to him, and now he was worried he may be putting her in danger.

But if he said he was happier than this beforehand he would be a liar. He had never felt more at peace and rested after a single night than this in a long time. Slowly unwrapping his arms from around Y/N’s sleeping body he tried his best not to wake her.

Hoping he could slip out of her small apartment without waking her, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, hell, he never knew when he would see anyone from his past life that would solely call him Courtland instead of Six ever again. Grabbing his boots and vest he made his way to the kitchen and looked around.

He had no money to buy her a halfway decent couch but he could leave a note and steal some wildflowers flowers from the field outside. Scribbling a few words on a notepad she had lying on the counter:

Morning honey,

Please don’t be mad at me for leaving without saying goodbye, I’ll fall into your tiny apartment again soon.

-CG

Placing a stick of gum next to his note and tiny flowers, Six slipped out the fire escape and back into his normal life once more.

#sierra six imagine #sierra six #sierra six x y/n #sierra six x you #courtland gentry x reader #courtland gentry x f!reader #sierra six x reader #court gentry #courtland gentry #the gray man 2022

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riddles-n-games · 4 months

Text

Wandering Soul, Forever Free

I know where all roads lead

And none of them lead to you.

I have to leave

Though my heart may weep;

You’re no good for me

So to the north I flee.

You’ve ruined me for others

But I’ll still get the last laugh, you’ll see

Because whenever you go to sleep

I will haunt you in your dreams.

And when the rebellion stands

Against your command

You’ll see me in the face of the front

Knowing that I was also one.

They’ll sing my songs

Until your ears bleed.

And maybe you didn’t know

But I was just planting their seeds.

I’m sorry, I guess I could’ve warned you

But you should have seen the signs,

After all, you’re a remnant from the start of those times.

Despite your name, you’re not white as snow.

Your soul? The blackest coal.

And your heart is certainly not made of gold.

A rose’s thorns too long that pierces hope’s buds

A pile of snow drenched in the reddest blood.

Maybe you were once, pure as the driven snow

But now you’re just the snake who poisoned the songbird

And the poison is your word

For you were never true

But I guess that’s a fault we both carry; I know I do.

We are alike, you and I

I knew you had secrets, you saw through my lies.

Yet we circled each other in this twisted dance

Waiting for one to break the trance.

We both had our ways of being vile

But did our love have to be just a trial?

Why did we have an end

After all the rules we had to bend?

You gave me a guitar so I could pluck its strings

While you pulled mine to make ends meet.

Yet, once I sang, you broke my chains

And sent me back home on a train.

Then, you came to me by day

But by night you showed me your true ways.

I knew I had to make my choice. I told you there was a line and you chose to cross

But you wouldn’t come back

And all I had left was my voice.

So I sang you one final song and it rang in the distance

Following you to the Capitol to never let you forget what you witnessed.

So even if snow falls and lands on top

I’ll be the bird that makes the first prints

Because when you topple, you’ll go silently

But I’ll signal my triumph all throughout.

We met at a hanging tree

At dawn, not midnight

You didn’t call out for me to flee

But I had to since your destruction you could not see

And yes, I do still remember those three men

They may have been your beginning

But I was always going to be your end.

There’s a reason you made me victor

We’re kindred spirits and we both have fangs in our mouths.

But one has talons and a beak,

The other, a long body and no feet.

I flew though you were never stranded

It’s just, you never knew how to be mended.

I wished for you to follow

But your pride you couldn’t swallow

So I went from this place

Because we would have never won that race

Even though you gave chase.

I made my peace

You were never meant for me

But your betrayal, I could never release.

You had chances but never chose wisely

So why should I let you be

When you created more civil unrest

And for 65 years, let children become murderers

Just for one of them to be the best.

There’s a reason why first is the worst

Especially when you sit with the weight of 23 on your chest.

You put a worth on others because you’ve never known yours

And gave the districts their lores

To finally put you out of your rosy misery.

I warned you,

I’ll find my way through history

In much the same way I carry on as a mystery

For you know what I am,

I told you many times before,

A wandering soul, forever free

Like a mockingjay singing in the trees.

#lucy gray baird #coriolanus snow #the hunger games poem #poetry #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the hunger games #tbosas #thg

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whosafraidofmarklee · 2 years

Text

about you

pairings: photographer! johnny/ arthistorian! reader

genre: established relationship, loads of fluff but also angst...

summary: johnny has successfully opened his first solo photography exhibition. however, he is secretly hoping for someone to walk through the gallery doors all day. intertwined with love from five years ago, his photographs speak louder than words.

wc: 6250 words

a/n:

hey all!!!! here's a wee bit of a johnny fic heavily inspired by the 1975's new song, about you. that song is so good it got me weeping for days as i concocted this story in my head. enjoy, don't cry :')

-------------------------------------

"Aren't you excited?" the curator beams, patting his fuzzy felt blazer down, composing himself.

Johnny turns his head toward the dimmed gallery behind him, the frame reflections catching the glimpses of streetlights outside. Each photograph sits nicely on the wall, proud and tall, waiting for visitors to be voyeurs into his life. He purses his lips, letting out a small "Yeah" before turning round and heading out the steps.

"Get ample sleep, alright! It's your big day tomorrow - your grand opening. I am telling you, everyone would be buzzing over your photographs. They hold so much emotions, that's precisely why I chose you," the curator closes the door behind him and spins back toward Johnny. "Be proud of yourself, your exhibition is going to be spectacular."

"Thank you so much, I appreciate it, really. I'll see you tomorrow then?" Johnny turned his heel and waved a short goodbye before speed-walking to his car. He could not take it anymore, all this holding it in.

He sits at the driver's seat and shuts his eyes. Finally, some peace and quiet after a whole month of crazy preparations. His chest expands and contracts, the warmth of his breath countering the frigid weather he just walked through. He gathers himself, or so he thinks.

"Yeah, Johnny. You'll be alright. It's your big day tomorrow, don't fuck it up," he whispers to himself.

As he places his hand on the wheel, his eyes flutter open. Under the starless winter sky, the amber streetlights embrace the white flurries falling aimlessly. One, two and suddenly, a whole gust of them make their descent onto Johnny's car. His eyes trail the flurries’ every move as they softly land on his windshield, eyes capturing the delicate intricacies of the snowflake before it begins to fade away into nothing.

In the tiny gaps of the melting snowflakes, he saw her again.

—

“So what is your new years resolution, my love?" she giggles as she wraps their thick, Rudolph-printed blanket around her body.

Johnny catches her gaze and smiles back tenderly. She looked absolutely marvellous, her hair falling all over the place having just woken up. Their curtains are fully opened, revealing the expansive city below them while the winter sun breaches its way into their abode and whose light finds refuge on her hair, illuminating her figure. He watches as she goes back to scribbling her goals onto her tattered journal, occasionally looking up and whispering to herself to perfectly articulate her desires.

“To keep loving you, of course," he replies after awhile.

“Don't be ridiculous, i already know that," she puts her pen down and reaches towards him, "we are going to be by each other's side forever and ever and ever. That's our eternal january 1 wish."

He leans forward and gives her a quick kiss, lingering over her lips as she pulls away. He does not have to look, he feels her lips curve into the same smile he fell in love with 4 years ago, the moment he walked into his introduction to art history class and saw her sitting at the end of the room. He knew from then on out, she would be etched into his life for years to come.

“Well… since it is our last year of college, I was thinking of doing a year long project where I document the events that make me feel tumultuous emotions. Sort of like cataloguing my life…into photographs…as photographers do….” Johnny finally answers her question and trails off, his hand finding the waves of her hair and habitually running his fingers through them.

“Yeah? A great big project before you get pushed into the real working world?” She asks smugly.

“Definitely that.”

She shifts under his touch and leans towards his embrace, letting herself fall into his arms. Johnny pulls the blanket over their bodies and lets himself melt into her. He could do this all day, intertwining himself with her. She was his life-force, his sun and moon.

“For me,” she breaks the silence in a whisper into his ears, “it would be to get accepted into a post-graduate course.”

“Why’d you have to whisper it like someone’s going to come running in and stop you?” he buzzes at her lingering lips on his ears, giving a little laugh.

“Because if I don’t get in, it is embarrassing. I’d rather whisper it to you so you can pretend to forget it if I don’t get accepted.”

“Are you kidding me? You are the best art historian I know, you can name every artwork off the top of your head, you’re like a walking museum,” Johnny assures as he holds her tighter under him, placing a quick kiss on her forehead.

She looks back up at him, gazing into his hazel eyes that bore into her soul. The very eyes that comfort her in her darkest nights, envelop her every morning and the one that showed more love in its little reactions to her presence. Letting her fingers trace his features, she grins slightly as she feels her heart grow fonder and fonder with every sight of him.

“I best be in all your photos this year then,” she jokes and snuggles into his warm neck.

Truly, waking up next to each other on the first day of every year has become a norm. They were renewed, rebirthed with every passing year, but they feel just the same every time their hands graze each other. Between them both, time slows and speeds but never halts. They were orbiting together, their love powering the cycles of many lifetimes.

—

The lamp switch clicks and Johnny’s room brightens. He is acutely aware of the silence in the house. Bending his head slightly, he roughly dries his wet hair on the towel. When he looks up, his eyes fall on the paper by his bedside table.

THE COMEDIAN

A Solo Exhibition by Johnny Suh

31 December-31 January

The golden text bounces itself off the sheen of velvet blue cardstock paper. His name seemed unfamiliar to him, a jumbled up word from the array of alphabets. Then again, he never felt like himself the past five years.

An inaudible sigh escapes his lips as he throws his towel to the side, climbing into the left side of the bed. That was always his side.

He turns the paper over and extends his body to turn off his lamp. Rolling over the bed, his eyes slowly adjusts to the darkness of the room.

A pillow rests untouched beside him, the white space demarcating the absence in his life. The blanket creases over his side but straightens itself as it passes his body. He takes in a sharp breath but he feels the oxygen running out. The air is heavy, damp with memories that flood to the forefront of his mind. As he blinks to compose himself, he sees her brief silhouette laying there, as it should be, as it always has been. But a silhouette could be a mirage. The brain tricks itself, as Johnny has tried to trick himself for years.

She is not there, she has not been for awhile now.

His fingers run along the cotton bedsheet, imagining the weight of her next to him as he lulls himself toward the door of dreams.

—

2:03 AM

Johnny looks up from his crumpled notes, scratching his head. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he pushes his glasses up his nose bridge and squints at her direction. There she sits, opposite him, legs tucked under her, biting her lips in anxiety while she mumbles the notes off of her laptop screen. He beams as he notices the way his sweatshirt hangs off her shoulders, too massive to fit her frame.

It was midterms season and they were cramming for an exam the following day. Well, technically, that day of. On his desk lay his scrambled astronomy notes. It is ludicrous in hindsight, that Johnny would take the time off of his photography classes to take it as an elective. But he tells no soul about the fact that it was simply because he notices her contemplating the sky every night, searching for the different stars and planets that appears with every passing season. Compelled by her devotion toward this habit, he took on the class in hopes of piquing her brain.

He pushes his notes slightly and stands up from his chair, groaning as he twists his crammed up body. He notices that she did not take her eyes off of her screen and with pursed lips, slowly walks towards her. He carefully carries the nearest chair, placing it silently next to her and sits on it, eyes on her screen too, curious to find out what she was reading about.

“Hey, that’s pretty cool,” he comments, skimming through the page, matching her speed of reading.

“What is?” she asks offhandedly, not moving her gaze one bit.

“The artwork.”

She stops scrolling and turns her head toward him, looking all frazzled. Her hair stood at weird angles and her blue-light glasses precariously on the tip of her nose. He chuckles and gently pushes the glasses up for her.

“That’s some intense dedication there, to walk from the ends of the Great Wall of China for 90 days just to meet each other in the middle. That’s such a romantic way to propose,” he muses and raises his eyebrows, “should we do that? Walk along the wall, meet each other after 3 months and I will go down on one knee?”

She laughs at his proposal and untucks her legs beneath her.

“I stopped scrolling at the wrong time then. They managed to pull off the performance but instead of getting married, they broke up in the middle instead.”

Johnny’s eyes widened, a little too invested in this, “why?”

“It started out as a passion project, they were both highly regarded performance artists whose practise involved testing the limits of the other. They had ambitions to get married but approvals from the Chinese government to walk along the perimeters of the wall took too many years to be cleared. By the time the approvals were passed, their relationship had slowly fizzled out. They had affairs and were unhappy with each other, but for the sake of their art, travelled the wall.”

She watches as his face softens at her explanation, his lips puckering slightly, a habit she noticed him doing every time he is in deep thought.

“Oh, that sucks,” he blurts out in response.

“I guess you could put it that way… I still find their dedication toward their art very fascinating. If it is of any consolation, they met years later in another performance artwork of hers.”

He takes her hand in his and shakes his head slightly. “That’s good, no? Reconciling.”

“To a certain extent, yes. It rocked the art world for months and years on end: the greatest love is back again!” she dramatises, sticking her arm out like she was in a performance, gaining a laugh from the boy in front of her.

“Now I don’t know if I should make us walk a historic wall before I pop the question, it seems so silly,” he strokes her ring finger subconsciously and traces the creases on her palm. She notices.

She leans in, kissing his cheek, “continue brainstorming then, my love.”

Johnny grins and imagines himself walking over battered bricks to get to her. The ground shifts below him but the running hills circle in around him, as if giving him comfort to persevere on. She was at the end of the wall, slowly walking toward him too. It did not matter how long it takes, where it happens or what season it was.

He knew he would walk across endless walls just to get to her.

—

Walking into the metallic frame of his hanging mirror, Johnny puts on his emerald coloured sweater, fixing his white button-up collar in place. His eyes were sunken in, tired from imagining all the possibilities of today. He sighs, proceeding to grab all his belongings and throwing them into the bag strewn on his floor.

It was his big day, he knew. But he cannot help but wish for the morning to turn out differently. His eyes catches the perfectly shaped pillow on his bed and his feet quickens its pace out of his home.

“God, it is freezing today,” he mutters to himself as he exits his car, tightening his coat around his body. Every breath of his turned into vapour, clouding his view of the gallery right in front of him. He looks up toward the sun, seeing only an obscure ray of yellow hanging in the air. There was no warmth, not even in the atmosphere and definitely not in his heart.

He checks the street for cars before dashing across, finding himself at the doorsteps of a gallery he knows too well. In the glass door, he sees his languid figure obscured by view of the gallery inside, his photographs and him merging into one incomprehensible figure.

Putting on his best smile, he opens the door and walks in.

—

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, here it is!”

She muffles a squeal as she grabs onto Johnny’s hand, pushing him into the crowd. Fishing their way through, they land in front of the very painting they were there for.

She could barely control her excitement. Bits of tears pool around the corners of her eyes as they land on her most beloved painting. It was real, in front of her, in all its delicate brushstrokes. The warm spotlight of the gallery was nothing but a halo to this painting, so she thought.

Sensing her bewilderment, Johnny wraps his arm around her waist and scoots them closer to the work, shielding her from the mass of crowds around them. He recalls her screaming when the news came in, her favourite painter of all time had a travelling show and they were miraculously showing in the gallery closest to their house. He grins every time he sees her shared calendar countdown to the number of days until the exhibition opens in the notification tab of his phone, silently counting down with her too. He made sure to purchase two tickets for the opening day, to which she kissed him tenfold when they landed in her hands, and he could still feel her hand on his chest waking him up at 6am this morning to beat the snaking queue into the gallery.

Now, they stood in front the very work they came here for. It is a little bit smaller than I thought, Johnny mused to himself. He had seen the painting countless times whenever she showed it to him on her phone screen and he felt that the years of seeing it in pixels made him grow fond of the artwork too. His breath hitched as he is pulled into the black mass of the painting, his eyes gaining refuge from the darkness with the two figures standing on the stage. He knew them by the back of his hand. The two figures stood by the stage, wearing Pierrot and Pierette costumes, in the midst of bowing toward an imagined audience. The delicate brushstrokes of the painting arrested Johnny’s gaze as he stood in awe of the piece of canvas.

“It is so beautiful,” her voice croaks, breaking the bubble of silence between them. They stood side by side, eye-level with the figures, staring so intently into the heaps of paint that they could almost see themselves in the obscurity of the figures’ features.

“Out of all his paintings, this last painting of his is arguably the most striking as it is the only time we see two figures accompanying each other but not alone in their own world. In his other paintings, even if the figures were interacting with each other, their expression still signalled isolation. But this painting is an outlier. Their hands suggests their union against the loneliness of the world, their white costumes as a resistance to the fading darkness behind them. They are in tandem, in the same performance, in the same space, sharing the same moment. How poignant that he chose to paint him and his wife as his last legacy,” she reveals in hushed tones, gesturing at the painting.

Johnny listens intently, nodding as he follows the trailing of her fingers, leading him furthering into the work.

“I love this painting because they are fools. Their quirky garb appoints them to the roles of a Pierrot and Pierrette, infecting the world with their joyous art,” she continues. “Historically, the fool is known to be the bearer of all binaries; the divine and profane, power and destruction, morning and night. Due to their ties with those in power, they enlighten others with the truth through their little whims, being the only one to merge the truth and absurd laughter, just like Hopper does with his works. The position of the fool reveals the significance of being more than ourselves, discovering our potential through such a limitless figure. That’s why this painting is called Two Comedians.”

“Most importantly, the painting reminds me of us.”

Johnny’s train of thought snaps back into reality at her words, shifting his wonder from the work to her. In this moment, as they stood in front of this timeless piece, they held many possibilities for the future. Their lives were intertwined like his hands around the hem of her skirt, their legs under the blanket after a long day apart and their riddled words of affection. They are painted in white, staring into the abyss of their future.

—

The wine in his glass sloshes side to side but never disappearing into his mouth. It has been at the same level since two hours ago, when the scarlet ribbon decorating the entrance was snipped off and people trailed in to discover his works. The wine dissolved under him, morphing into the torn ribbon, morphing into her lips, morphing into the her favourite book on his shelf, morphing into th-

“Johnny!”

His head whips upward and the curator was staring back at him, wide-eyed. Next to him stood a guy donning a navy suit, his blonde hair slicked back and his hand gripped on an empty wine glass.

“Meet Taeyong, he’s an art critic,” the curator subtly raises his brows at Johnny,” and he has expressed great interest in your work thus far. Thought I’d introduce you two.”

Johnny extends his empty-hand and gave the well-dressed guy a tight handshake. Taeyong has a wide grin on his face, returning the handshake with near excessive shaking.

“I am a big fan of your work, these photographs are extraordinary. What would you say is your inspiration for these works? I believe it was a year long project, yes?” he chides, leaning toward the artist, enunciating his questions.

Johnny lets his hand go at the word “inspiration”. He purses his lips and could feel the curator beside him anticipating a brilliant reply. It is your big day, remember that Johnny, he reminds himself.

But the only words that left his lips were: “just foolish things throughout the year.”

Throughout the entire conversation, his eyes went over Taeyong and the curator’s head. They were instead set on the rectangular door frame of the gallery, assessing every person walking in and silently praying to notice the same rosy lips he had last kissed years ago.

—

She flips through the pages of her book, aware of the dissipating feet shuffles around her. Her fingers grazes against each page, imagining each word in her mind.

This was her weekly routine, waiting for Johnny to finish his shift at the cafe while she finished her reading in one corner. By then, she has pavloved herself to associate the fragrant smell of coffee beans to this place and nowhere else. As such, Johnny too became her coffee lover.

Fleeting her eyes between the pages and her watch, she notices that he is running slightly behind time today. In her peripheral view, she sees him wiping the coffee stains off of the counter. Though it is so mundane, she fixes on this sight, scrutinising every detail of his face that she has memorised by now. She believes that love is inherently non-corporeal. But whenever she lays her eyes on her lover, she thinks about how his every physical detail is filled with so much to love. His cupid's bow draws the same curve as the back of every chair she sees. His eyelashes appear in the labryinth of twigs above her in her daily route to her classes. His hair's texture remains in the crevices of her fingers, forever part of the stitches of her hand. Everything led her back to him.

She gathers her stuff when she sees him untie his apron and disappear into the back room. Unbeknownst to her, a small smile is plastered on her red face while she was doing so.

The moment she heard the backroom door open, she turns around and watches the strides her lover takes toward her. Five, she counts. Five too many.

She reached toward his neck, bringing his lips down to hers. She feels his lips curve into a cheeky smile as he pulls away, shifting the position of his bag behind him.

"Why was your shift extended today?" she asks casually as he holds the door open for her.

His hands naturally finds their way around hers, their feet turning toward the direction of their home.

"I ran a little late because my previous class ran over," he replies her, taking a quick glance at her curious expression before focusing back on their path.

She notices that while he is holding her hand as tightly as he always does, his other hand occasionally tugs onto his bag from time to time as if making sure that the bag was there at all costs.

"Why are you holding your bag so carefully? It's not like anyone is going to steal it" she jokes, earning a nervous chuckle from him. There and then, she knew.

Johnny never answered her question. He knew better when he ran into the ring shop because his class ended earlier than usual. Occasionally, he would walk past this shop and casually survey the different rings on display but this morning, one caught his eye. Sapphire green, her favourite colour.

He talked to the jeweller and his hands trembled as he opened the velvet box to see the ring destined for her. Entranced by the beauty of it, he realised he was late for his job. Even after sweating buckets from running blocks to the cafe, his heart never faltered.

When he saw her seated at the edge of his cafe, engrossed in her book and with the warm lamp light softening her features, he knew he made the right choice.

—

Slowly, visitors filtered in and out. But none of them contented him.

His mouth hurts from forcing a smile and his feet shifted back and forth, aching from standing too long.

He listens to the hushed whispers of those viewing his work. He watches as they encounter his work, first glancing at his statement before their eyes fall on the work on the wall. After a minute or two, they turn to the person next to them and tell secrets while side-eyeing the work.

Johnny wonders if perhaps they saw his pain through the photographs. Granted, these photographs were taken 5 years ago but he wondered if they saw right through him when they look at the prints. Could they read his every thought? Could they see how much love he had? Could they sense that this time was then truncated, smashed into pieces and reglued to be the pictures they see right now?

Photography offers a look of love, he used to tell her.

He wondered if they could now see the world through his lens. If that was the case, could all their love accumulate and transcend the gallery space, bursting into the frigid air outside and somehow find their way to her, give her a little pat on the back and usher her into this gallery?

He sits and wonders.

—

"I just received exciting news!" Johnny exclaimed, hand clutching onto a ripped open envelope addressed to their address.

"What is it?" she could barely contain her excitement, the red neon light of the diner reflecting on her face outwardly expressing her anticipation.

His eyes were sharp, twinkling at her as he pulls out the letter, pushing it toward her.

"I just got accepted into a photography residency programme here, the best one in town," he grins.

She did not even skim through the letter. At his words, she lunges forward and hits her waist against the table.

"Ouch!" she exclaims as she tumbles forward clumsily, hugging her lover as tight as she could.

"I am so fucking proud of you, John," she says, "You deserve it."

Johnny pulls away and kisses her tenderly, melting under her touch. He applied the day she found out about the residency, continuously bugging him to apply every hour. She knew his ability best, knowing that he could grow better in this environment and never once did she doubt his success.

"When are you starting? When did the mail come in? Are you getting paid? Are there any other names accepted? Do you know who your mentor is going to be? God, I am asking countless questions but I am so happy for you," she feels tears welling up but blinks it away at the sight of his lit up face.

"Nothing's decided for sure yet accept that I got in, the details will slowly come in in the weeks to come" he states, "how about you? have your acceptance letters come in yet?"

She feels her face slowly fall, just like the silence between them. Slowly, reality began to dawn on her.

"No... but if they do, I am going to be halfway across the globe," she trails off, a hint of doubt in her tone.

Johnny catches it and replies, "that's not a problem, I will travel back and forth for you even though our original plans to move there altogether might not happen… I am sure we can find a way around this..."

She glances out the window for awhile and watched the sun glare down on the walking passersby. The heat was unbearable at the height of summer. She watches as people struggle under the heat, occassionally waving a paper fan on themselves to alleviate the heat.

Brought back by the sound of the diner's bell, she notices Johnny's gaze still on her.

"Yeah, we will figure it out," she smiles and feels guilty. This was his big day, there was no use worrying about her acceptances and their future. All that matters is this moment.

"I love you, John."

He opens his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the waiter bringing their food, clanking the dishes against the cold marble table. The retro music drowns her words out and she stares into the hashbrown on her end of the plate, picking on it until it falls apart.

—

Johnny's stomach rumbled loudly, breaking the silence of the gallery. His eyes widened as he awkwardly shifts himself away, finding himself a chair in a hidden corner to nibble on some snacks.

From the glass door, he gathered that it was late into the night. He watched endless cars pass by this street and the disappearing winter sun.

Hope is scary. It manifested in everything he saw that day, creeping up on him with every ding of the doorbell.

As he looks at his watch, he sighed. It was 5 minutes before closing and still, his wildest dreams were not realised.

He watches as the last visitor headed toward the door, silently bowing to him and opening the door to the world outside.

A gust of freezing air rushed into the gallery, penetrating through Johnny's exposed fingers and straight into his heart. He shudders.

It was about time he gave up. It was never going to happen. He had hoped endlessly for the past years but to no avail. It was selfish of him to expect more, to want her right next to him like nothing ever happened. He was the one that sent her off, he knew that all too well.

Leaning against the wall and closing his eyes, he relents.

A second after, he hears the sudden ding of the door.

—

"We could try, but I do not think it is particularly feasible," she thinks out loud as she paces around their living room.

Johnny is sat on the couch, head heavy in his hands as he ran through many solutions. In front of him, her acceptance letter lays bare on the table.

While the initial reaction to the letter was utmost joy, the two of them slowly came to realise the prospect of the future ahead of them. Where they were previously of the same bubble, with every passing second, each of them could feel the glass breaking.

"Yeah, we could do long-distance," Johnny voices out, reaffirming her thoughts, only to be met with her sigh.

"But I will be gone for 4 years, John, that is a.. ho- horridly long time," she chokes on her words and stops her pacing. Her hands were placed firmly on her hips as she tilts her head back to prevent her tears from falling.

"That's no worry, is it? I will fly to you every time I have a break, and you could do the same for me, we could keep this apartment together and we could still be together," he tries to convince her, hands shaking at the thought of them possibly separating. His words hung uncomfortably in the air.

He looks up at the home they have built together for the past 4 years. Their books are mixed on a single bookshelf, their selves undiscernable from the other. His camera collection sits on the floating shelf above the tv, right next to her gigantic painting she first finished the week they moved in. Her pink and blue pillows rests against his grey striped ones, creating a disjunct of colours in their mint green living room - but it was intrinsically them.

Everything they have built in the past 4 years was slowly crumbling. It seemed irrational, it seems. Long-distance could definitely work out. Many couples have done it and it was successful, what makes them different?

Despite desperately trying to rationalise their decision, each of them felt it deep in their hearts. The inevitable rift. The intimacy that gets lost in the endless flights. The conversations that get lost in timezones and sleep schedules. The love that gets jumbled up in the array of their pursuits.

"You know that we have to," she says finally.

Johnny doesn't meet her eye. He would love to live in denial, reject this all and suddenly wake up to find out that this is just a dream but he doesn't. The overwhelming pain in his heart grounded him in reality, with nowhere to run.

"We could always find each other again, right?" he manages his words out, concealing the quiver in his voice to not scare her.

"One day."

Their bodies are turned away from each other, their gazes fixed on different things. The place that they came home to everyday for the past few years suddenly feels constricting. The walls were collapsing onto them and the oxygen was being pumped right out. But both of them stayed, watching the walls slowly crumble, crackle and disintegrate.

They sat and stared, waiting through the whole duration of the damage until their house was unrecognisable and turned into bits of ashy rubble. Amidst the dull ruins and dust, a glinter of sapphire glows.

—

She walks in. Her hair was cut shorter than when he last saw her, shaping her face perfectly. Her cheeks were the shade of freshly planted roses, matching the mauve tint on her lips. Her neck that he has kissed time and time again was wrapped snuggly with a red and blue plaid scarf, shielding it from his view. Her hands slowly untucked itself from the deep pockets of her black coloured coat, revealing the veins that used to course through her body with her endless love.

Johnny felt his breath knocked out of him. There she was, in flesh and blood. She aged, as he did, but she looked more beautiful than ever, he thought. She looked better than when he last saw her, she looked like the person he knew yet not at all. She looked at him with rekindled fire behind her eyes, letting the warmth of the gallery welcome her into the space.

"Y/n."

Her name left his lips for the first time in years. It sounded, felt and tasted unfamiliar but the moment the word lingered in the air, he remembered why it was his favourite word.

"Hi Johnny," she responded, managing her breaths between each word, controlling her emotions at the sight of her beloved.

He did not know how to react. He was overcome with many conflicting thoughts and emotions. He wanted to hug her tightly and never let go. He wanted to shun her away for showing up so late and letting him wake up alone this morning. He wanted to kiss her eagerly and remember the taste of her mouth. He wanted to spit out all the pain he felt throughout the years, letting her know exactly what he struggled with all this time. He wanted to ask her a billion questions about the years that eluded them. He wanted to curse her for never reaching out even once, even though it was the pact made, he supposed that she would somehow break it but she did not.

She lets her eyes fall on the photos scattered around the gallery. Every photo, a sight too familiar to her.

"So this was your one year project, hm?" she hums, eyes landing back on the bamboozled Johnny.

"Yeah, it was" he manages out.

Silently, they made their round around the gallery. She led the way and he trailed behind her, occasionally smelling a whiff of her perfume that used to sit on their dressing table. He watches as her face barely changes with every passing photo. She remained silent, her lips pursed together and her eyes non-judgemental.

They made their way through photos of their empty bed, disordered bookshelf, dusty shelves full of collectibles, colourful tupperwares of food in their fridge, brown oak front door, creaky silver chair they found near their garbage disposal, frayed bohemian carpet and the mismatched sock pile in their drawers. All scenes that are engraved in their memory. As they walked further, the sight of the last painting halted them in their tracks.

Finally, Johnny watches as her eyebrows twitch and fall. Her eyes softened. Her lips steadily parts.

"Was that the ring?"

Johnny remained silent. He remembers taking the photo, the day he bought the ring. After they returned from the cafe, she rushed off to bathe and he sneakily took the box out, quietly opening it and marvelling at its sight. He grabbed his camera when he heard her shower stop running. Taking a quick shot, he buried the box behind the shelf full of art books.

"Yeah."

"It's beautiful."

Silence penetrates the room once more. They were turned away from each other, bodies drawn toward the photograph. They could hear each other's laboured breath bubbling up the room until Johnny pricks it.

"Would you have said yes?"

She lightly shifts toward him, meeting his eye for the second time since she entered. The same eyes that he looked into every morning and night. The same eyes that saw him in the lecture room years ago and the same eyes that bade him goodbye in the departure hall.

"Of course, John."

Her response washed over him like flowers blooming in place of melted snow. He held her gaze.

"Well, we've made our journey across the wall, haven't we?" she chuckles, making Johnny reveal a slight smile.

She takes a step closer.

"After looking at endless artworks the past few years, I came to realise something. I see you in all of them. The greats, the worsts, the ones portraying the highest moments of humanity and the lowest. The ones encased with grief, anger, fury and the ones with joy, love and fondness. Beyond every frame, form, brushstroke or performance, you were there. You were everywhere."

"I realised after awhile that just as I am cataloguing these works and granting them significance, I was doing the same for all our memories. I have never, not for a single second, forgotten you."

Outside, people were gathering and gearing for the year end fireworks. Screams of excitement filled the streets, anticipating the looming new year. They huddled together, their bodies emanating warmth that the night could not offer. They wait, staring at the sky.

Inside, two figures stand beside each other, framed by the dark photograph. They bow forward, stumbling on each other’s shoes as they clumsily announce their musings of each other, stepping forth from the peeling curtains. Their clothes glimmer in their pure whiteness, illuminating their path into the unknown.

At last, the clock struck midnight.

#nct imagines #nct scenarios #nct au #nct angst #nct fluff #nct oneshot #johnny suh #johnny suh fluff #johnny suh angst #nct drabbles

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smallraindrops-blog · 1 year

Text

Will You Follow Me?

(to the ends of the earth)

Male!reader x Steven Grant

Fandom: Moon Knight

Rating: 18+

Word count:3.2

Summary: You have been down this road before but you can’t seem to help yourself.

Warnings: Sexual themes, interrupted sex, nightmares, cursing, past reader x oc, no beta, Will Need to read moonlit drops to understand this.

Notes: @jun--young Dude thank you for being so patient with me for getting this out and I hope you like it! This was so fun to write. You have always been a huge friend/supporter/awesome person for me and I am just grateful for you. And I hope life is being good to you rn. <3<3<3<3<3<3

Again, if you haven't read moonlit drops this won’t make any sense. This takes place mostly after that story.

Your world changed on a rainy Sunday morning with a single wailing scream.

The nurses wrapped her in a soft pink blanket and with a wide smile, like it was nothing, they gave over your daughter.

You weep from the sheer joy of finally getting to meet your child. Her mother only looked away.

You liked the early morning hours best. When it was still dark out, the sunrise was only a breath away and there was only the quiet to keep you company. Still half-wake, you filled up the electrical kettle for your morning cup of tea.

As you waited for the tea, you opened the laptop and went over your orders. You needed more flour, and eggs. A lot of eggs, both real and the vegan replacement.

The holidays were coming up soon and those were your busiest times. You paused for a moment, looking at how many orders you had.

Then you pulled up your suppliers’ website. You were going to need a lot of eggs.

The kettle beeped and you stood with yawn. Mindlessly you went through your daily routine of making tea. The smell alone was enough to start waking you up.

"Daddy?" A sleepy voice called out, sweet and quiet. You turned around, your arms already opening up for Luna. She blinked at you, pillows lines in her cheek and a confused pout.

Still in her green footie pj's with Princess Tiana printed on it, she went over to you. She stumbled just a little bit but you caught her in time. You swung her up and hugged her close.

Luna was so warm and soft and still smelled like her strawberry shampoo from her bath last night. It made your heart ache from sheer overwhelming love and you tightened your arms around her.

You bounced her playfully, kissing her sleep warm cheek. "Hey princess. Did you sleep well?"

She hummed, tucking her face in your neck, already falling back to sleep. With one hand holding on to your tea and Luna in your arm, you went back to work, checking dull emails.

In an hour or so, you will have to wake up to get her ready for her school field trip. However, right now, with the stillness of morning and the center of your universe asleep in your arms, you soaked in all in.

Surely there was no greater peace than this.

When you met Luna’s mother, you were young and drunk and covered in body glitter. You still remembered how she met your eyes in the flashing lights of the club and gave you a shy, hopeful smile.

She was beautiful and you couldn’t breathe and you were in love by the end of the night. You brought an engagement ring six months later. A simple one with a round diamond.

You had excuses for the mistakes you had, youth and rose colored glasses. You thought you had a love story just like your parents.

There was no excuse for how Steven Grant made you act like some love sick teenager. You went down that road before at full speed and Luna was the only good thing to come from it.

Yet you couldn’t seem to stop yourself from pulling Steven into another kiss and gods help you, Steven seemed just as hungry. He shoved you back onto your bed, the sheets and blanket a mess but the dizzying kissing didn’t stop.

“Do you have time before…?” Steven asked, his lips against yours and his hand running down your chest. His fingertips were a little rough against your skin but you only pressed into the touch. Your own hands roaming over warm and solid flesh.

Gods, those sweaters hid a lot.

You haven’t allowed yourself to touch another since… you weren't going to think about her right now. So you nipped at his bottom lip, grinning at the gasp you earned.

“Yeah, make it quick.” You ordered, curling a hand in those beautiful, soft curls. His dark eyes caught yours and you couldn’t breath for a moment. You didn’t even want air, you just wanted him.

Steven chuckled breathlessly, “How quick-“

You cut him off, pulling him flush against you and after that, there were only soft touches and softer murmurs and warm pleasures as the sun rose over the city.

Later, with mussed hair and a steaming mug of tea in your hand, you glanced at your phone, just to be sure that your mum hasn't texted you again. She had only texted you a single photo from late last night and a smiley face.

It was Luna in her jammies, her hair still damp from the bath and her mouth covered in chocolate and asleep in front of the T.V with Lady and Tramp on. You stared at it, missing her more than you thought possible.

Arms wrapped around your waist, Steven’ chin on your shoulders. He was dressed up, the world of adult responsibility calling to them both. You tilted your phone for him to let him see.

Steven laughed, “Man, she is adorable.”

“Yeah.” You agreed, grinning when Steven kissed your cheek, his morning stubble rough against your skin.

There were going to be conversations later, because you needed Steven to understand that nothing, not even your own heart, will be placed above Luna’s happiness and wellbeing.

But you could allow yourself this moment.

The three loaves of bread came out beautifully, soft and fluffy with a good crust. The smell was heady and wonderful in the warmth in the cafe’s kitchen. It would be perfect for some sandwiches.

It was a thing the cafe always did, make a butchs of sandwiches right before the lunch rush and If there was enough left over, you and Luna could have some for dinner when she was back home from school.

Carefully you took them off the cooling rack, and with a second to admire it, you moved on to cutting thick slices of bread. It was an hour before the lunch rush and you knew that you could count on a group of regulars to fill the cafe.

The coffee was ready to go and you moved with ease, the routine was something you have been doing since you were a child.

Your mum peeked her head in. Age have been kind to Mary Anne even if life hasn't been and she could still pass for her forties. Her short hair was white, but it suited her in a way her old hair color never did. Strong and thickly built, she ruled the kitchens with an iron fist.

Right now, though, her face was softened into a smile for you. You wiped your hands before you pulled her into a hug. It still surprised you sometimes that you were taller than her, Mary Anne seemed larger than life to you.

“My baby boy.” She murmured even as you rolled your eyes at the nickname.

“It’s good to see you, mum.” You told her.

Mary huffed out a smoker laugh as she went to the sink and turned her head to eye you. She had that knowing look and you pointedly turned your back to her. You got two cutting boards set up along with onions, lettuce and tomatoes.

“You know I came for a reason.” She said, already nudging you out of the way to help. You nudged her back, not giving up your spot and pushed her cutting board closer to her.

“I know.” You grumbled, eyes darting the wall clock. It had been five days since the first date with Steven, the next one will be tonight and maybe you had been a little too excited for it. You had almost told Luna that it was a date but you didn’t.

It was too soon so far as Luna knew you were having a guy’s night. She had wrinkled her nose. “Football?” She asked in such distaste that you laughed.

“I still remember you coming home at six in the morning, still drunk as a skunk and sure that you found the woman of your dreams.” Mary said bluntly. “Your Papa would have helped you buy a ring that day if I didn’t stop him.”

You sighed, “I know. Do you have to bring that up?”

“I just want you to be careful.” Mary said, working the head of lettuce and peeling the outer layers. “You take after him, both of you were always romantics. You aren’t a kid anymore. You have a daughter to think about now.”

“Trust me. She is the only thing I am thinking about.” You said, slicing the tomatoes in thick, even circles.

There was a pause then You spoke, your voice quiet.

“I know I need to go slow. There's just something about him and I just can’t help it.” You shrugged. “I am planning on having a talk with him. I won’t let it go past this date if he gets huffy about being second place to Luna.”

Your mum hummed, her knife chopping almost impossibly fast. You stared in amazement, and promised to spend some more time practicing.

“Good.” Mary Anne said finally. It looked like she had something else to say, her lips pursed just so and you sighed.

“Out with it, Mum. I never knew you held anything back if you thought someone was making a mistake.”

She put down the knife and cupped your face, locking eyes with you. “Just be careful baby. People aren’t always like what they seem to be. You never know what lurks under the surface. And you are too open, too kind with your own heart.”

You pulled her into a one arm hug, “Don’t worry, Mum. I will be careful. I promise.”

Later with only the streetlight and falling autumn leaves for company, you and Steven stumbled down the sidewalk, a little tipsy and giddily from the beers. Steven wrapped an arm around your shoulder. You returned it by hugging his waist, a finger hooked into his belt loop.

“So as I was telling her good night, she told me that she was going to ask one of the gods to keep an eye on me so I would be safe walking at night.” You told him, still amused by how solemn Luna looked when she told you.

She had been wearing your old college shirt, far too big for her and her small feet covered with her little pink socks. Her skinny arms were tight around a thick book about ancient Egypt.

You had almost told her they weren’t real but you didn’t have the heart for it so you just kissed her forehead and told her ‘thank you, baby girl.’

“Oh? Which one?” Steven asked. He actually sounded interested, and it made your smile grow. You hoped it was a good sign.

You tried to remember, your brow furrowed. “I know I am going to say it wrong but Kho- Khos- something like that.”

Steven made a choking sound and you glanced up at him in surprise. Steven looked like he went pale even in the buttery warm lights.

“Khonshu?” Steven asked. He chuckled but it sounded a little strained.

“Yeah, that's it.” You said, watching him carefully. “Is everything okay? He isn't evil or something, right? Because if so, we are heading straight to my mum’s house. Maybe call a priest. Or the ghostbusters.”

Steven blinked then let out a real laugh. “Nah. But he is kind of a huge jerk.”

“You met this Khonshu then?” You teased him, bumping your hip against his.

“I haven’t told you? It is a perk of working at the museum. I got all of their autographs.” Steven replied.

You laughed, unaware of how Steven’s grin softened as he watched you. Something in the air shifted as you met his eyes, your breath caught your throat.

“You looked amazing right now.” Steven admitted, his voice low.

You leaned into him, soaking his warm body heat. His cologne was faint but the warm, spicy scent of it made your head spin. You shifted, pressing your lips against his jaw. He must have shaved before the date because his skin was soft.

You kissed along his jawline, ending it with a kiss on the corner of his mouth. His hands slide downward from your shoulders to your hips, his thumb resting on the top of your jeans.

He was leaning toward you and you met him, his lips, warm and firm, pressed against yours. The kiss was slow, but there was a promise in it and you hummed. Your hands curled into his jacket, holding on as the kiss deepened.

“Do you want to-“ you murmured against his lips, torn between wanting Steven to say yes and knowing better.

“Gods, yes. Please.” Steven repiled.

You don’t think you ever walked so fast in life and you fumbled with the townhouse keys as Steven pressed open mouth kisses against your neck, distracting you.

“If you don’t stop that, You are getting fuck against my front door and then I will have to an uncomfortable conversation with my neighbors.” You warned him.

Steven groaned, but stopped just long enough for you to turn the keys in. When on the other side of the side, Steven grabbed you by the shoulders and pressed you right against the door.

You laughed breathlessly in surprise, pulling him down to kiss. It was sloppy and filthy and wonderful. You felt like you could kiss him forever.

Somehow you and him made it into the bedroom, and Steven didn’t waste any time unbuttoning your jeans. Your hands tightened in the blanket as he took into his mouth, and you moaned at the wet heat of it.

“I have been thinking about this- about you for days.” Steven rasped before he reclaimed your cock with his mouth, going all the way down to the base and your head tipped back.

You gasped his name, unable to say much else as he kept bobbing his mouth up and down. He hummed in a way that went straight to your core and shot hot sparks up your spine. You thrusted upward as your hands grabbed his shirt, your thighs trembling.

“Shit- sorry. You gotta stop, darling. You’re going to make me cum.” You muttered, running fingers down his cheek in apology. Steven pulled off, spit shiny on his lips and chin. His eyes were impossibly dark and gorgeous.

“Don’t be.” Steven told you.

You groaned, “C’mere.”

Steven, prefect and sweet Steven, obeyed. His arms caged your head as he settled on your hips, his jeans rough against your own skin. You tugged Steven’s shirt off, admiring the form as tanned skin was revealed.

He immediately leaned down and you groaned into the kiss, touching everywhere you could. His strong back and shoulders and his soft stomach, fingers going down the trail of dark hair

Then there was a sharp, thrilling sound. You and him jerked away, staring at each other in confusion. It came again and you realized it was your phone.

“I gotta get it-“ you told him but Steven was already rolling off and you grabbed your phone from its spot on the floor. Your mum’s name flashed and you picked up immediately.

“Mum- hey. Is everything okay?” You asked, heart pounding. Countless, horrible scenarios flashed through your mind at a rapid pace. And you thought your heart was going to leap out of your throat.

Steven was on the bed, his eyes on you. For once, he almost looked different, his face oddly serious when you were used to seeing him look more sweet.

“Luna is okay. But she had a really bad nightmare.” Your mum’s voice was calm and your shoulders slumped. Then you heard the phone being handed over.

“Daddy?” Luna’s watery voice broke your heart. It was clear she had been crying. And you would give up an arm and leg to be able hold her right that very second.

“Hey, baby girl. Are you okay?” You asked, already buttoning up your jeans and trying to find your shirt. Steven grabbed it and handed it over to you. He was already getting dressed.

“I had a bad dream. There was a monster. Could you come pick me up?” She asked with a hiccup.

“I’m on my way, I will be there before you know it, alright?” You told her, keeping your voice smoothing and low.

You murmured some more comforting nonsense before hanging up. With a deep breath, you risked a glance at Steven. Except there was no anger, only concern.

He didn’t hesitate to come over. His hands ran up and down your arms slowly in an effort to smooth you.

“Is everyone okay?” Steven asked, his own voice much calmer than yours. You nodded, grabbed his hands and squeezed them. You offered up a smile.

“Yeah, just a nightmare but I have to go get her.” You said with a touch of regret. You had really been looking for alone time with Steven. “I’m sorry to end the date like this but-“

“Luna comes first. No matter what.” Steven said with a nod. You paused, not looking away from those soulful brown eyes.

“Are you alright with that? This might not be the last time it happens.” You warned him softly.

“I am. I care about you and her.” He assured you, pulling you closer. “I can see how much you love that little girl and I am just grateful for the time you give me.”

You swallowed, and nodded. “Thank you, Steven Grant.” You said, your voice thick. Steven’s grin was soft, and you wanted to melt into his arms but managed to resist. His forehead tapped against yours and you chuckled.

The last kiss was a chaste one, a goodbye they neither you or him wanted to make. Even as you and Steven parted, you felt lighter than you had a long, long, long time.

Luna ran toward you the moment she saw you and you hurried toward her. Her face was still damp with tears. You held her close, running a hand through her soft hair and whispered to her.

“Hey, here I am. Don’t worry baby, no monster coming to get you okay?” You kissed her temple. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Luna nodded but didn’t let go, clinging to you like a lifeline. “Can I sleep with you tonight?” She asked, her voice wobbly.

“Yes of course.” You told her, glancing over to your mum.

Mary shrugged, understanding your silent questions. “It was a normal night, we had some Mac and cheese and watched Bluey until bedtime.”

“It was a big monster, bigger than you.” Luna said, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. You used a thumb to wipe away at her tears.

“That sounds pretty scary. You were very brave to get grandma and me.” You told her with a gentle smile.

It only encouraged her to continue, as if need someone else to understand what she saw. “He looked like an old mummy with his head like a giant bird but he didn’t have his eyes or skin anymore. He loomed over me.”

“Christ.” You muttered with a matching grimace with your Mum. You gave her a bear hug, tight as you could. If you could, you had wiped away that whole nightmare so she would never remember it but this would have to do for now.

“I won’t never ever let any monster touch you.” You told your daughter, your whole world.

“Never?” She asked.

“Ever.” You promised.

#Moon knight #steven grant x male reader

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likeniobe · 10 months

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andrew marvell, "the nymph complaining for the death of her fawn"

The wanton troopers riding by Have shot my fawn, and it will die. Ungentle men! they cannot thrive To kill thee. Thou ne’er didst alive Them any harm, alas, nor could Thy death yet do them any good. I’m sure I never wish’d them ill, Nor do I for all this, nor will; But if my simple pray’rs may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears Rather than fail. But oh, my fears! It cannot die so. Heaven’s King Keeps register of everything, And nothing may we use in vain. Ev’n beasts must be with justice slain, Else men are made their deodands; Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood, which doth part From thine, and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean, their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain. There is not such another in The world to offer for their sin.

Unconstant Sylvio, when yet I had not found him counterfeit One morning (I remember well) Tied in this silver chain and bell, Gave it to me; nay, and I know What he said then; I’m sure I do. Said he, “Look how your huntsman here Hath taught a fawn to hunt his dear.” But Sylvio soon had me beguil’d, This waxed tame, while he grew wild; And quite regardless of my smart, Left me his fawn, but took his heart.

Thenceforth I set myself to play My solitary time away, With this, and very well content Could so mine idle life have spent; For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart, and did invite Me to its game; it seem’d to bless Itself in me. How could I less Than love it? Oh, I cannot be Unkind t’ a beast that loveth me.

Had it liv’d long, I do not know Whether it too might have done so As Sylvio did; his gifts might be Perhaps as false or more than he. But I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better then The love of false and cruel men.

With sweetest milk and sugar first I it at mine own fingers nurst; And as it grew, so every day It wax’d more white and sweet than they. It had so sweet a breath! And oft I blush’d to see its foot more soft And white, shall I say than my hand? Nay, any lady’s of the land.

It is a wond’rous thing how fleet ’Twas on those little silver feet; With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race; And when ’t had left me far away, ’Twould stay, and run again, and stay, For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod, as on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness; And all the spring time of the year It only loved to be there. Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft, where it should lie; Yet could not, till itself would rise, Find it, although before mine eyes; For, in the flaxen lilies’ shade, It like a bank of lilies laid. Upon the roses it would feed Until its lips ev’n seemed to bleed, And then to me ’twould boldly trip And print those roses on my lip. But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill, And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Had it liv’d long it would have been Lilies without, roses within.

O help, O help! I see it faint, And die as calmly as a saint. See how it weeps! The tears do come, Sad, slowly dropping like a gum. So weeps the wounded balsam, so The holy frankincense doth flow; The brotherless Heliades Melt in such amber tears as these.

I in a golden vial will Keep these two crystal tears, and fill It till it do o’erflow with mine, Then place it in Diana’s shrine.

Now my sweet fawn is vanish’d to Whither the swans and turtles go, In fair Elysium to endure With milk-white lambs and ermines pure. O do not run too fast, for I Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.

First my unhappy statue shall Be cut in marble, and withal Let it be weeping too; but there Th’ engraver sure his art may spare, For I so truly thee bemoan That I shall weep though I be stone; Until my tears, still dropping, wear My breast, themselves engraving there. There at my feet shalt thou be laid, Of purest alabaster made; For I would have thine image be White as I can, though not as thee.

#texts #diss #17

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your-local-grinning-cat · 4 months

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@1930sdarlin I've been directed to you, my dear, via the magic paw prints ✨️ [THEY FOLLOWED THE COLORED PAW PRINTS!]

DARLINNNNNN!!! 💖💖💖

You did the thing!!!! You followed my paw prints!!!

🐾🐾🐾

They led you straight to me~! Heeheehee!!! 😸

Good job! 🎉

While Leona’s mod was the first one to complete the multi-colored magic paw print challenge and so I said they got 2 things from me as a special bonus they still didn’t technically do it correctly. But that was mostly because I wasn’t completely clear enough. More like a dirty window that needed cleaning than a squeaky clean, new one that you can totally see through with no problems. So I gave it to them and then cleaned up the window!

🪟🧼🫧

So you are the first person to get it 100% correct!!

You played the game - I’m purroud of you, so here’s TWO GIFTS from me to you~!

…did I just rhyme you with you?

I did.

Oopsie.

…

OH WELL. GIFT TIME HERE WE GOOOOO!!!!!!

GIFT ONE!

A silly cat joke! 🤪

J: What is a cat’s most common crime?

A: Cat burglary? Nope. Littering! 😹💩

GIFT TWO!

A riddle for the Heartslabyul girlie! ♥️♣️♦️♠️

(taken directly from Alice’s Puzzles in Wonderland by Richard Wolfrik Galland)

A Mock Lamentation

Alice found the Mock Turtle sobbing quietly beside a rock pool.

He turned to her and said:

“You take a knife,

And cut me deep,

I am not hurt,

But still you weep.”

The gryphon arrived and joined in mournfully:

“It’s said in France,

They love me true,

Chop off my head,

And cry ‘boo-hoo.’”

“Do you know what we are?” asked the Mock Turtle.

♥️

Answer:

Alice replied, “Why, you’re both onions!”

🔪🧅🧅

I hope you enjoyed your gifts, Megs! And thank you for playing~!😸💜

*rubs my nose against yours in a mock kiss*

#good job darlin!!!#2nd person to complete the game!#and the first one to do it 100% correctly!#but Leona’s mod still won too because their mistake was honestly something I would have totally done lol #BUT GOOD JOB!!!!!!!!#💖💖💖#che’nya chats #twst rp #che’nya rp #magic paw print game 🐾#darlin megs 💖

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m34gs · 10 months

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Twisted Wonderland ask: If every dorm ran a bakery what would their Signature Baked Item(TM) be and why? Please be specific to the item (ie: can't say "chocolate cake").

Hi friend! What a lovely ask, thank you! I am looking forward to answering 💜

Heartslaybul - I think Heartslaybul's bakery would have very delicious tarts. For their Signature Baked Item, I would think a raspberry jam-filled tartlet, with a crown design baked and placed carefully on the top. I chose raspberry because I really enjoy the flavour and I like the beautiful deep red colour of the jam. I feel the red would fit very well in a Heartslaybul theme, and the crown of course represents the Queen of Hearts.

Savanaclaw - Ok, we ALL know how Ruggie lost his mind in the Tsumderland event and cried "They turned Leona into a marketable plushie!!!😭". So like, you know Japanese Hamster Bread? Like that, except little lions. Entirely Ruggie's idea, and he is ecstatic at the profit they are bringing in. (Leona has no clue this is a thing. Ruggie will not tell him. Vil buys one every week just so he can bite its head off and then gives the body to Rook.)

Octavinelle - Cupcakes. They're fun and there's so many ways to decorate them. Specifically, for the Signature Cupcake: a purple batter that bakes into a lovely lilac coloured cupcake. The decoration: icing of blues and greens in a pattern that resembles waves, with a cream-coloured coiled shell made entirely of icing on top, and edible silver ball sprinkles scattered over it. I would like to think Azul has them make a "surprise" cupcake. There's always one cupcake per batch that has a filling of some kind, cream cheese icing, chocolate, vanilla...basically whatever Floyd is feeling that day (the cupcake itself is a vanilla flavour, which goes with pretty much any other flavour). The thing that draws people in is that they could get the cupcake with the filling! Rumour has it, the filling cupcake is Lucky and will help you pass your exams/assignments with flying colours (a rumour that Jade Definitely Did Not Start) and so demand is high. Which, of course, allows Azul to charge more for the cupcakes. You know. Supply and demand.

Scarabia - Thumb-print cookies with different jam fillings. They're colourful, you can buy a bunch at a time and share them, and the jam filling looks like edible jewels. I think Kalim would like these very much and I think he would want them to be the number one baked good in the store. They're not very difficult to make, so he even gets Jamil to teach him so he can help stock the store with more cookies. (I feel like Jamil would have to remind Kalim that people want more than just cookies from a bakery lol)

Pomefiore - Apple Pie. I know, I know...not very original or shocking. But, not just any apple pie. Mini apple pie shaped like a rose. Gorgeous and elegant, it tastes as delicious as it is beautiful. (If you can't picture it, please see in this link here) Of course, Epel's hometown supplies the apples. Rook is weeping at the beauty of the pies. Even Vil will have one, since it is small and not excessive.

Ignihyde - Specialty cookies. You know the ones; they're large cookies, a plain base, with gorgeous - sometimes even intricate - designs done in icing. I feel like the designs would change frequently, to fit the themes of the seasons, holidays, or ongoing releases of popular games/movies/etc. The designs are ART. Cater comes at least twice a week to buy a cookie and take pictures for Magicam. (At first he felt guilty because he didn't want to betray his bf, Trey, but then Trey said he wanted to try one, so they started going together on their dates.)

Diasomnia - Buns. Buns with...unique...fillings. Multiple unique fillings. Is it really so much a signature item as it is a game of roulette? With Lilia at the wheel, it's never a guarantee if the bun will even be edible...But somehow, that makes the other students even more eager to try it. It becomes kind of like Beanboozled. They make a game of it: who can chew the longest without swallowing or spitting it out, who got the best flavour, can you finish the entire bun or will you leave hungry? Lilia is having the Time of His Life and Silver is too afraid to go in the kitchen.

There you have it! My headcanons on what each dorm would have as a signature item if they ran a bakery! Hope you enjoyed, and please tell me your own thoughts! What signature items would you assign each dorm? I'd love to hear!

#asks #twisted wonderland #headcanons #bakery headcanons #thank you so much for this ask #it was so fun to answer #were you surprised by any of these?#I did a lot of thinking on what would work for each dorm hehe

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theladyofbloodshed · 2 years

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‘She can’t cast them,’ Feyre said with bewilderment.

EXCUSEEE MEE MRS RHYSAND???

You knew your sister cant cast a mind shield. Therefore, I am assuming you KNEW OF YOUR SISTER SUICIDAL THOUGHT AND DEPRESSION. I cant take the idea of Nesta in Soltice, drowning in her sorrow and her sister knew it, rhysand knew it. The idea of nesta in pain when she is near a fire. YOU KNEWW FEYREE??

But what did you do??? Lock her in the HoW?

I want to weep. Plisss. Eris, i see you there. Ehekkkkk. Cute cute cuteeeeee.

Your writing as majestic, as perfection, as breaking heart as it always does. Thank you and may the printing of your novel went smooth like butter.

They all knew and did not care :-)

Eww Nesta's in yesterday's clothes and she's super thin. She's causing us so much stress! I am crying into my scrambled eggs at the club.

Thank you so much. I try my best to give Nesta a good story!

#anon asks

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lafcadiosadventures · 11 months

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Madame Putiphar Readalong. Book Two, Chapter Thirteen:

featuring themes of an Extremely Romantic Nature:

-a lamentation on France’s distancing from its Celtic heritage (while Spain an Ireland haven’t)(what good is this modernity for?)

-wounds that reopen as a response to great emotional shock (Lawrence of Arabia style)

-the judicial process as a burlesque carnival, a parade of grotesque killers being celebrated by an adoring populace licking their own blood off of the hangman’s hand.

-An inquiry on crime: what is it, who gets to define it? in any unequal society and specifically one under a colonial regime?

Hogarth's The Bench. (breaking my self-imposed rule of posting only monochromatic engravings to illustrate the chapters because atypically for me I prefered the oil painting to the print in this case)

I said last time we had seen the last of Ireland/the home as prison and I was wrong because, back we go to Cockermouth Castle!

The narrator informs us lady Cockermouth has died of shock after thinking her husband had actually murdered their daughter.

Debby is convalescing, and being handled with kid gloves. She desperately wants her mother, but is not told she has died (out of fear that she too would die of shock since she was still incredibly weak)(besides with playing with tropes, Borel imbues wounds with a proto-psychosomatic quality... there is an emotional quality to them that both responds to logic, and to an almost christian martyr imagery of wounds opening up as a sign of calamity to come (like figures of mary that weep blood, etc) or as a response to a reminder of emotional trauma)(i am sure i’m not wording this correctly, but he is elaborating an aesthetic use of wounds here, they are deeply symbolic and the way they reopen seems to be so as well)

The servants reply with evasives which make her suspicious. Some of them walk into her room wearing mourning clothes, which basically confirms her suspicions. Debby sneaks out of her room, weak as she is, goes to her mother’s room only to find it empty and dirty, clearly abandoned for a while now. So she falls to the ground, fainted. Her wounds reopen and she starts bleeding (a very striking image, it makes sense for it to happen since she’s very weak, her wounds are still not properly healed, but it’s also symbolic)(I’m reminded of the post torture scene in Lawrence of Arabia where Lawrence starts bleeding during a conversation alluding to said torture, and think Borel is working with wounds in a similar way here.)

We leave Debby and the castle for a second, to the castle’s surroundings and the villagers and peasants, who are distressed by what they think is Patrick’s death. Given Cockermouth’s history of violence, everyone assumes he murdered Patrick. The other nobles, who we are told, also hate Cockermouth, had spread what they saw at the banquet and their conjectures about what happened to the villagers. the villagers see in this story yet another layer to the cake of Cockermouth’s violence, they become emboldened, and dare to talk against him openly. Patrick’s death might be the spark needed to light up an uprising.

[Borel tells us how the people pay homage to Patrick’s blood -actually Debby’s- building a cairn -thanks @sainteverge - marking graves through piling stones over the body- over the blood stains. These cairns can be later on confused with hills if they are covered by soil, as Borel says. Spain and Ireland, Borel tells us, still (in 1840’s) continue this practice, and although there are cairns in the Armorican regions of France, these are Celtic monuments form the ancient gauls.

(this history of Celtic customs and shared Celt origins of the countries in question, might be at the back of his mind when he compares both cultures, which he will do again later on? Is he perhaps also choosing Ireland for this novel because he wants to recall to a Celtic heritage France has distanced itself from? Among other reasons? )

In fact, when Borel talks of French vestiges now studied by “experts” there’s a touch of irony in his tone,, although under the stones usually human skeletons are found, the "learned men" studying them classify them as ancient monuments but cannot decide their purpose.... France, Borel seems to be saying, has stirred so far from its past it requires experts to study its traditions, even while having relatives in neighbouring countries still practising said traditions, that could surely shed light over those...]

So, back to the revolutionary steerings Patrick’s presumed death has provoked: Everywhere he goes, lord Cockermouth encounters clamours asking what has he done with Patrick’s body. Little kids call him lord Cain. Lord Cockermouth is very afraid and feels the urge to clear his reputation FAST or risk maybe being killed.

So, in a move typical of any person with power and connections, no matter when you read this, Lord Cockermouth decides it’s time for a little tampering with the judicial system. He forces out of his daughter the confession that Patrick lives. And through “insidious practices” he fabricates a court case accusing Patrick of being a seducer and a would be killer.

And what follows is something French Romanticism does so well: an enquiry of what constitutes a crime in modern society (noted examples, Vautrin’s many rants in Père Goriot, Nerval’s Hand of Glory, some passages in Champavert) what is a crime, what gets penalized as a crime, which members of a society get labelled as criminals? Balzac and Nerval go for poverty, people who have to steal out of need/starvation, while white collar crimes committed on a daily basis by bankers and aristocrats-and merchants, adds Nerval- not only go unpunished, they are not even called that. Borel offers another example: revolutionaries. Irishmen resisting the English invader and fighting back? Tried as criminals. I’ll let Borel do the talking:

“The task awaiting these magistrates was quite honorable: in addition to Patrick’s case, they had to deal with half a dozen homicides, and a good dozen thieves: these wonderful Irish murderers were nothing more, poor men, than good papist peasants who had had the monstrousness to retaliate against their English tenants’ beatings, and these distinguished larcenists, only unfortunate families, plunged into misery by the last confiscations, and who, pushed by hunger and cold, had stolen a few baskets of peat and a few bushels of potatoes.” (translation by @sainteverge here )

These are speedy trials, where the accused are doomed before the process is even started.

Borel makes a caricature out of the Magistrates Debby sees from the window of her hotel, a carnivalesque parade of assassins, dresses in pink, wearing massive poweded wigs...

To complete the carnival quality of the scene, we get a description of the people dressed in their Sunday best to attend the trials (there have been many associations made between the judicial process and the theatrical, see for instance foucault calling the administration of public punishments the abominable theatre, see, expositions of forcats, vidocq’s description of women attending trials as a thrilling kind of morbid spectacle -why vidocq singles out women as the only ones seeking perversely erotic thrills in the courthouse is a question for another time :P)

The judges are not even disguising who they answer to, they smile and bow to Lord Cockermouth as they see him wave at them from the hotel window. (they dined and drank together every night, because they shared their symbolic-in-borel’s-world gluttony)

“The whole town, kind eyed and smiling, was as animated as on a holiday, and the streets, in their Sunday best, were full of white élégantes, of blue bourgeois and of red soldiers. The duration of sessions, by the great turnout civil and criminal cases occasion, is a time of carnival and rejoicing in small towns.”

(The colors make the ones of the union jack, but i don’t know if there’s any further symbolism to them)

Also, sorry for citing so much but this is good and i must:

“The people’s gaiety, generated by the sole presence of men come to decimate them, did not devastate Deborah any less. The crowd demands entertainment; anything that serves as entertainment is considered good: priests, soldiers, mountebanks, judges, kings and executioners.”

The people’s gaiety generated by the presence of those who had come to decimate them!!?!? standing ovation. The people at the parade, having fun at the expense of others who are about to die or be imprisoned, because they choose to challenge the colonial authorities instead of living quietly in their personal comfort??? wow.

Plus the comparison of the personages providing the entertainment, most of them harmful to the people cheering on them, or with the potential to be harmful.

We finally get to the trial itself: Cockermouth just proclaims a bunch of lies about Patrick being a seducer who later attempted to murder his daughter and fled to France after stealing her jewels. bought witnesses back up his claims, employing their consciences only in earning their bribes.

When Debbie is called to testify, she is in the delicate position of protecting Patrick without outing his father as a liar (possibly out of fear)

Since dinner was nigh, the judges rapidly condemn Patrick on all charges, disregarding Deborah’s statement or her cries claiming his innocence.

And not only has Deborah had to suffer the whole fixed trial situation, but on top of that her charming father invites her and the judges to a celebratory banquet. She rebels and stays in her room, forced to hear her lover’s henchmen and tormentors’ laughter and their bas lieux joys.

Poor Debbie descends the next morning to find the vestiges of the orgy, drunken judges amok, her naked father passed out on the ground...

She flees to the docks of Tralee to find the next ship for France. Patrick is hanged in ephigy.

#not my best writing but i have a cold rn and just want to nap lol #so it's not as polished as it should be! you will have to excuse me <3 #madame putiphar #long post #text post

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