#beautiful things have dents and scratches too || inspiration

[strang3lov3]

Chevelle

Summary- (joel miller x virgin!reader) Joel figures out that you’re the one who hit his baby, his precious 1964 Chevrolet Chevelle. He needs you to make it right, but he doesn’t want your money ❤️‍🔥🍆 (5k words)

Tags- MDNI hot girls can’t drive, implied age gap, virgin!reader, we're calling him tender dark!joel, soft!dom joel, tender dubcon (power imbalance, joel solicits sex from reader, no explicit consent but reader is into it) reader has a luscious bush, Joel walks you through handjobs, blowjobs, fingering, oral, unprotected piv, creampie, come eating, loss of virginity. Joel is clothed and reader is not.

A/N- Writing this is how I spent my spring break. Hope you love it 🩵 Thank you @noxturnalpascal for all of your help editing and your encouragement.

Based on mine and @beefrobeefcal shared prompt where we asked, "What would happen if reader damaged Joel’s vehicle?” Her fic is here and it’s one of my favorite things I’ve read!! Kiki has such a beautiful voice in her writing and I love all the details she adds to her fics.

Pawn shop by @toxicanonymity came to mind when I wrote this story and was a source of inspiration. Also worth a read, I have nothing but love for Tox’s writing 🩷

It’s late when you get off your shift at Tony’s, the shitty Italian restaurant you’ve been working at for far too long. It doesn’t pay much and you’ve considered working a new job to save up and move out of your brother’s house, but you’ve been putting that idea off for a variety of reasons. One of them being Joel. 

Joel’s your neighbor, a sexy, older man you’ve got a certain fondness for. His hair used to be more brown but it’s grayer now, same with the scruff on his face. He’s got sparkling, chocolatey eyes and a sharp nose set above a thick, downturned mustache. He always looks a little dirty when you see him, with dirt caked into his forehead wrinkles and grease smeared along his temple or his jaw. He’s always either fresh off a contracting job or working on his car. He’s got this cute little Chevy he spends his nights and weekends with, a 1964 Chevrolet Chevelle, baby blue.

Joel was one of the first people to welcome you to the neighborhood and even helped you move your stuff into your brother’s house, though helping you implies he let you do any work. Joel offered you a pop from his fridge and then took over entirely, putting both himself and your brother to work moving all of your stuff in. You didn’t lift a finger that day. 

-

You can’t seem to pull your eyes from the little green glowing letters on your dash, watching letters and numbers on the screen roll on by. 12:37 A.M. 101.9. Paper Bag - Fiona Apple.  You’re so out of it. You yawn and blink a couple of times, focusing back on the narrow roads of your neighborhood. It’s so poorly lit over here, and it doesn’t help that one of your headlights is out. Joel’s been bugging you to let him fix that, he says it’ll only take five minutes.

You turn onto your street and bam. You’re wide awake now. You just hit something. 

You hit Joel’s car. Joel’s fucking car. What the fuck is it doing on the street? He always has it safely kept in his garage. Oh dear god, the panic is setting in. This is Joel’s baby. You just hit his baby, his pride and joy. 

You can’t even bring yourself to assess the damage you’ve inflicted upon his dear Chevy. Probably dented to shit, but you don’t really wanna know. Instead, you just pull your foot off the brake, press your remote control garage door opener, then pull into your garage as you press your lips together tightly. You’re surprised and relieved to find that there’s hardly a scratch on your own car. Joel won’t know. He won’t.

The next morning, you’re sipping on your coffee as you check your mailbox. Joel’s outside his house, loading up his work truck with some tools and supplies. He waves to you and you wave back, a small stack of mail in your hand. 

“Whose mail you got today, sweetheart?” he calls to you. 

You check the names on some of the letters. “Davidsons’ and Pierces’,” you answer through a chuckle. Joel rolls his eyes and laughs. The incompetent mailman is a running joke amongst yourself, Joel, and your other neighbors. He never seems to deliver anything to the right address, so you and your neighbors are often hand delivering each other your misplaced mail.

You laugh with Joel until you notice his smile disappear. He’s narrowing his eyes on his Chevy. Your heart drops as he steps closer to the vehicle, then pinches his nose in frustration. Fuck. Joel stomps back to his work truck, haphazardly tosses something in the bed and then slams the tailgate. Yeah, he’s fucking pissed. Your neck and your face heat in shame as you quickly run back inside.

-

In the two weeks since Joel’s car was hit, he’s been working to repair it tirelessly. He’s ordered a new tail light, since whoever hit his car shattered it and he’s spent a pretty penny ordering the exact shade of baby blue paint to touch up all of the scratches. Joel only trusts himself to touch his car, but the situation necessitates that he’ll have to take it in to a local repair shop to get the dents out. Fucking fantastic. 

When Joel gets off work tonight, he notices he’s got some packages on his doorstep, hoping it’s the shit he ordered for his car. He’ll open them shortly, but he first notices that one of the packages is addressed to you. Go figure, he thinks, chuckling to himself. He walks the package over to your house, noticing your car is parked outside of the driveway. And it’s backed in too, which is odd. Joel assumes your car must’ve been blocking your brother’s, so he probably played musical chairs with your cars to get his out and then backed yours up onto the driveway. You never back your own car in the driveway, and Joel’s pretty sure it’s because you don’t know how. You probably can’t parallel park, either. He’ll have to show you how to do that sometime.

What’s also new is a bit of baby blue paint on your red Honda Civic’s exterior, right by your headlight, the same headlight he’s been nagging you to let him fix. Joel bites the inside of his cheek. Interesting. He knocks on your door, package in hand, but he’s met with no answer. No biggie. He leaves the package on your porch and goes back to your car, inspecting the paint once more. He scoffs in astonishment and walks home. Unbelievable. 

-

The next evening, you check your mailbox after forgetting to do so earlier. As always, you never have just your own mail. This time you’ve got Joel’s. You walk it over to Joel’s house with the intention of dropping it off on his porch and going back home, not wanting to bother him as he works on his Chevy but his whistle startles you. “Hey you,” he says. “C’mere.”

“O-oh,” you stutter. “I’m just dropping off your–”

“Yeah, I know. Just c’mere a minute,” Joel says. “Got a fuckin’ bone t’pick with you.”

Your palms are beginning to sweat. He doesn’t know anything. Maybe he just wants some company while he works on his car, it wouldn’t be the first time. But still, there’s something about his tone. You step off of his porch and cut through his lawn to get to his garage. Once inside, you help yourself to a root beer from his refrigerator. Something cold and fizzy and sweet to help you calm your nerves.“Oh, sure, help yourself,” Joel mumbles. He notices your fingers slipping off the tab of the pop can and pulls it from your hands, then opens it for you. He’s wearing a stained Prince and the Revolution t-shirt and a slightly too tight pair of jeans that squeeze his ass just so. His garage is decorated with old license plates, posters, other odds and ends. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

Joel says nothing as he walks to his work bench. He pulls a lightbulb out of a cardboard box and waves it in your direction, he’s only a couple of feet from you. “Ordered the wrong bulb,” he tells you. 

You can only nod. You think about maybe making a joke about the mailman screwing it up somehow, but you bite your tongue. You don’t trust yourself not to stutter right now.

“M’sure you saw, my baby here’s all banged up,” Joel puts the bulb back in the box and leans against his work bench, facing you. “Happened a couple weeks ago.”

“Mm,” you hum.

“Hit and run, can you believe that?” 

“No, I can’t. That-that’s terrible.”

“I know it is. And here I thought we had a nice neighborhood…” he trails off before speaking again, “You think you know someone, huh.” 

Someone. So he has someone in mind? “Yeah, it’s terrible…what happened to your car. Can’t believe someone would uh…would do that, knowing how you, your car…yeah. Terrible.”

Joel stares at you for a minute before speaking again, taking note of how you can’t seem to hold eye contact with him. He steps closer to you.

“You wouldn’t know a thing about it, right?”

“Yes,” you answer, quickly realizing your word mishap when Joel raises his eyebrows. “No, yeah. I don’t know–yeah, nothing,” you sip your root beer before fidgeting with the pop tab and shifting your weight from one foot to the other. 

Joel notices. “Squirmin’ an awful lot over there, sweetheart. You got something you wanna tell me?” You shake your head, still playing with the tab on the pop can. Joel removes it from your hand, his fingers gracing over yours before placing it on the workbench. He’s moving closer to you now, matching your pace as you walk backward until the back of your legs hit his car. You gasp, he stands so tall and imposing in front of you. “Easy,” he warns. “You be careful with her.”

“Yeah, I know. Always,” you reply. Your voice is beginning to shake. 

Joel hums at your response. “Not always, though, sweetheart. Think you were pretty careless with my baby a couple weeks ago.” 

The familiar pressure behind your eyes is beginning to build as tears are pricking your waterline, “I don’t know what–”

“Awh, don’t do that. Don’t lie t’me.” 

 The tears spill over. You’re caught. You don’t know how Joel figured out what you did, but he did. “You’ve got a guilty conscience, dontcha?”

You nod before you can speak. “I’m so sorry,” you cry. Sobs begin to wrack your body, your tears now flowing freely. You’re so guilty. You should’ve told Joel what happened that night. It was an accident, and he might’ve been mad, but you’ve probably made it worse for yourself with your dishonesty. “I’m so sorry, Joel, it was late and I was so tired–”

Joel pulls you in a tight embrace, stroking your back with his fingertips. “Shhh, I know. I know,” he whispers in your ear,  “S’okay, sweet girl.” 

“It was so…” you try to explain, choking on your sobs and your sniffles. “So late and d-dark and I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I know. Quit your cryin’, s’gonna be fine,” Joel whispers. He pulls away from you, looking at you with those deep brown eyes of his as he wipes the tears from your face with his thumbs. Know you’ll make it up to me.”

“I will,” you agree quickly. “I’ll pick up some more shifts, Joel, and I’ll save and–”

“Oh, no. Not that. Save your money,” he tells you earnestly. “Somethin’ else,” Your eyes follow Joel when he leaves you for a moment to flip a switch on the wall of his garage. Something in the air changes then, a thick, heavy feeling between you both when he makes his way back to you. “Use your head, sweetheart. How are we gonna make it right?”

Your mouth is dry, your tongue swollen as you pick up what Joel’s putting down. “Let me give ya a hint,” Joel grunts, sucking in his gut slightly as he unbuttons his jeans. He wears no underwear, a thatch of coarse hair littering his skin is what you see when he pulls down his zipper. He grips your wrist and shoves your hand beneath the denim where you feel his package, already half hard. It’s warmer, thicker than you would expect. He feels heavy in your palm, his pubic hair wiry and scratchy against your knuckles. 

He doesn’t tilt his head in confusion at your hesitancy. “Don’t know what to do with all this, do ya?”

You shake your head no. “I’ve never…with anyone, before.”

“S’alright. I’ll walk ya through it all,” Joel says, seemingly unsurprised at the revelation. With your hand still on his cock, Joel pulls himself out of his jeans entirely. He’s harder now. “Like this,” he instructs, bringing your hand to his mouth and spitting in it. A pang of arousal fills your gut at the action. He pushes your hand lower and guides you to wrap your hand around his cock. It feels heavy, warm to the touch, sticky with his sweat and his saliva. Rock hard, but smooth like satin. You admire him, his blushed tip, the prominent veins on his shaft. 

Your breath hitches as Joel takes control, using his strong, weathered hand to guide your own to massage his cock. “You got it,” he encourages, sensing your rigidity. “Tighter,” he instructs, squeezing his hand around yours. You’re slow to gain confidence but he’s patient, doing the work himself for now. “You move your hand all the way up, all the way down my cock,” he tells you. 

You nod in understanding. Joel drops his hand but yours stays stroking his member. He sighs and tilts his head backward as you focus on the task at hand. Without the pressure of intense eye contact, you take the opportunity to admire him, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, the small drops of sweat rolling down his throat. You’re shy when he smiles at you, quickly averting your attention from him and to his cock, watching the way it twitches beneath your hand, where a little bead of precum forms. Experimentally, you swipe your thumb over the tip. “That’s it,” he whispers, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand. He ruts his hips into your hips, “Doin’ just fine.”

You stroke his cock like this for a while, gaining confidence in yourself until he stops you suddenly.

 “Is that it?” 

“Is that it,” Joel mocks with a feigned pout. “No, hon. You banged up my baby pretty good. We ain’t quite square yet.”

His leaking cock bounces against his tummy as he approaches his work bench. Your heart pounds as you can’t quite see what he’s reaching for. “Know it’s new to ya,” he says.  “Just listen to me, s’all you gotta do.”

Joel returns to you with a dirty rag in his hand and lays it on the concrete ground, then reaches for your face. He pulls your bottom lip down and lets it go to watch it bounce back up. “Knees,” he whispers, gently pushing you by your shoulders to the ground. The rag he laid on the concrete for your knees is a sweet touch, all things considered. His cock is inches away from your face as he holds it between his thumb, middle, and forefingers. He presses himself to your lips, encouraging you to open your mouth. “Give it a taste,” he instructs you. “An’ you can kiss it too, if you’re feelin’ amorous.” 

You part your lips and tentatively lick the weeping slit of his thick head just once. After a moment, taking in the saltiness of his precome, you lick him a couple more times, gaining confidence quicker than you did using just your spit soaked hand on him. Bigger stripes now, using more pressure. Like Joel advised, you kiss his cock a couple times, each kiss sloppier than the last before swirling your tongue around the tip. You’re learning it all, the softness of his skin, his musky, heady taste. 

“Give me your hand,” Joel says. “Goes right here,” He wraps your hand around the base of his cock, same as before. He places one of his hands on your head, guiding you closer to him, encouraging you to take him deeper now. You do as such, sputtering and choking when you get overzealous and take him too quickly.

Joel chuckles, “Not all at once, sweetheart. Go slow. Try it again.” This time, Joel controls the pace at which you take him. He pushes himself into your mouth and senses when it becomes too much, pauses for you. He pulls his hips back, then rocks back into your mouth, building a slow, shallow pace for you to get used to. 

He’s pushing his cock deeper into your mouth. His tip teases the back of your throat as he whispers, “Little more. Be brave,” You gaze up at him, searching his eyes for some sort of approval. He nods with his brows furrowed. “Do it for me, hon.”

You allow him to fuck himself deeper in your mouth now, your eyes pricking with tears as you gag and sputter on his cock. This time, Joel doesn’t stop himself. He’s grunting, groaning, savoring the warmth of your wet, soft mouth. “So good,” he tells you before tapping your hand, reminding you to put it to use.

What you can’t reach with your mouth, you massage with your hand as you cup his balls with your other. You and Joel work in tandem, him drawing in and out of your mouth as you bob your head and flick your tongue against his shaft. Your jaw is sore with the newness of it all, and just as you’re becoming used to the thickness of his cock between your lips and on your tongue, he pauses. “M’gonna stop you now,” Joel mumbles as he pulls out of your mouth, his eyes focused on your swollen lips and how the string of saliva connected from them to his cock breaks. “S’your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Mhm. It’s etiquette, hon,” Joel says with a grunt, lifting you to your feet. He reaches between your bodies and unbuttons your pants, pushing both them and your underwear down your legs. “Always return the favor.” Joel lifts you slightly, sitting your bare ass on the hood of his car, then pulls your pants off your legs the rest of the way. “Arms up,” he tells you. He lifts your shirt off of your body, unhooks your bra and lets it fall to your lap. You’ve never been so vulnerable, so exposed in front of someone before.  Instinctively, you cover your chest with your arms and cross your legs. 

“You’re shy,” he whispers. Joel drapes your clothing over his shoulder before reaching for your arms, removing them from your chest and placing them on either side of your body. “Stay like this,” He holds your knees next, uncrossing your legs and spreading them wide for his view. 

Joel takes in your body and admires your wet cunt, how your thick curls frame it beautifully. A shiver goes down your spine as his eyes scan the rest of your body before he holds intense eye contact with you as he folds your clothes, placing them in a neat pile next to you on his car. You watch his chest rise and fall with steady breaths as he drops to his knees, situating himself between your thighs.

He presses a sloppy kiss against your inner knee, then another on your other leg. He kisses his way up your inner thigh, nipping at your flesh and soothing the marks with his tongue. He holds your legs firmly apart, knowing your instinct is to shut them when he reaches your cunt, his hot breath fanning over your center. “Wider,” he whispers, “I gotcha.”

The once cool metal of Joel’s car is now hot and slick under your sweaty, trembling palms. Your pulse beats as you look up at the garage ceiling, lacking the courage to look at Joel between your thighs. “Relax for me,” he tells you. You try. 

You gasp when he finally begins exploring you, first his thumb parting open your folds. Adding a couple more digits, he hums in satisfaction as he finds you’re already wet, your slick glistening on his fingers. He dips one of those fingers inside of you slowly, watching how you react to his touch. You twitch and fight to keep yourself still and silent as he adds a second finger, curling it rhythmically and stroking that sweet spot inside you. 

“Oh, god,” you moan as he dives into your cunt, the soft and warm, private place between your thighs, his mouth now joining where his fingers touch. His tongue is hot and wet as he drags it through your sex, circling your clit with it. “Joel, please.”

Joel’s satisfied as he hears sounds of pleasure fall from your lips, feeling your hips bucking and grinding gently against his mouth. He sucks one fold, nips at the other as he curls his fingers inside you rhythmically. With the hand that’s not teasing your pussy, he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of your thigh. “Quit squirmin’ on my car,” he warns with a firm squeeze to your thigh, hard enough to bruise you. “Ya tryin’ to scratch her again?”

His wiry stubble drags across your skin, scratching gently against the inside of your thighs. You can feel it building up quickly, that hot, sparkling feeling deep in your core as he works you, sucks your clit between his lips. 

“Please,” you cry, the only word you can form at the moment. 

“I know, hon,” he murmurs, escalating his efforts on your pussy. Sucking, licking, curling his fingers harder. He works you through your orgasm, feeling you gush against his mouth, your arousal dripping down his fingers and pooling into the palm of his hand. Your hands fly to his scalp, twitching and jerking from the sensitivity with your fingers tugging on his curls when he licks a stripe up the seam of your cunt. 

Joel pulls away from your center with a satisfied grin, lips shiny, his facial hair damp. He rises, standing above you, and sloppily kisses your lips. You’ve never tasted your own arousal before. His strong hands find your ass cheeks, pulling you closer to where he wants you.

From there, you gasp when he slides his cock through your slick folds, rubbing thick head against your sensitive clit and watches how you react to his touch. “What do you think I’m doin’ to ya next?”

“Joel,” you whimper, your hips chasing his movements, following where his cock teases your cunt. 

“Yeah, you know what I’m doin,” he purrs. “Crossin’ it all off your list tonight.”

You tense when he notches just the head of his cock in your pussy, reaching for his arm, his shoulder, any part of him you can hold. 

“Know you’re nervous,” he says softly, rubbing circles into your thighs. “But s’just me an’ you here. Wider, hon. Spread your legs for me.”

You nod quickly, following suit and spreading your legs to accommodate him. “Like this?”

“Yeah, like that. S’perfect, hon, that’s all I need from you. C’mere,” Joel adjusts his hold on you before inching his cock into you a bit more. You’re so tight, squeezing him hard and whining through the stretch as he pushes into you further, the gradual slide inside your body causing him to grunt quietly. “Relax for me,” he groans through a strained breath, parting your insides as he’s sheathed himself inside you fully now. “Bite me f’ya need to, sweetheart. It’ll be okay. You’ll get used to it.”

It aches, but the pain dulls as Joel lets you get used to the feeling, the newness of his cock inside you. He holds you close and you take advantage of his suggestion, biting softly into the flesh of his neck, tasting the saltiness of his skin as you whimper quietly. Joel groans, his eyebrows furrowing together. “Shh,” he hushes, “You’re okay, hon. You’re doin’ alright.”

Joel slowly pulls out of you and fills you up again. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he praises as you tilt your hips, opening yourself to accept more of him. You’re humming into his neck as his cock recedes and then pushes in once more. “Eyes on me now. There it is, easy. Easy.”

You do as instructed, pulling your face away from him to meet his gaze. His sparkling brown eyes stay on yours as he pulls out of you, pushing into you slowly, deliberately. You hold onto his neck, his broad shoulders, clutching the fabric of his sweat dampened shirt as he builds a steady pace now. He holds you close to his body, one of his hands traveling up your body and groping your bouncing breasts, teasing your sensitive nipples.

“You just follow my lead,” Joel says, fucking you faster now. His fingers are pressed firmly into your waist now as he rolls his hips against yours. The pain is gone now, dissipated with his continued languid thrusts into you. You feel so full, so satisfied with his thick cock inside you, massaging your insides.

He fucks you steadily but gently, maintaining a quick rhythm. You didn’t know sex could make you feel this way, so much pleasure.  You’re moaning freely, overwhelmed with emotion, tears flowing freely down your cheeks. God, you love it, and it’s nothing but pure pleasure. 

Joel’s not oblivious to your enjoyment. He’s watching you, your face contorting, he’s listening to your moans and your cries, feeling you shiver and twitch beneath his touch and how it’s all because of him, all of your pleasure at the hands of Joel and only ever Joel. He feels a sort of carnal sense of power over this, the effect his touch has on you. You’re soft, so soft and all for him, your flesh for his hands and his teeth alone to squeeze, dig into, to bite on. 

You reach for his arm and guide his hand to your center, pressing his fingers against your clit as that familiar tightness in your gut begins to build once more. “Please,” you beg. 

“Thought this was supposed to be a deal for me. Didn’t need to hit my car f’ya needed me like this,” he taunts, laughing breathlessly. But Joel obliges, of course he obliges you. He moves his calloused fingertips in circles over your clit, coaxing out your release. “Takin’ me so good, sweetheart. Look at you, m’gonna make you come again. Makin’ out like a fuckin’ bandit, aren’t you?”

Indeed you are. It’s not long before you’re coming for him. With his ministrations on your clit, his thrusts now faster, harder, deeper, you’re coming undone for him as his name pours from your lips, long and slow like honey. With your lips parted open, you’re twitching and shuddering against him as you watch his face, letting yourself go. You whimper and moan, and your release is volcanic in the way it washes over your body so fiercely. Heavy, vivid waves of pleasure washing over you the way lava rolls down the earth. Slow, fiery, intense.

Your pulsing cunt milks Joel’s own climax, his orgasm crashing through him in such a way that he loses focus on you. His eyes screwed shut, the noises he’s making louder than he intended–what starts as a grunt turns into a moan, long and libertine as he fucks you harder than he probably should as you whimper in overstimulation. His thrusts turn harder and frenzied as he milks himself with your cunt, spurting hot ropes of his come inside you. You take everything he gives you, feeling so warm and full of his spend. 

His movements then begin to ease, slowing down some more until he eventually stills inside of you. He takes the quiet moment to check on you, holding your face in his hands as he makes sure you’re okay. Your chest heaves as he wipes your tears, but you silently nod, reassuring him that you’re alright.

With a soft grunt, he pulls out of you. He watches how your combined arousal spills on the baby blue paint of his Chevelle, then uses his thumb to push a bit of his escaped come back inside you. Such a lewd action from the man. 

Joel helps you to your feet, steadying you as you stand on shaky legs. He reaches for your clothes from the hood of his car, helping you dress yourself. “Didn’t want ‘em to get dirty,” he explains. “Everything’s covered in fuckin’ dirt and grease in here.”

“Thank you,” you smile shyly. Joel opens the garage door, the once peachy and blue sky now inky black. You didn’t realize how much time had passed. You take off back to your house, but Joel grips your bicep before you can step any further. 

 “Nuh uh,” he tuts. “Ya already hit my car, hon, you don’t wanna leave your mess on the hood now too, do ya?” Joel gestures to your combined arousal on the hood of his Chevelle, swipes his pointer finger through the mess and pushes it between your lips. Your brows furrow at the taste, that salty, heady flavor you’ve never tasted before now. “Use your tongue, sweetheart.”

“You want me…”

“Lick it up,” he instructs in a quiet voice. Joel figured he might’ve let you off too easy, seeing as how you came twice–once on his tongue and once on his cock when this was all supposed to be for him. He bends you over the hood of his car, groping your ass as he leans over your shoulder to inspect your work, making sure it’s a job well done. “Good girl,” he praises, watching you lick his car clean. When you’re done, he kisses you softly.

He walks you home, dropping you off on your doorstep. You’re not quite sure what to say, whether you should apologize again, thank him, say goodnight. Joel fills the silence for you. “Gonna teach you how to drive right one of these days. Keep you out of another mess like this one, hm?” he smirks as he kisses your cheek. “Goodnight, hon.”

If you enjoyed, please reblog, leave me a comment, and/or send an ask 🩷 your words mean the world to me and your interaction keeps me motivated to write. Love you all <3

From now on I’ll be sharing cat pics at the end of my fics. Hope you don’t mind 🐈‍⬛😻

#strang3lov3 #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #joel miller #the last of us #the last of us hbo #joel miller fic #joel tlou #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x virgin reader

[spider999sposts]

Monster — Miguel O' Hara

🕸synopsis: you have no idea who was the man you spent last night with, but one thing was very clear. He was not a human.

🕸warnings: explicit (not very spicy, but not really mild either.), mentions of scratching and biting.

🕸tag: miguel o' hara (across the spiderverse) × reader

🕸note: inspired by Lady Gaga's monster. sorry if the spanish is a mix messed up, I unfortunately do not speak that beautiful language.

You were unsure of what you just got tangeled into.

You try to remember, through foggy memories and a groggy brain. You were out with your friends for your birthday. Oh, yes, your birthday. You can't remember what led to it, your friends wanted you to go out for your birthday because you never do? or was it because they had some stupid birthday planned? You had no idea anymore, but one thing you remembered from that night was something crimson.

Crimson eyes. Crimson, slightly evil eyes.

You were at the bar, when you met his eyes. His gaze was sharp, his demeanor threatening, his attitude cold. A mysterious man with crimson eyes and a threatening air around him was looking at someone, and it was you. And he wasn't just staring like you've gotten used to some men doing.

He was watching you.

You came to realise it when you felt someone watching you while you were on the dance floor. And when you looked back, it was him. Him, and his crimson eyes again. He was drinking something out of a glass, a scotch——no, a whiskey. He downed it, but it was like he wasn't affected by it.

He was with two other people. A man, and  woman. The man was telling him something but he was not paying attention, while the woman looked at him, realising he was staring right at you.

You turned to one of your girlfriend, tugging her arm while both of you got down on the floor. "Have you seen that guy before?" She was drunk, it was no use asking her.

"We might've fucked, not really sure, don't queit recall."

She definitely did not fuck him. Anyone would recall those eyes. Those weren't human, not completely. Those eyes, his gaze, the way he held himself, its not that of a man.

It was one of a——

"....caliente como el infierno..." [hot as hell]

You heard a voice behind you, and when you turn around. It's him. And those crimson eyes are boring into yours.

Your mind fogged up again, as you tried to remember. It was frustrating. Why couldn't you remember him? His name was on the tip of your tounge.

You remembered something again. The way he looked. Tanned skin, soft tufts of black wavy hair. Tall, lean, muscular. High cheek-bones and those eyes. He asked if you wanted to get out of here, you wanted to dance, but you agreed. Your brain fogged up again.

Then you remembered something once more. You took the subway to your apartment. It was so late that the usually–busy trains were so empty. He grabbed you close to him, his warm hands on your waist, you playfully teased him, saying something along the lines of. "Get your paws off of me."

To which he replied, "Paws? Cute. I think it's more accurate to say claws." Now that you look at your body, that comment seems very, very odd, considering the scratches and marks you have on your waist and hips.

He french kissed you on the subway too, a kiss so intoxicating that you couldn't think of anything else but him and his lips. God, if you hadn't been so eager, you would've remembered something now. Memories flashed, his plump mouth on yours, one of his hands around your neck, the other on your waist. He was a skilled kisser, is all you could remember.

"Fuck, think, think!"

You can't recall anything important. If it weren't for the markings on your body, you would've just assumed this was merely a very hot dream that you had. You looked around your room, for something, anything.

Your headboard.

Good god, you just noticed it now.

Apart from it being extremly frail, almost broken, There were more marks on it. Scratchs, dents, holes, ones that had to be done by something really sharp.

Then you took a step back.

Your entire bed was a mess that was begging to just be broken, it looked like it's seen some really rough time yesterday. You feel your face flush, oh, now you recalled something.

"Ay, Dios mío, te sientes tan bien..." [Oh, my god, you feel so good.]

"M–Mi—"

That's it, his name, it was on the tip of your tounge.

"Mm, why don't you speak more clearly? Or are you too distracted, should I slow down?"

He was a tease, a very sadistic one. Your face turned a deeper shade.

"No! Mig...please."

"Tsk, tsk... habla claro." [Speak clearly.]

"Miguel—!"

Miguel. That was his name.

You scrambled to your phone by the bedside table. You called one of your girl friends who was with you yesterday.

"Hey girl! Did you just wake up? It's like 2 PM.."

"Yeah—Listen, did you see me leave with someone yesterday?"

"Ooh, yeah! That hot, latino guy. So, what did you both get up to?" She teased.

Flashs of the night you spent together comes crashing down on you. Your legs set on his broad shoulders, one of his hands around your wrists, holding them tight so you wouldn't move, his mouth on your neck, his teeth on your skin (which now that you remembered, he had extremly sharp canines, like fangs. They felt good on your skin, and when you looked at your mirror, you noticed puncture marks on your shoulder), the various praises and spanish curse words you heard in your ear. You remembered the fullness you felt in your abdomen, how extremely warm his body felt, how one move from him made you lose all your sense of self.

"Nothing much," You lied, "Do you remember his name, or like if he talked to us? If we had small talk, because I didn't drink at all yesterday, but I can't remember anything."

"Damn, he must've been really good huh, fucked the info out of your memory?" Honestly, that seemed plausible. "But I don't know, girl! I was wasted yesterday, woke up with a terrible headache really." While pacing around the room, you noticed a paper on your counter. "Hey, do you want to grab like, brunch—"

"Um, sorry, I'll call you later." You hung up, and put your phone down, picking up the paper instead. In a neat, cursive handwriting, it read:

"Apologies about the bed, I'll make it up for you.

Hope you had a great birthday.

I'll see you soon, hermosa.

— M. O'Hara"

Beside the note, there was a business card. It had his name, his number, and his title at the company he worked at, 'Alchemax'.

You looked between the bed, your phone, the note, the tears on your sheets and the scratchs on your headboard.

You weren't sure what you got tangeled into, but one thing seemed really clear now.

Whoever you slept with, whoever this 'Miguel O'Hara' was, you knew one thing, you know he had to be inhuman. A monster, in all the best ways.

#marvel #miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #atsv miguel #miguel spiderverse #miles morales #pavitr prabhakar #atsv pavitr #astv gwen #astv #across the spiderverse #the avengers #into the spider verse #hobie brown #atsv hobie #lyla spiderverse #gabriella o’hara #spiderman 2099 #spider people #spider gwen #spider punk #peter parker #canon event #mary jane parker #gwen stacy #spiderman #Spotify

[luwianskies]

Silt Circle

The static sizzled on the ship’s radio, the only lifeline between it and the deepest diving maned submersible beneath it. They had chosen this part of the Abyssal Plain seemingly at random, as far as the ship’s captain could tell. A desert under the sea...

And damn near the whole science team, and maybe more of the crew than was safe, were listening intently, watching the equally static-filled video.

“...doctor Carver, repeat. Did you say...”

“--t’s like a giant...crop circle, right there in the silt! The curves of the circle is incredibly regular! The rising and falling features are...well I haven’t done the full circle, but they seem perfectly even as well! This is unprecedented! This is...”

On the screen the static lessened intermittently, giving them only glimpses of what the submersible was seeing. The circle on the screen did indeed seem unusually regular, the path of the curve of it smooth and undented by debris or imperfections.

it was the most unnatural thing the captain had ever seen.

It was just wrong.

“Wait” the doctor whispered distractedly “turn into the circle, right there, do you see that?”

The camera turned towards the inner side of the circle, the light blocked by rising and falling hills of long-settled silt. These rising and falling features were also regular, almost geometric. It was like looking at a deliberately designed mountain range stretching beyond their feeble floodlights’ reach...

The camera zoomed in.

“No, back up, doN’T DISTURB THE--”

The submersible’s thrust made the silt rise, and everyone inhaled sharply. The waters in the Abyssal Plain moved so little and so slowly that it was estimated that the layers of tiny debris and silt could very well have remained undisturbed for years and years. Shaking it up now felt almost...sacrilegious.

And beneath a thin, dusty layer, were glassy reflections.

What?

“What...” the sizzling static voices echoed, “what...is that...glass?”

Everyone crowded around the screen, but said nothing.

The captain’s brain was in overdrive despite his silence and stillness.

That, he thought with disbelief, looks like volcanic glass.

Smooth, black, flawlessly reflective. No scratches, no dents or chipping.

Again, too perfect.

Wrong.

“Uuuuuhhh, captain?” the ensign on radar called out to him from a different radio, “we’re getting a signal that doesn’t make any sense--”

The captain had had enough, his stomach sinking and heart racing as he radioed the dive team suddenly:  “Carver, Cress, get back topside now.”

“What?! But this is--” Carver objected.

“Cress, that’s an order. Do it now!”

DWONG!

The video cut out, the radio screeched before also falling silent, and the whole ship rocked from what felt like and unending impact and shaking, shaking, everyone tumbling!--

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

duh-duh-DUUUUUHHHHH!!!

Inspired by these beauties:

With the artist pictured here at the bottom left! A small puffer fish trying to impress a lady. The things we do for love!

Here’s one with a diver and the puffer fish in the middle for scale:

So of course, when you have a wild imagination like mine...extrapolating to the extreme is easy! Maybe the ship will get lucky and there WON’T be an eldritch monstrosity coming for them because they disturbed its art piece XD

Maybe.

Anyway, toodles!

#new idea #My writing #silt circle

[pointreyesjournal]

Immersed in Beauty : ep147

The key to a successful trip in any convertible is a trucker hat. It keeps the sun off of bald heads, and long hair from becoming a tangled mess. Finding a Ferrari trucker cap in the trunk is always a bonus.

The Ferrari California is a 2+2. That means there are back seats, but the seats have ZERO legroom. The back seats are useless for transporting humans further than a mile or two, but are excellent for stashing weekend luggage. We’ve each got a little weekend bag, and from Target (according to my receipt) …

1x Cheap tent

1x Blow up mattress

2x Share size Kit Kats

1x Iron Maiden T-shirt (Women’s Medium)

1x Def Leppard T-shirt (Women’s Medium)

2x Smart Waters

1x Cheap aviator sunglasses

Cheyenne has decided that a vintage Iron Maiden t-shirt with cheap sunglasses from Target would be the perfect outfit for our camping trip. Paired with her “Daisy Dukes” she’s pretty irresistible.

The Ferrari is such a capable vehicle (performance wise I’m referring to here) that it just gobbles up the twisty roads leading up the western slopes of the Sierra without leaving the passenger fearing for her life. In fact, I’ve put Cheyenne in charge of the tunes and she’s blasting the Def Leppard Essentials playlist at full volume as we rip up the twisty mountain road.

Yelling our conversation over the blasting music, Cheyenne decides to peel back another layer of the Cheyenne onion.

Cheyenne: Hey! Want to know what my second favorite thing in the world is?!

Me: Sure! What is it?!

Cheyenne: Convertibles! I LOVE riding in convertibles!

Me: Have you ever ridden in a Ferrari before?!

Cheyenne: First time! And you know what?!

Me: What?!

Cheyenne: This is, by far, the greatest car I’ve ever been in!

Me: Not too shabby?!

Catching her with her own signature catch phrase elicits a nice laugh.

Cheyenne: Not too shabbs baby!

I’m glad she’s enjoying it, but woo wee … I’m being careful. I don’t want to put a scratch in Henrik’s baby. I don’t think the engineers at Ferrari had “camping” on their mission profile when they designed this car. You could say with some level of certainty that anyone who drives a Ferrari into Yosemite valley is valeting at the luxurious Ahwahnee, not roughing it at Camp 4. So, I’ll do my best to keep the mud off of the floor mats.

If there are two things on this earth that go together like milk and honey, it’s a Ferrari engine and a nice long tunnel. This is most especially true in a convertible, where the sound of the exhaust echoes off of the ceiling of the tunnel and back into the cockpit. The tunnel leading into Yosemite Valley is a 4233 foot long sonic masterpiece. Everytime I downshift and step on the gas, it sounds like Godzilla going into battle with a new enemy. Mothra. Rodan. King Kong!

The tunnel exits at Inspiration Point, the overlook over Yosemite, which is arguably the most beautiful spot on planet earth.

The roar of the engine precedes us and when we come out of the tunnel, all eyes are on us. We try to park to get a look at the valley but the Chinese tourists swarm the vehicle trying to get a photo. Some pushing and shoving starts going on and we decide to catch the tunnel view on the way out of the valley and leave before some idiot tourist dents the car.

Yosemite in a convertible with the top down is glorious, and Cheyenne encourages me to do a few slow laps of the valley before we find our campsite. She even turns off the stereo so we can hear the purr of the engine over the quietness of nature.

It’s so beautiful here. I’m on beauty overload. I’m not just surrounded by beauty, I’m immersed in it. I’m in the most beautiful place on earth, with the most beautiful girl, in the most beautiful car. I should just stop talking now so I can enjoy this moment.

So that’s what I’ll do.

#novel #first person narrative #yosemite #ferrari #camping

[thcbeautywithin]

Tag dump

all rose and honey || aesthetic beauty of all literature || quotes she’s beauty and brilliance and bravery || portraits if only I could wish your kiss was not a falling star || beast music is the literature of the heart || melodies behind the beauty || headcanons honey and wildfire are both colour gold || about beautiful things have dents and scratches too || inspiration heart of gold and stardust soul || headcanons beauty is truth, truth beauty that’s all you need to know || answers  pursuit of truth and beauty || ask memes

#she’s beauty and brilliance and bravery || portraits #beauty of all literature || quotes #all rose and honey || aesthetic #music is the literature of the heart || melodies #honey and wildfire are both colour gold || about #beautiful things have dents and scratches too || inspiration #heart of gold and stardust soul || headcanons #beauty is truth truth beauty that’s all you need to know || answers #pursuit of truth and beauty || ask memes #if only I could wish your kiss was not a falling star || beast

[mickey-henry]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬? 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐚-𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐬

pairing: bucky barnes x reader, sam wilson x reader

summary: the universe and the avengers are definitely out to get you

word count: 1.5K

author’s note: hello there! this silly fic is different from my usual work. it was inspired by a hilarious conversation I had with @ritesofreverie a few weeks ago, and it blossomed into this fic! reblogs and comments are cherished; I hope you enjoy this one!

You attract the Avengers everywhere you go. Not in a fun way, because have you seen how beautiful they all are? No, everywhere you turn, they’re fighting one of the “Big Three” and absolutely wrecking your stuff as they do so. Of course, you appreciate their valiance, but do they have to damage all of your belongings every time?

Your interactions with the Avengers began with minor inconveniences. The first to cross your path was Wanda Maximoff. The one day you were running late to work, you got stuck behind her in line at your favorite coffee shop as she ordered drinks and bagels for all of her fellow Avengers. She apologized to the workers and those behind her, but it didn’t excuse the fact that she delayed the line by twenty minutes. You were fashionably late and felt awful.

If you had a nickel for every time an Avenger knocked food right out of your hand, you’d have two nickels. Which isn’t a lot, but it’s strange that it’s happened twice.

Clint Barton’s arrow knocks your bagel right out of your hand and into the chest of some bad guy a few days after the Wanda Maximoff incident. This event was more confusing than infuriating; the bagel disappeared in the blink of an eye. Clint didn’t seem to notice; you received no apology or replacement bagel. What a waste of a delicious chocolate chip bagel—your favorite.

Later that same day, you were walking back to your apartment with a fresh, piping hot pizza in your hand. Of course, Spiderman chose your street to swing back and forth on. He miscalculated a turn and ended up kicking your pizza box across the street as he tried to avoid colliding with you. He profusely apologized before continuing to rush towards an active crime scene. You were starving and really looking forward to that pizza. Too bad you’d never get to eat it; a taxi ran right over it just as you were about to pick it up.

Freaking Ant-Man made an appearance not even an hour later. You stood in your bathroom, splashing cool water on your cheeks as you tried to swallow your annoyance towards your friendly neighborhood Spiderman. The next thing you knew, there was a grown-ass man in your sink. You yelped and smacked him right in the face out of instinct.

“Oww! This is my bad; wrong apartment!” he stammers before shrinking and disappearing from sight.

Later that evening, you’re out with friends at the local karaoke bar: your Friday night tradition. You’re still thinking about how you’ve crossed paths with four Avengers in the last twenty-four hours; this must be a world record. Scratch that—make it five Avengers. Thor Odinson steps up to the stage, inserting(?) himself into the karaoke competition—your passion. You always win, so why should tonight be any different? Clearly, the audience is biased towards the Adonis in front of them; Thor wins first place, and you place second for the first time ever. Stupid God of thunder stealing your thunder; how rude!

Natasha Romanoff makes her appearance on your drive to work the following morning. You’re stuck on a bridge in gridlock because yet another one of the “Big Three” was causing problems. Out of seemingly nowhere, Natasha lands feet first onto the dash of your car, startling the absolute shit out of you. She gives you an apologetic glance, along with a wink and smirk, before dashing off to save the day. Thanks to her surprise appearance, your hood now has enormous dents, and no matter how many times you explain to your insurance that it was a freaking Avenger, they refuse to cover the damages.

A few days later, yet another idiot thinks challenging the Avengers is a smart move. The battle is right near your office building, and you’re praying to any entity listening that they stay out of your way. Turns out the universe likes messing with you because not even a second after wishing to be left alone, Iron Man flies through your office window, scattering your reports all over the floor—six hours worth of them. “Are you freaking kidding me?” you yell, diving to the ground to save your work. Iron Man pays no attention as he flies right back out of your shattered window, clearly caring more about the fight than your work; this just adds to the ever-growing list of reasons you're looking for a new job.

At this point, you’re sure the cosmos are out to get you. That very night, you’re walking back to your apartment, eager to decompress after a long week of Avengers-related shenanigans. Right as you step off the elevator, Mr. Captain America rushes by you, knocking you onto your butt before sprinting straight through the hall into your apartment and breaking down the door with his shield. You’re stunned silent. Before you can even think to yell at him, you hear glass shattering and him thumping on the fire escape. Dear God, how are you going to explain this to your landlord?

Seemingly seconds later, Sam Wilson flies into your life, following Steve through your hallway. He trips over your scattered belongings—thanks, Steve—and falls right into you. He gives you a dorky grin as he rests in your arms like a cheesy rom-com role reversal.

“I’m so sorry, sugar. Normally, when I fall for a gal, it isn’t in such a literal sense.”

You’re so shocked that all you do is laugh as he rushes to follow Steve.

Not even twelve hours later, Bucky Barnes/The Winter Soldier/White Wolf (you don’t know what he goes by these days) crashes into your life. He knocks hot coffee all over your white blouse when running to stop a mugger. Of course, the one day you have a huge presentation and don’t have any backup clothes is the day this happens to you. Bucky catches the mugger quickly and returns the stolen purse to the little old lady who fell victim to the mugger’s crimes. To your surprise, he jogs to catch up to you, stopping in front of you to get your attention.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, but I have a huge presentation in an hour, and now I have to look like a mess in front of important clients,” you complain while staring at his shoes. You look up to see an unexpectedly handsome face grinning at you, an apologetic glint in his eyes.

“I can help with that,” he insists, tugging off his navy blue sweater, exposing a tight black short sleeve shirt. He hands his sweater to you before you can protest. “You need this more than me.”

His kindness shocks you; the other Avengers have barely paid any attention to you. You can barely muster your response. “Thank you, but how will I give this back to you?”

He gives you a wink alongside a smirk before answering, “keep it; it suits you.”

You fight the heat rushing to your cheeks as he walks away. With a tighter grip on your coffee cup, you make your way to the office.

At this point, you’ve met every single Avenger who makes public appearances. You’re absolutely done with the world’s mightiest heroes; you hope to never see any of them again. Well, Sam and Bucky wouldn’t be too bad to run into again, but hopefully not by knocking into you and ruining your day. You’re pleading to the heavens that you make it to your job interview on time without any Avengers-related predicaments.

“Hello! Thank you for meeting with me, especially on such short notice—” you begin, but you cut yourself off short once you look into the eyes of the men sitting at the table. “You’ve got to be shitting me!”

Lo and behold, it’s Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, and Bucky Barnes. Great. This is just lovely. The men share a confused glance.

“You don’t remember me?”

They shake their heads.

“Seriously? All three of you, and your little friends, have found a way to mess up my day for the last two weeks, and I am SICK OF IT. You owe me insurance! Steve, Mr. America, whatever; you’re telling me you don’t remember breaking my door down and crashing through my window? Sam, The Falcon, you literally fell into my arms? We had an adorable meet-cute! And Bucky? I am wearing your sweater right now! You gave it to me after knocking coffee onto my blouse? We also had a sweet moment? How the hell do you guys not remember this?” you complain, crossing your arms and pouting your lips once you finish your speech.

“That’s where my lucky sweater turned up!” Bucky exclaims with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Ugh!” you groan, placing your head into your palms.

Bucky reaches out, gently placing his hand on your arm, “let me make it up to you, sweater stealer.”

You sit up and counter, “you offered me your sweater, mister!”

Sam rests his hand on yours, an adorable smile plastered on his face as he adds, “let me fall for you for real this time, sugar.”

What the hell is happening right now?

Steve is just as confused as you. “Hey, you guys? Did I miss something?”

“We’ll catch you up, bud,” Sam says as he winks at you.

Maybe crossing paths with the Avengers was a good thing after all?

taglist (and some mutuals I think would be interested): @multiplums @midnightf @starryevermore @mardema @belladonnabarnes @millennial-teenybopper @starlightcrystalline @amelia-song-pond @nahthanks @elijahs-wife @leyannrae @champagnebuckyyy @babycap @buckysbiota @kinanabinks @justreadingficsdontmindme @golden-bucky @writingsomewrongs @meetmeatyourworst @rebelemilu @winter-james @certainaesthetic @bloomingbucky @belowva @sableseb @bucksbestgirl @bvckysmoon @belouva @onceuponabarnes @gogolucky13 @amayatheowl @carps-peace @bubbly-moonwarrior @hallecarey1 @livstilinski @basicallylool @daydreamerinadazedworld @jxlystan @iwannabekilledtwice @strwbrrybucky @bucky-hues @comfortbucky @simpformarvelmenandwoman @rebelemilu @wicked-swann @syrenavenger @buckyblues @superhoeva @cupcakehinch @elizabeth228 @starlightcrystalline @exmachina187 @gray-reads

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #sam wilson x reader #sam wilson x you #sam wilson x fem!reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes reader insert #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes fic #my fic: the avengers? what a bunch of a-holes #mel’s writing #mickey-henry

[lovely-yandere-imagines]

Sorry to bother you,but can I get some headcannons for yandere Rohan and maybe some NSFW? I really like your blog and thank you for your attention. Have a nice day!

I’m really super late with this hah… Sorry for being gone for so long lovelies but hopefully I can make a dent in this ask box of mine so I can reopen request! 

Yandere Rohan Kishibe Headcanons + NSFW

Headcanons

Rohan has never really felt love for someone before, sure he’s admired someone from afar but most of the people that wanted to get close to him always wanted something from him.

If he was honest it was infuriating, maddening even. It went completely against his philosophy that the best manga is based on reality. If he himself couldn’t experience love and the butterflies or fireworks that come with it then how would any of his characters?!

So he started to search for inspiration, the drive to make his manga the very best so that it would be read by everyone was what started this adventure to begin with but after a while of meeting people and having no luck was disappointing, to say the least.

That was until he had found you, you were very interesting to watch from a distance and he even got some inspiration for his main character’s love interest just from observing you.

He watched how you would do little things, how you carried yourself, that way you used certain mannerisms, how when you got excited about something you seemed like you were practically radiating joy, and how you walked like the world was your runway. Almost like you knew he was watching…did you know he was watching you??

After a few weeks of this, he decided he needed more, just watching you was no longer satisfying to him, he NEEDED to know everything about you. weather or not he had to do it by turning you into a book or not was the problem.

It would be much easier but for some reason, he felt he wanted you to be more than just inspiration, had he caught feelings for someone he’d never spoken 2 words to? Had the great Rohan Kishibe fallen in love with a stranger??

No matter, if getting close to you is what he needed to itch his scratch than so be it. So one day he came to a cafe that you frequented with a sketchbook and pen in hand and approached you. 

He introduced himself very bluntly and took a seat across you “Hello there, my name is Rohan Kishibe, I’m a manga artist and was wonder if you would let me draw you..” you couldn’t tell it but his heart was pounding in this chest like a jackhammer.

To his delight you accepted and he got to work, he sat there with you and started a conversation while he put all of your features on paper. Rohan was so happy that you replied to him with so much excitement in your voice he felt himself falling more and more the longer he sat with you.

He took his sweet time drawing you, honestly, it could have taken him just a few minutes to get it done and over with but he wanted this to take as long as possible, he wanted to sit with you for the rest of the day if you’d let him.

But it was over faster than he wanted and soon you had to part ways but not before you made a request. “You see y/n, you have such a beautiful face and I would very much like to sketch you again sometime. Perhaps we could make arrangements and we could continue our conversation as well.”

After that, you two exchanged phone numbers and soon you two meet with each other every Saturday at noon for lunch and then you would go back to his house so you could be his model, and oh hoe he treasured this alone time with you.

He loved that he could touch you and you wouldn’t flinch away from him, how warm your skin was, how beautiful you were in any lighting, how you had such beautiful eyes that could pierce right through his heart.

Soon your relationship took a turn for the best, he had finally managed to ask you out on a real date and you excitedly said yes, oh how happy he was that he could finally call you his and only his.

NSFW Headcanons

Soon your weekly meeting with Rohan had gotten more streamy, but you weren’t complaining and neither was he. He often kisses you as passionately as he can just so he could draw the adorable expressions on your face.

Or he’ll touch you just were you like making you squirm under him and once you get in a pose he enjoys he quickly jot it down and continue to tease you.

Rohan often requests to sketch or paint you nude, this is what he really treasures, especially on a long night away from you when he’s been overworking himself and he needs a bit of relief

He quickly grabs his secret sketchbook that had all the beautiful drawings of you and will daydream that it’s you working his member, that it’s your hand on him and not his, he even imagines your voice telling him what you want him to do to you.

When he does have you in his arms he very passionate but possessive at the same time, often giving you hickeys in very obvious places as well as somewhere no one would ever see them like along your inner thigh and your hips and chest.

Rohan is a bit kinky and would love to tie you down to the bed and ravage you, he loves when you moan and scream his name as he thrusts into you. He’ll ofter ask you who’s fucking you and who’s making you feel this pleasure before following with “MINE MINE MINE!”

He’s also really into shibari, he finds is so beautiful the intricate knots and patterns that can be made with the rope and human body. He’s tied you up in some pretty interesting patterns and then sketched them cause he couldn’t resist but keep something to remember it.

He’s never too rough with you unless you’ve done something to displease him, Rohan will never admit it but he loves bending you over his knee and spanking you. He loves seeing the expression on your face when he swats your ass and how red his hand leaves it.

He’s also pretty good at aftercare as well, he’ll leave the room for a few minutes and come back with tea and snacks, he’ll pull you close to him while you eat and brush the hair behind your ear whispering about how good you did and how perfect you are.

“Did you enjoy yourself, Darling? Good…I know I did”

#Rohan Kishibe #yandere Rohan Kishibe #yandere rohan #rohan #Rohan Kishibe x reader #rohan x reader #yandere x reader #male yandere #yandere #yandere jojo #jojo headcanons #jjba #Diamond is Unbreakable #part 4 #yandere headcanons

[thefloorisbalaclava]

okay. i’m supposed to be editing the next pre-pragma one shot but i’m stopping to write a little something about this. can’t resist when it comes to frankie.

this was such an inspirational ask. thank you for sending it. nearly 2k words!

Imagine…

It’s early. The sun is barely over the horizon when he wakes you. And, of course, he never just shakes you awake, no, there’s kisses and nuzzles and a “come on, sleepyhead” or “good morning, beautiful”.

Frankie is certainly a morning person so you’re not surprised to see that he’s all dressed and ready when you finally wake up.

“What’s going on?” you ask, rolling out of bed.

He shrugs. “Let’s just go somewhere. I packed us a few things already.”

“How long have you been up?” You walk to the bathroom.

“A few hours. Come on.” He taps your bottom and you giggle. You shower as quickly as you can then throw on some comfortable clothes. You’ve learned that when Frankie says he wants to go somewhere that means it’ll most likely be a long drive. He loves getting away with you. He turns his phone off and everything.

By the time you get downstairs, he’s already loaded up his truck and is waiting for you. He’s leaning against the truck, arms crossed, shades on and smiling. “Ready to go, babe?”

“I’m always ready to go with you, baby.” You walk up and kiss him. “Where are we going?”

“We’re just…going,” he says as you walk to the other side to get in. Once he gets in, he pulls out his road trip mix CD and puts it on. It has a little bit of everything and you both always end up singing along to almost every song.

He stops about an hour and a half in to get gas and stretch his legs. You offer to drive but he always tells you he just wants you to sightsee. He knows how much you like to take pictures and he stops whenever you ask him to.

“Are you liking it so far?” he asks, putting the gas pump back in place.

“Of course. I’m with the love of my life going on an adventure. What’s not to like?”

And that’s what he loves about you. He loves that you call these little road trips adventures. He loves that you enjoy spending time with him. He loves you.

“What are you thinking about, Frankie?”

“You, duh.” He turns his head to you for a kiss before pulling back onto the road.

“I never noticed those mountains over there,” you confess, pointing. You realize that being with Frankie helps you notice and see things you never really have before. A new appreciation for everything around you had blossomed in your heart all because of him. He helps you stop, take a breath, and take in the world around you and what you’ve been missing. What can be greater than that?

“Wanna stop for pictures?” he asks when he sees the way you put you lean on your arms out the window.

“When we get closer.”

*

The sun is high in the sky now and Frankie pulls over for another little break. You both sit in the bed of his truck eating the sandwiches he packed. He passes you your water bottle—it's one he bought for you a few years ago. It is dented and worn from how many times you’ve used it on your hikes and adventures but you’ll never get rid of it.

“Thank you, sugar.” You take the bottle from him and just enjoy the peace and quiet of being away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. When you look at him again, he’s smiling from ear to ear. “What?

“I just…like when you call me names like that.” He shrugs shyly and lowers his head so you can’t see his face under the bill of his cap.

“You mean like baby, handsome, sweetie, cutie…Francisco?”

He nods, swallowing the bit of sandwich he had in his mouth. “Especially that but…” He puts down what he was holding and pushes you onto your back, making you giggle. “That’s liable to get you in trouble.”

“What kinda trouble?” you ask, taking his hat off and putting it off to the side.

“The good kind.” He kisses you and you run your fingers through his hat hair.

“Didn’t know there was such a thing,” you tease.

“With me there is.” He kisses you again, trembling as you scratch at his scalp. “We keep this up the road trip ends here.”

“If it did, I’d still love it. Always an adventure, remember?”

“Always.” He sits up and puts his hat back on before hopping out the back of the truck then helping you down.

*

Three hours in and he’s taken you towards the mountains you pointed out earlier.

“You didn’t have to, Frankie.”

“Yes, I did.” He takes your hand and kisses it.

“You’re so good to me.”

“No other way for me to be. Wanna stop for pictures now?” You nod and he finds a good spot to pull over. He reaches into the backseat and pulls out your camera. “Knew you’d need this.”

“What would I do without you?” You take the camera from him and get out the truck. He follows you, watching as you take pictures, moving here and there, kneeling, standing…then you turn to him.

“Uh…no…” He tries to cover his face but he’s too slow and soon he’s laughing and you’re capturing it all.

“You are in your element, sir. Pose,” you say dramatically and he rolls his eyes, leaning against the truck and crossing his arms. “Oh yes!”

“Stop it,” he chuckles, turning away which only makes the sunlight shine onto his face in the loveliest way. You always tell him he is a work of art and you mean it. “Don’t you have more interesting things to take pictures of?”

“Nope. There is nothing more interesting than you.” You snap a few more pictures of him then turn away, looking at the view. “I mean this view is great but you’re beautiful.”

“Really? I don’t think anyone’s ever called me beautiful before.”

“Well, I am. You’re beautiful, Francisco.”

“Gimme this.” He takes the camera from you and starts taking pictures of you. “Pose,” he quips and you actually do—silly poses, silly faces that make him nearly double over in laughter. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

“Liar.”

He stands beside you again, taking in the view before looking at you. “I mean it. You’re gorgeous.”

“Eh…not like this.” You look down at your clothes.

“I think this is when you’re the most beautiful,” he says. “Not a care in the world, relaxed, smiling. This is you.”

“You’re such a romantic.”

“Not trying to be. Just speaking the truth.” He pulls you against him and sways slowly. “We’re surrounded by all this beauty but I only have eyes for you.”

“Frankie…”

“Don’t get me wrong, this view is stunning but you’re even more so. And I get to look at you and see you every day.”

“Well…doesn’t that make me less special after a while? The same face over and over again.”

“But it’s not the same. I come home from work every day and the first thing I wanna see is your face. Whether it’s stressed out or sad or frustrated or happy…I get to see it. I get to kiss it better and be the one to make you smile if you’re sad. I’m luckiest damn guy in the world.”

“I didn’t think I could love you anymore than I do but you help me break my record every day.” You sniffle and wipe your eyes. “Thank you.”

“For what? What I just said…”

“Yes, but also for reminding me of the beauty in the world. For making every day of my life an adventure. For showing me this.” You spread your arms out. “But, most of all, thank you for loving me.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that.” The kiss that happens after he says that is a thank you, but it’s also an ‘I love you’ and ‘I can’t live without you’. It’s all those words that are left unsaid, all the things you may forget to say out loud. The kiss is an unspoken ode to love, an unwritten love letter. It takes you on another adventure as your heart beats in time with his.

*

You fall asleep on the way back so you miss the little glances Frankie sends your way. He is so in love.

He pulls onto the side of a quiet road and you stir a bit, but he still wakes you up in his own way—kisses and whispered sweet nothings. A nuzzle here, a gentle touch there and you’re awake.

“Damn, did I miss anything?” you ask as you stretch. The sun had set now.

“Nah. Come on, let’s stretch.”

You get out of the truck and look at him. “Let’s stay out here tonight,” you suggest.

“In the truck?” he asks and you nod.

“Another adventure,” you say.

“You got it.” He always kept a blanket in his truck.

“Look at those stars.” You are always so amazed when you look up at night. But Frankie, he didn’t need to look up to see his moon and stars. He didn’t even have to look up to see the sun. All he had to do was look at you. Every celestial body paled in comparison.

He helps you into the bed of the truck then hops in beside you, kicking off his boots and helping you take off yours. He pulls you close as you lie down and takes his hat off.

“You’ll protect me from the bugs, right?” you ask.

“I’ll protect you from all the bad things in the world especially the bugs.” He chuckles when you roll your eyes.

“You wanna know my favorite thing about our little random road trips?”

“Hm?” Frankie’s eyes are closed already.

“I get to go on them with you. I get you to myself for a day.”

“I’m yours all day every day…for the rest of our lives,” he says sleepily.

“That’s a pretty long time,” you say, snuggling up against him.

“A lifelong road trip, babe. A lifelong adventure.”

#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #francisco 'catfish' morales #triple frontier #pedro pascal #headcanon

[writingblock101]

For the Kingdom (Jason Todd x Reader)

Remember that one time I wrote a one-part Jason Todd fic? Good times. Anyways, I’m back on my bullshit. This is inspired by headcanons written by @jaybirdxarsenal. Keep an eye out for part 2! 

Warnings: Mentions of sex and rape 

Word Count: 4,200

Tags: @idkmanicantenglish

You’ve been told your wedding day would be the happiest day of your life, so why are you dreadfully staring at yourself in the mirror, terrified to face your fiance at the altar? 

“You look beautiful,” Your mother tells you. 

You glare at her and say nothing. 

The argument isn’t even worth your breath anymore. Your family’s kingdom is falling apart, so when they found out the Todd-Wayne kingdom needed an heir, they jumped at the opportunity, offering their daughter, of course, without asking you. Your mother keeps claiming that it’s for your protection, but don’t believe her. They don’t want to lose their royal status, no matter the cost. 

She sighs, knowing the argument swirling in your head. 

“Go on, your father is waiting for you.” 

You wordlessly join your father, glaring holes into the doors in front of you. A grand piano plays behind the doors and your heart beats faster.

“You look beautiful,” Your father smiles, taking your arm. 

“Thanks,” You mutter, too nervous to be snappy. 

You’ve never met Jason, but you’ve heard plenty of tales about him. He’s terrifying, ruthless, and unforgiving. Jason has destroyed kingdoms, slaughtered villages, and ruined lives, yet, he is your soon to be husband. 

You’re most scared for tonight. 

To fully “sanctify” your matrimony, you had to have sex. You’ve never had sex. You’ve kissed people and made out, but to have sex with a complete stranger? You’re terrified. 

What if you get too nervous? What if it hurts? What if you don’t want to? Will he force you? Jason needs an heir and you can provide. Why wouldn’t he force you? He could easily force you. You don’t want it to hurt, but you know it will if he forces you, so it would be easier to not fight back right? It would be easier to just let him--

“Are you ready?” Your father asks, tearing you away from your quickly spiraling thoughts. 

You clench your jaw, setting your shoulders. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” You roll your eyes then the doors open, revealing your future husband standing at the altar. 

You raise your chin, refusing to show your fear and slowly step with your father to the altar. Once you reach the altar, your father kisses your cheek, places your veil over your face, and hands you off to Jason. 

Jason is huge with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and gigantic legs to match. It’s no wonder he’s such a threat in battle-- this man was born to fight. You turn to face each other, his huge hands holding yours. 

His jaw is clenched as he stares straight ahead, barely looking at you. You hope he can’t feel your hands shaking. He’ll take advantage of how nervous you are if you openly show it. You take a deep breath, trying to shove any thoughts about tonight or the stories you’ve heard about Jason to the back of your mind. 

You hear yourself say “I do” and Jason repeats it back, then it’s time to end the ceremony with a kiss. Jason lifts your veil and there’s an awkward pause. His hands rest on your hips and you tentatively raise your hands to his shoulders then he leans in. The kiss is brief, just barely brushing your lips together, then you’re whisked away for the reception. 

His lips were surprisingly soft. 

You don’t speak to each other for the rest of the wedding festivities. Instead, you busy yourself with being a good daughter and diplomat by speaking with various royalty and officers. You’re terrified of Jason, especially since his jaw has yet to unclench since the ceremony. 

Dread builds in your stomach as you step out of your wedding dress into a shorter dress that hugs your sides. You guess you were going to lose your virginity tonight, whether you wanted to or not. 

You feel a lump form in your throat as you begin to tear up, but you quickly blink back any tears when your mother knocks on the door and takes you the Todd-Wayne kingdom, your new home. She opens the door to the master suit, revealing Jason sitting on the bed, untying his tie from the ceremony. Your mother kisses your cheek, ushers you into the room, then shuts the door, leaving you alone with Jason for the first time. 

“Um… Hi,” He clears his throat, slowly looking up at you. 

“Hi…” You respond quietly, lacing your shaking fingers behind your back. 

“I uh... I know this isn’t an... ideal situation…” Jason trails off, scratching the back of his head. “I was actually pretty pissed when Bruce told me…” 

You wish he would just rip the band-aid off. He needs an heir and you can provide. Who cares whether you consent? You doubt he gives a damn. 

“But… Maybe we can… Make the most of it…?” 

You swallow, your heart pounding in your ears. 

“Yeah, of course,” You hear yourself say, your eyes beginning to well up. 

You quickly blink back the tears, taking a shaky breath. You desperately wished he would just get this over with and put you out of your misery. 

Jason frowns. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” You manage, voice thick. 

“You don’t look fine…” 

“I…” You shakily start then take a breath. “Look, we both know what’s going to happen tonight so can we please just get it over with?! I know you need an heir, I mean that’s why I’m here so just drop the act because I know you don’t give a damn whether I want it or not.” 

A tear slips out, but you brush it away hastily. Jason’s face falls. 

“I don’t want that…” He says quietly, then his eyes widen. “I mean, I--I do! You’re… beautiful, but… I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with… I don’t want to force you.” 

You stare at him in disbelief. He’s not going to… force you? Jason looks at the floor, scratching the back of his head then sighs and stands up. He doesn’t miss the way you flinch. 

“I’m going to go… Take a shower,” He walks to the bathroom, but pauses, resting his hand on the handle. “Were you worried about that… All night?” 

You hesitate, but then slowly nod your head. Jason sighs, his shoulders slumping, then he steps into the bathroom without another word. 

Is he angry? Should I have lied? Would he even have believed me? I should’ve kept my mouth shut, what was I thinking?! He’s going to change his mind. After that outburst, there’s no way he wouldn’t change his mind. 

You sink to the floor, tears freely falling. At this point, you’re not sure if it’s out of relief or lingering fear that Jason will change his mind. You look toward the bathroom door, knowing Jason could step out at any minute. Don’t let him see you like this. Don’t let him know how afraid you are. Don’t give him power. 

You wipe your face and take a shuddering breath, then force yourself to your feet and to your bag. After a little digging, you find a pair of pajamas, change, then climb in bed. You stare at the ceiling, your heart pounding in anticipation. What if Jason changed his mind? What if he waits until you’re asleep? What if--

The bathroom door opens. You shut your eyes, pretending to sleep. Jason shuffles around the room for a few minutes then shuts the light off and climbs into bed. You hear him take a breath like he’s going to speak, but instead, he sighs and rolls over. 

You wait to feel it-- a hand, a mouth, a bruising grip, anything. 

But it never comes. 

Instead, you listen in dreadful anticipation, but only hear the slow sound of Jason’s breath evening out as he falls asleep. He never touches you. He hardly even shifts in his sleep. At some point, you drift off then you wake up to an empty bed and sunlight filtering through the curtains. 

A clock on the wall reads 9:43 AM, but before you are left to wonder what you’re supposed to do in this completely unfamiliar kingdom, someone knocks on the door. The man at the door introduces himself as Alfred and offers to bring you to the dining room for breakfast. Once getting dressed, Alfred escorts you to the huge dining room where you have a simple, but lovely breakfast. 

“Master Jason is in a strategy meeting and he apologizes for not being here to show you the kingdom; however, he requested that I give you a tour.” 

At first, you feel relieved that Jason is busy, but that is quickly followed by guilt. While the circumstances regarding your marriage are frustrating, Jason proved last night that he wants to make you as comfortable as possible. Until he gets impatient. 

“That would be lovely,” You smile, then follow Alfred out of the dining room. 

. . . 

“Wow, Jay, I’m surprised to see you here this early,” Dick greets with a knowing smirk. 

Jason ignores him, continuing to look over the recent list of casualties from the last battle.

“Ah, come on, Jaybird,” Dick groans dramatically. “Don’t ignore me! You’ve got to be in a great mood after last night.” 

Jason glares at him then turns to Tim. 

“Where did Dent’s armies retreat to?” 

“We think further north, near Hell’s Kitchen,” Tim answers. “But they won’t get far before they’re edging into Murdock’s or Jones' territory.” 

“We need to keep them south,” Jason narrows his eyes at the map. “How much control does Cage still have over Harlem?” 

Tim frowns. 

“Not much. Things have been weird since he left Jones’ territory. He’s not quite the same.” 

“So much for using him to push Dent back,” Jason mutters, looking over other territories north of Gotham. 

“Come on, Jay, we’ve got hours to talk about strategy,” Dick rolls his eyes.

“Good thing we have a lot of shit to figure out.” 

Dick stares at the map for a long moment then says: 

“Castle is still in Murdock’s territory. He’s been itching for something to do and a way to get the kingdom off his ass. Now, tell me about last night.” 

Castle, fuck that’s a good idea. 

“Why are you so interested in my sex life?” Jason snaps. 

“I don’t just mean just mean the sex,” Dick insists. “The only person I’ve ever seen you get close to dating was Artemis and now you’re married!” 

“Cause it was arranged,” Jason mutters. 

“Still a marriage,” Dick points out.

“I don’t understand Father’s obsession with marrying you off,” Damian mutters.

“Apparently, I need an heir,” Jason grumbles. 

“You’re not dying any time soon,” Damian raises his eyebrows. 

“Well, with the amount of fights you’re picking, you might be,” Tim remarks. 

Jason glares at him. 

“I’m cleaning up the kingdom,” He snaps. “Bruce let half of these people run around for way too long.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Tim rolls his eyes. “Anyways, how did that whole “making an heir” thing go?” 

“You too?” Jason groans. 

“We’re not going to get anything done until you answer Dick,” Tim shrugs. 

“Tim is curious too,” Dick rolls Tim under the bus. 

Tim whips his head around to glare at Dick. 

“Traitor,” He mutters. 

“Come on, Jaybird, just tell us about it! I told you about me and Babs!” 

Jason tightens his jaw and he continues to stare at the map, ignoring his brothers. He can feel Tim’s calculating eyes boring into the side of his head. 

“You did… Sleep together last night...Right?” Tim asks. 

Jason doesn’t answer, but his silence is an answer for Dick and Tim. 

“Wait, you guys didn’t?” Dick frowns. “Why?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jason snaps. “And it’s none of your damn business.” 

“What happened?” Tim asks, ignoring Jason’s previous comments. 

“Clean out your ears, kid,” Jason snaps. “It’s none of your fucking business.” 

“Come on, Jay,” Dick insists. “Talk to us. We’re your brothers-- we’re not going to go blab it to the whole kingdom.” 

Jason sighs, his shoulders slumping. 

“She’s scared of me.” 

“What?” Dick asks. “How do you know?” 

“Doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure it out.” 

“Are you sure you’re not just paranoid? You’re not exactly an expert in this area.” 

“Well, he doesn’t have the most friendly reputation,” Tim points out. “And Jason doesn’t exactly scream approachable.” 

Dick glares at him. 

“You’re not helping.” 

“He’s right,” Jason sighs. 

“You’ve known her for one day,” Dick insists. “It’ll take some adjustment. Give it time, it’ll get better.” 

“Dick, she thought I was going to rape her.” 

Dick stares at him for a long moment.

“You… You weren’t going to...Right?” 

Jason looks at him incredulously. 

“Are you fucking serious?! No!” 

“Just making sure,” Dick tosses his hands up. “Give her a few days, she’ll come around. Tim, what’s the best way to get in touch with Castle?” 

. . . 

Dick is wrong. You don’t come around, but Jason gets it. You were forced to move from your home, your family, and everything that is familiar to you to marry a man that terrified you. Jason was pissed about the marriage until he realized taking his anger out on someone who is equally as angry will not solve the problem. 

He feels awkward. All those emotions are complicated, annoying and scary. Falling in love means being vulnerable and giving someone the ability to hurt Jason. It’s safer to not find love. 

But now, Jason is married to a wife that he barely knows and is undeniably terrified of him. And oh boy, is he bad at this. 

Somehow, every time he talks to you, he manages to upset you. At first, he tries asking you about your family, figuring that was a safe topic. He was wrong. Instead, Jason very quickly learns that your family is a sensitive topic that made you look like you wanted to cry (which he should’ve guessed given how pissed you were about the arranged marriage). So Jason ran. 

Next, he tries asking you about your hobbies and interests, only to discover your mother’s suffocating grip on your life, which prevented you from openly exploring things (which explains why your family is a sensitive topic). Jason made a mental note to ensure your independence and ran again. 

He gives up trying to talk to you when he asks about your friends, only to find out his war against Black Mask is responsible for the death of your best friend’s family.

Clearly, whenever Jason speaks to you, his foot goes directly into his mouth, so he stops doing what he thinks will work and instead, goes to Dick for advice. 

Dick winces when Jason explains his poor attempts at conversation. 

“I think I managed to make her more scared of me,” Jason groans. “Every time I talk to her, her answers are short and hesitant, like she thinks I’m going to hurt her if she gives the wrong answer.” 

“Okay,” Dick nods. “So, talking isn’t working… Well, actions speak louder than words, so how about trying to give her things?” 

“Like what?” 

. . . 

You look down at the most recent gift from Jason, frowning at the frills. He’s trying, but man, he is bad at this. The clothes were overly feminine. While you could appreciate the beauty of them, your mother’s suffocating idea of femininity that left you with little to no independence wrecked your interests in them. The shoes were also very beautiful but lacked practicality. You could already feel the blisters forming on your feet if you wore them for longer than a few hours. 

You sigh, put the lid back on the box and stash it in your closet. You could tell Jason is trying, even if he’s really bad at it and still scares you. You wish your husband didn’t scare you, but you couldn’t help how you felt. 

After getting dressed and having breakfast, you opt to explore the castle until you find something that piqued your interest for the day. As you walked by one of the meeting rooms, you could hear Jason arguing with one of his senior advisors. 

“The reason for this marriage was to make an heir,” The advisor grumbles. “It’s been two months.” 

“I’m aware,” Jason responds, dangerously smooth. 

“What are you waiting for?!” 

“It’ll happen when it happens.” 

“Put emotions aside and do what you’re supposed to,” The advisor hisses. 

“Do I need to remind you who is in charge here?” Jason growls. “If I say it’ll happen, it will happen. Now, butt out of my marriage. It is none of your Goddamn business what my wife and I do.” 

“Yes, sir,” The advisor grumbles. 

You frown, feeling guilty. You know Jason needs an heir and you know the reason he doesn’t have one is because of you. Jason has been extremely respectful of your boundaries, but the pressure of having a child continues to increase. Some of the advisors have even questioned you, but you didn’t dare to tell Jason. 

He’s been respectful to your wishes. The least you can do is hold up your end of the bargain, no matter the costs. 

. . . 

You stand outside the strategy room, just out of view from Jason who is staring down at a map, frowning deeply. His generals left a few minutes ago, making this one of the few opportunities you’ll have to talk to him. 

He’s your husband. You can talk to him. What if he’s angry? What if the meeting with his generals didn’t go well? What if he gets mad at you for interrupting? What if--

“Y/N?” Jason stands up, spotting you in the hallway. 

“Hi!” You squeak, not expecting Jason to see you. 

“Hey… Were you… Looking for something?” He asks. 

“Um… Kind of…” You trial off. “I was actually looking for you.” 

Jason’s face lights up in surprise. 

“Oh, um, okay. Do you want to sit down?” 

“Yeah,” You nod, following him into the room. 

He goes to pull out a chair for you but hesitates for a moment. You raise your eyebrows, confused about what he is doing. Jason looks back at you, then rounds the other side of the table, leaving a chair half pulled out across from him. You sit down, crossing your shaking hands on the table. 

“I um… I overheard a conversation with one of your advisors,” You begin, then panic overtakes your features. 

What if he thought you were being nosy? What if he thought you were eavesdropping? Did you cross a line? Should you have pretended you didn’t hear anything?

“Not that I was eavesdropping!” You quickly clarify. “I was just walking by, I wasn’t expecting to hear anything, I just--” 

“It’s okay,” Jason frowns. “This is your kingdom too. You have the right to know what goes on. What conversation did you overhear?”

“He was asking about an heir…” 

Jason’s face hardens. 

“Ignore him.” 

“Jason, I know they’ve been pressuring you--” 

“They can wait.” 

“You don’t need them breathing down your neck while trying to run a kingdom.” 

“I can handle it.” 

“I know you can,” You quickly say, not wanting him to think you’re doubting his ability. “But you shouldn’t have to. It’s the reason we got married, so I might as well hold up my end of the bargain.” 

Jason frowns at your words. 

“I don’t want to force you.” 

“You’re not,” You reassure him. “This is my choice.” 

“Because you feel pressure,” Jason points out, looking reluctant. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to sleep with me cause my advisors are impatient dicks.” 

“I do feel pressured,” You admit. “But I want to do this for you. You’ve been really respectful of my boundaries and I really appreciate it, so let me do this.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for being a decent human,” Jason mutters to the table. “You’re my wife. Of course, I’m going to respect you.” 

“Not everyone has that mindset,” You recall a friend’s arranged marriage being full of force and fear. 

Jason mumbles something under his breath then sighs. 

“We shouldn’t do this just because we feel pressured.” 

“Do I need to remind you that this was an arranged marriage?” You say with a frown. 

Jason sighs, running his hand through his hair. 

“Are you sure?” He asks. 

You shrug, playing with your wedding ring. 

“Kind of have to be, I guess.” 

“No. Not I guess. It’s yes or no. I don’t care if this is an arranged marriage.” 

You take a deep breath. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” 

He doesn’t look convinced. 

“I’m serious, Jason. I can do this. I’m okay with this,” You promise. 

He still looks unsure. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, I’m sure.” 

Jason sighs. 

“Okay,” He agrees. “So… Tonight...I guess?” 

“Um… Yeah… Tonight sounds good,” You agree, feeling weird that you’re scheduling sex with your husband. 

“Okay,” He nods. 

“Okay,” You echo, unsure about how to follow up a conversation like this. 

Neither of you speaks, instead, you both awkwardly look around the room. How the hell were you supposed to have sex tonight?

“So...uh...I’ll see you tonight,” You cringe at your words as you stand up. 

“Uh, yeah, tonight,” Jason agrees then you leave before you say something weird. 

You’re having sex tonight with your husband who intimidates you beyond belief. Great.

. . . 

You stare at the clothes in your dresser, hands on your hips. You’re having sex with your husband for the first time. What do you wear? Do you wear lingerie? Do you look nice? Do you wear what you’re wearing right now? Do you wear anything at all? Should you shower? Should you be waiting on the bed? Should you go find him? Should you light candles? Should you--

The door opens, revealing Jason and cutting off your spiraling thoughts. I guess I don’t have to worry about changing anymore. 

“Uh...Hey…” He says. 

“Hi.” 

“Are you uh…” Jason scratches the back of his head. “Ready?” He visibly cringes at his words.

“Uh... Yeah,” You shrug. “Are you?” 

“Yeah…” He echoes. 

You stand there for a moment, both of you opting to look around the room instead of each other. Your heart is pounding in your chest. What if you do something wrong? What if it hurts? What if he’s forceful? What if you bleed? What if-- 

Jason steps forward and cradles your face in his hands then leans in and kisses you. It’s...nice. He’s gentle and it’s clear he’s kissed before. You kiss back, raising your hands to rest on his shoulders. He pulls you closer by your hips then pauses, pulling away for a moment. 

“I can feel your hands shaking,” He whispers to you. “Are you sure about this?” 

“Y-yeah,” You stutter, nervousness leaking into your voice. “I’m just nervous… I’ve uh… never done this before.” 

“We don’t have to do this.” 

“I want to,” You insist, swallowing your fear then pull him in for another kiss. 

. . . 

You wanted to enjoy sex with Jason, you really did, but you’re still scared of him. 

You couldn’t relax no matter how hard you or Jason tried. Your body stayed tight and tense the entire time which made it painful, very painful. 

Just like every other part of Jason, he is big, so you really needed to relax, but between your nerves of losing your virginity and very present fear of him, you couldn’t relax. Jason tried to help with reassuring words, kisses, and touches, but everything was too much. He even tried to get you off after he was done so you could enjoy it as well, but you were so overwhelmed that you had to push his head away. 

It was painful, awful, and embarrassing. The next morning, you woke up to an empty bed, which made you feel worse. He’s probably pissed and guilty, especially when you started crying, but told him to continue. You wonder how much he resents you at this point… 

. . . 

“So…” Dick begins, pretending to look over the map with Jason. “How did last night go?” 

After the bizarre conversation with you, Jason turned to Dick for advice. 

Jason groans. 

“I shouldn’t have let her talk me into it.” 

Dick winces. 

“That bad, huh?” 

“It was awful. I was hurting her and I was trying not to, but she just wouldn’t… Couldn’t relax.” 

Dick frowns, patting Jason’s shoulder. 

“I don’t want my wife to be afraid of me,” He quietly admits. 

“Did you talk to her this morning?” 

“No,” Jason mutters. “She was asleep when I left.” 

“She woke up alone?” Dick raises his eyebrows. “After a night like that?” 

Jason slowly looks over at Dick. 

“That wasn’t a good idea,” He says slowly, realization dawning on him. 

Jason felt terrible this morning, he can’t imagine how you felt. And with him being gone, it probably looked like he was pissed. He is pissed, but it is most certainly not with you. 

“You should talk to her.” 

“And say what?” Jason groans. “Have I not already put my foot in my mouth enough around her? ‘Hey! Sorry that last night was probably the worst night of your life!’”

Dick shrugs. 

“You definitely need to acknowledge it. Apologizing is a good start.” 

Jason nods and sighs again. He hopes he didn’t make things even worse, not that they were great from the start.

Hope you enjoyed! Keep an eye out for part 2! And did I reference Marvel characters because I know more Marvel characters than DC? Absolutely. At some point, I promise I will write about the other batboys outside of Jason, but he’s just so fun to write. 

Part 2

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd #red hood #jason todd au #red hood au #kingdom au #futuristic kingdom au #red hood headcanons #Jason Todd headcannon #dick grayson #nightwing #tim drake #red robin #damian wayne #robin #bruce wayne #batman #frank castle

[myexgirlfriendisthemoon]

It Feels Better Biting Down — Ch. 1: First Impressions are Lasting Impressions

Set in a modern bending AU, Roku High and Kyoshi High are rival schools in every sense. When financial troubles cause Sokka and Katara to go to separate schools, their bond and new friendships test the civil and social boundaries that lie behind school lines and familial ties. With new friends Aang, Toph, and Suki, will Sokka and Katara be able to hold their Gaang together, or will they let the fire nation clique's drama split them up for good?

“So are you sure you can get me to class on time? I mean, if I ran, I’m sure I could catch up to the bus.”

Sokka shook his head, clicking his tongue in a ‘tsk, tsk’ sound. “Katara, sister o’ mine,” he said, grabbing his keys from beside the front door. He held it open for his younger sister and locked it behind her. “Remember that one time you were sick and forgot your science project? And I-”

“-stopped for a milkshake on the way to school, spilled it on my lab report, and got it to me twenty minutes after it was due?” she retorted with a smirk, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Sokka waved his hand, dismissing his sister’s comeback. “Meaningless details, really. Anyways,” he said, walking over to the driveway. “Do you want a ride or not?”

“I do,” Katara said, following behind him, “but do you honestly think your car wants to get us there in one piece today?” 

Sokka gasped and put his arms over his car. The thing he called his baby was a navy hunk of metal that at some point resembled an ‘81 Honda, with scratched up rims, too many dents to count, and a few knicks in the windshield (Katara liked to play a game called “How fast can Sokka drive over speed bumps before his windshield shatters.” So far, she’s seen him take the thing a surprising 45 mph over a bump without damage. She swore it was only a matter of time though.). 

He turned his head towards his sister with a pout. “Don’t talk about Tun Tun like that, Katara; it’s rude.” Sokka looked back at his car with a strange sort of fondness that Katara knew only Sokka was capable of displaying. “Don’t listen to her Tun Tun,” he cooed. “You’re beautiful just the way you are.” The meticulously taped up side view mirror slipped from it’s rearranged spot, hanging on only by a fraying electrical wire. 

Katara couldn’t help the snicker that escaped her.

“See what you did?!” Sokka said, exasperated. “Now Tun Tun is upset, great.” He opened up the backseat and grabbed his spare roll of duct tape. “Absolutely fantastic,” he muttered, beginning to patch up his beloved jalopy. 

Katara walked around to the passenger side, and slid in, placing her bookbag down at her feet. “Can you fix Tun Tun any faster?” she called out.

“While I do appreciate you calling her by her name,” Sokka replied, “Car maintenance on a budget is a careful art that takes time and precision.”

Katara groaned and sunk deeper into the worn fabric seat. She could already feel the embarrassment of being late on her first day. This definitely wasn’t the impression she was looking to give her new teachers, especially coming in on a partial scholarship. “Sokka, I’m going to be late.”

He placed one last piece of tape and sighed. “Alright, alright. Quit your whining. I’m finished.” He hopped in the driver’s seat and threw his tape towards the backseat. Sticking the key in the ignition, he gave Tun Tun one, two, three good cranks before she finally sputtered to life. Katara let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

 Katara fiddled with the hem of her uniform, a red wrap-around blouse with ornate gold trim. Her other hand unconsciously rested on her mother’s necklace. 

Sokka glanced back and forth between the road and his younger sister. It wasn’t unusual for her to lose herself in her thoughts for a moment or two, but under normal circumstances, she would probably be bickering with him over something stupid or giving him some long-winded speech about how he needs to take better care of himself and start thinking about the future or something else dumb and hope inspired and just very Katara.

But today wasn’t very normal.

He didn’t blame Katara for being a bit on edge. Hell, he was, two years ago when he was in her shoes. After Mom had died, Gran Gran and Dad had decided it would be wise for them to hone in on the Southern Water Tribe’s future, specifically Katara and Sokka. No pressure, though.

“So,” Sokka said, clearing his throat and interrupting both of their thoughts. “Are you excited to be going to Roku High?”

Katara shrugged. “I guess.”

Sokka knew better than to let Katara slip back into her own thoughts. “C’mon, Katara. This is your chance to actually get to bend with other water benders, let alone benders in general. You can’t tell me you aren’t at least a little bit excited.”

She sighed. “I mean, I know I’ve been practicing and all. I know that I know my stuff. It’s just,” she got quiet for a moment, searching for the right words. “What if I’m not as good as Dad and Gran Gran say I am?”

“Oh, shut up!” Sokka laughed. “Katara, you know damn well you’re the best water bender in the whole Southern Water Tribe.”

“I’m also the only water bender in our tribe-”

“Besides the point. Look,” Sokka said, pulling up to the sprawling private academy’s campus. “Dad and Gran Gran wouldn’t have given up so much if they didn’t believe in you. I wouldn’t have given up so much if I didn’t believe in you.”

Katara smiled softly at her brother and trapped him in a bone-crushing hug. “You know, when you aren’t being so sarcastic, you’re actually pretty ni-”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Stop being an annoying little sister and go kick some fire bender ass,” Sokka said, prying her off of him. “Go before you’re actually late, you nerd.”

Katara laughed and opened the door, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “Love you,” she called over her shoulder, closing the door behind her.

“Yeah, yeah, love you, too,” Sokka chuckled, putting his car in gear and slowly driving away. 

Katara closed her eyes, lifting her shoulders back. She raised her chin, trying to ignore the slight sting of homesickness in her chest as little beads of sweat gathered above her brow. Opening her eyes, she touched her mother’s necklace as she walked up the white stone steps to her new school. 

“Nothing will ruin this for me,” she whispered as she entered the building. “I promise, mom.”

__________

 “You fucking scream water tribe, you know that?”

A hand slams onto the locker opposite Katara, jolting her out of her thoughts. She pulled her eyes away from her schedule and scoffed. “Excuse me?”

The black-haired teen cornering Katara rolled her eyes. Her silk hair was pulled back into a perfect bun, with two choppy side bangs framing her face. Her eyes and facial features were sharp enough to cut someone. She was a cunning viper, and her lips dripped poison.

“You know, if you’re going to go to a Fire Nation school, you should at least try to blend in, or at the very least, not be so… offensive to our traditions.”

Katara grabbed her books from her locker and shut it harder than she had intended to. “Look, I don’t care who you are and how old of a Fire Nation family you come from, but water benders and earth benders go here too, so lay off.”

“You should watch who you’re talking to,” the viper hissed. 

A brunette, petite girl behind her frowned and opened her mouth to say something, but a girl next to her with two buns, bangs, and long black hair held up a hand to stop her before she could get a word in.

“And while other benders do attend Roku,” the girl with two buns said, “Azula is right, it has always been a traditional Fire Nation school. Hence the name Roku.”

“Thank you, Mai,” the viper, apparently named Azula, said. Katara couldn’t tell if she was actually thanking Mai for her input or if Azula was staking her claim to this battle. “You’re wearing Fire Nation colors for a reason, water girl. Take our advice, it’s best if you don’t stand out.” She sized Katara up and down. “Which tribe are you from anyways?”

“Southern,” Katara answered proudly with a smirk, leaning against her locker. 

The three girls sneered at Katara. 

“How the hell does a peasant from the Southern Water Tribe like you afford to come to Roku anyways?” Azula remarked. “No offense, of course.”

“Azula,” the brunette with the braid interjected, “maybe you should-“

“Shut up, Ty Lee!” Azula snapped at her.

The brunette sunk back in defeat.

A crowd started forming around the four of them, but Katara didn’t pay them any mind. She had a battle to win.

Katara glared at Azula and took a step forward. She picked up her shoulders, staring the viper straight in her eyes. “I don’t know who you think you’re talking to, but this ‘peasant,’” she barked, “is the daughter of Chief Hakoda and the last water bender of the Southern Water Tribe. So I suggest you watch who you talk-“

Azula let out an outraged gasp and blue sparks danced at her fingertips as she raised her hand and mentally cursing her bravery, Katara closed her eyes and said goodbye to this cruel word and-

The impact never came.

Katara opened her eyes and looked up to see a young man with his hand around Azula’s wrist.

“Enough, Azula,” he said quietly, barely above a whisper. “You know combat is forbidden outside of class.”

“I don’t care,” she hissed back, her eyes shooting daggers at him. If looks could kill, it would have been a blood bath.

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow. “Unless you want a demerit and father to find out.”

Azula’s face went ghostly pale and she got quiet. When her palm stopped crackling with electricity, he released it. He locked his golden eyes with Katara’s ocean ones for a moment. While he was probably only a year or two older than Katara, maybe around Sokka’s age, the bags under his eye and the permanent looking scowl on his face aged him further. 

“Okay ZuZu,” she snapped. His emotional disarmament seemed to be only of temporary effect. “We’re done here. You can leave us to our girl talk now.” 

He rolled his eyes and sighed, turning on his heel. Briefly, he nodded to one of Azula’s friends.

“Mai,” he greeted.

“Zuko,” she nodded back, cracking what could have been, had you squint really hard and looked closely, could possibly be the hint of a smile.

Zuko walked down the hall and the four girls watched him go. As he exited, so did a majority of the crowd, save for a few curious eavesdroppers.

“Now that my brother is done flirting with my friends and playing hero,” Azula said with a sigh, turning her attention back to Katara. “What was I saying before I was so rudely interrupted? Oh, right. Look, water girl, or whatever your name-“

“Katara.”

“Katara.” Azula drew out her name, testing the way it felt on her tongue. “Listen. I don’t know the way it worked in igloo village, but here, things are different. You don’t want to listen, fine by me. But my dad is someone really important, too, so I wouldn’t start swimming in water that’s too deep if you catch my drift.” Azula flicked Katara’s necklace with her finger, smirking at her. “I think we’re done here, ladies.” 

Azula pushed herself off of the lockers and the others followed suit. 

“Welcome to Roku High, Katara,” Azula called over her shoulder. 

_______________

Sokka perked up when his sister opened the door, jumping over the couch to greet her.

“There’s my favorite bender!” He said with a huge smile, walking up to her with open arms. “How was your first day of-“

Katara slammed the door shut behind her and shot him a glare. 

“... school?” Sokka whispered. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mumbled, pushing past him and heading straight for her room, slamming that door behind her, too. 

Sokka walked over to Gran Gran in the kitchen. “Ah, teenagers. You think she liked her school?”

#atla #avatar #avatar: the last airbender #avatar the last airbender #aang #katara #sokka #toph #toph bei fong #toph beifong #zuko #prince zuko #azula #mai #ty lee avatar #tylee #iroh #kanna #atla fic #atla fanfic #atla fanfiction #avatar fanfiction #avatar: tla #sokka and katara #katara and sokka #kataang #zutarra #zukka #sukka #yue

[ofgoodmenarchive]

Blighted Empire: Ch 1.5

Our Penitent Sons

Since his arrival at the Circle Tower Evallan rested sporadically There was time set aside in his day for one thing- Harrowing lessons with Dorian Pavus. Afterwards he never knew how to occupy himself. Both Dorian and Fila urged him to acquaint better to the tower and its mages but always he returned to the solitude of the barracks.

It was not his place but neither was it with the Circle Mages.

The days were not so terrible. Often he napped- the cacophony of noise from armoured men jeering or hunkering about lulled him to sleep. Nights at the tower were too lifeless. Evallan sprouted into adulthood on war-torn lands that never simmered. However he slept before the Blight he couldn't say- as a man grown, it was futile to lay down on a serene night and expect his mind to emulate the peace.

There was little privacy but that had been rare over the years. A threadbare curtain veiled the sliver of space from rows of similar squeaky cots and partitions. Accustomed to such circumstance, he'd long ago adapted to clothing in strategic layers, not wanting to risk exposure-

  The birthright of Dorian Pavus.

Many times he desired nothing more than to discard it into the Waking Sea. It weighed on him like a prisoner's chains, rattles of guilt every time he moved. Always he told himself no, if he discarded it anywhere, it had to be in the Tevinter's hands.

Perched on his cot, suffocating in evening stillness, he removed the amulet and fiddled without seeing. All he perceived were steely eyes full of fire that consumed every shade around until they transformed; cool and soft when it was early, raw amber as the sun tinted orange. Too inviting to bear.

He had often wondered what became of the Tevinter- had he survived his Harrowing, what sort of man had he become? Was he adapting to his new life well or did he feel alienated and lost, as Evallan did? He had to admit, the reality was nothing akin to what he expected- but what had he expected?

  Not someone like that.

  Not someone so warm.

Whenever he questioned his actions or musings he stumbled into an indignant rage- what else was there to think of, what else was there to distract between the carnage? It did not need a purpose beyond that.

Yet if it were so inconsequential, why could he not return the amulet? Why couldn't he simply face the Tevinter? He was hardly more terrifying than Darkspawn!

But in all their time together he kept the secret shame close to his chest.

He knew time had run out when the division jerked aside to reveal a grim-faced Marcus. Instinctively Evallan hunched and enclosed fingers around the birthright- it would look as though he were praying, if it looked like anything.

  “It's time. Collect your things.”

The elf tensed but did not move.

  “May I have space, please?” He had to chase the spite from his tone.

  “Hurry up, Lavellan.” Marcus ground out and threw the curtain into its original place.

Unfurling, he steeled himself with a final inspection of the amulet. It had not been carried through hopeless battles and unending thaigs undamaged but he saw to it almost obsessively. Every scratch or dent buffed and filled with as much skill as he could muster, though tell-tale discolouration signified tampering.

The chain had been more difficult- beautiful but flimsy and not meant to be dragged into combat. It disquieted him but he'd tied and reinforced the severed links with silverite chipped from Lightbringer, luminous and stark against Tevinter gold. It had been the only way to keep it from falling.

His stomach churned whenever he relived his work. He hoped Lightbringer- the Spirit, not the blade- did not mind. He never sensed apprehension, so she was at least tolerant.

His other belongings were stowed in a leather satchel; notes, extra clothes and Fila's gift. Opening it now, he tucked the amulet within the bundled-and-twined papers, sealed between two pages that would hopefully explain it's presence to Dorian Pavus. Holding his whole life in one hand, he drew the curtain and offered Marcus a curt nod.

  “For someone who doesn't believe in the Maker, you do a lot of bloody praying.” He scolded while clasping Lavellan's shoulder, steering as was his habit.

  “I have my own gods.” He rebuffed, then bounced the satchel on his shoulder. “If I fall, what will happen to my belongings?”

  “I don't know. Salvage anything useful and throw them out, probably.” He was already impatient. Anything not explicitly stated on his schedule was treated as petty. Usually Lavellan would relent on something so small- not wanting to ire the Templar Commander- but this was important.

  “There are notes in my pack that may prove valuable to my tutor, should I fall.”

  “Really now?” The mention of Dorian Pavus inspired a sneer, even nameless. “Then I'll give them to Irving.”

The Keeper's chest tightened.

  “Irving will not know what to do with them. They should be given to my tutor.”

This rebellious note was received as well as could be expected; Marcus halted and shot daggers with his stare.

  “Are you giving me an order, Lavellan? If you're so worried about your things then make sure you don't fall, then you can do whatever you want with them.”

He both despised that and was oddly encouraged- but was as sharp in his demeanour.

  “I will not fall.”

They ascended and he was permitted to leave his satchel in the room that would be his if he survived. Marcus tapped a plated boot incessantly but allowed him to set Fila's rune above the bed. After that the Templar's patience was spent and he was driven single-mindedly to the highest floor of the tower.

READ MORE ON AO3

#dragon age #dai #dorian pavus #apocalypse au #m!lavellan #pavellan #da fic #dragon age fic #blighted empire #my writing

[fromthedeskofelizabeththird]

thērepōdos (II)

I heard ya’ll like Dimileths~

FE3H | Dimileth | Gen

~~

“You’re doing it wrong, come here...look.”

Dimitri frowns, watching as Sylvain lifts Alexei into his arms.

“The head goes here, look, like this!”

The protocol for a royal baby is clear, even if Alexei himself doesn’t know it yet. Now that a week has passed since his birth and both he and his mother are in good health, the time has arrived for him to be properly introduced to not only the nobles of the realm, but the people of Fhirdiad.

Some traditions are meant to be broken, though.

While the newly established heads of houses Gautier and Fraldarius were first through the gates, they were not the only ones to receive an invitation. So too did an innkeeper, four professors from the monastery, an opera starlet recently turned noble, two mercenaries and a mysterious hooded figure bearing the emblem of the knights of Seiros.

The ceremony to welcome Prince Alexei is two days from now, leaving every corner of Fhirdiad rife with anticipation. The last time they welcomed a prince was after Dimitri took control of the capital en route to Enbarr, an infamously bittersweet moment for all involved. For years the idea of welcoming a healthy heir to the throne in a time of relative peace remained little more than a wish whispered into the night. The people of Faerghus have become skeptical, hearts hardened by war and disaster. No one is quite so aware of this as the King.

Dimitri remembers his throne being stolen with far more clarity than he does reclaiming it. He was well read long before his arrival at Garreg Mach, devouring any text he could find that discussed the qualities of an ideal ruler. He spent nights poring over philosophy and proverbs- prepared for the crown of his country to weigh on his head and heart.

The crown was deceptively light in the end, though. He turned his head too quickly the first time he wore it and fell into shocked silence as it clattered on the ground at his feet. His instinct was to laugh and crack a joke; he has never been the gentle type, after all. He’s broken more lances than anyone could reasonably count, snapped Mercedes’ sewing needle in half; dented both his armour and crown. Somehow he even managed to headbutt Byleth during their first kiss.

Tradition calls for him to stand on the balcony of their grand palace with his child in his arms, telling Faerghus the name of their future ruler. He has both dreamed of and dreaded this moment, for reasons all too clear to those who know him best.

It’s been a week now and he has yet to hold the baby, convinced beyond all rational doubt that something awful will happen. Perhaps he will bend the baby in two; perhaps he will lift him with far too much force. Byleth has told him more than once that it’s unlikely, but the idea of landing any scratches or scrapes on his legacy is too much to bear. He only ever watches the baby from a safe distance; only dares to touch him by stroking his hair.

He knows Byleth wishes he would hold him and today he has little choice in the matter. It is the King’s job to introduce the world to his legacy and in doing so reassure the people of stability. Even so, his hands shake at the very idea and he can scarcely look his friends in the eye.

Of the Blue Lions, Sylvain was the first to have children-a red haired girl named Isolde, who’s spent the past half an hour peering into the cot with a grave expression. She’s too young to understand the more complicated issues at hand and Dimitri almost envies her ignorance.

Sylvain, who spent so much time with Isolde in his arms that she now gets incredibly upset at being parted from him, was horrified by the prospect of Dimitri being so distanced from his own child. His own scars are different in size and shape. He doesn’t fear holding his child too tightly, but giving them any inkling of rejection. Isolde bears no crest, yet he still calls her ‘princess’.

As per tradition, Sylvain arrived with gifts from House Gautier, among them a gaudy vase that no one in the room has pretended to like. Perhaps most importantly, it is almost exactly the same size and weight as a human child.

“Like this,” says Sylvain, shuffling the vase in his arms. “Look, you need to support the head.”

“This is, without a doubt, the most ridiculous thing either of you have ever done,” yawns Felix from his spot by the window.

Dimitri glances from the vase wrapped in furs in Sylvain’s arms to the sleeping baby and clenches his hands into fists.

“You can do it,” adds Dedue with a nod.

Dimitri rubs his hands together, taking a deep breath and reaching for the vase. His hands are trembling, his stomach churning. He knows it’s a vase and not the real thing, but it’s difficult to think of anything but either of them shattering on the floor.

He takes the vase into his arms, back straight and shoulders rigid. He can feel it slipping even though it sits stock still. Sylvain takes a couple of steps back, grinning triumphantly at his own success.

“There it is, perfect,” he says, “though...maybe you could relax...a bit?”

“You look like you’re taking a shit,” adds Felix.

Dimitri sighs and passes the vase back to Sylvain. Why was he cursed with such clumsy hands? Why couldn’t he be as skilled with delicate work as he is on the battlefield?

“Don’t worry so much about it,” laughs Ashe, no doubt sensing his tension. “Babies were built to survive new parents!”

“That’s right, that’s right,” says Sylvain, taking the vase from him with little to no effort. “Soon you’ll be bouncing them around and-“

SMASH

Everyone reacts at exactly the same instant.

Sylvain, who tossed the vase up into the air for emphasis, falls into shocked silence. Felix, who took a second to roll his eyes, squeezes them shut altogether. Dimitri takes two steps back, having tried and failed to catch the vase. Ashe flinches. Both Alexei and Isolde cry.

“This...this doesn’t mean anything!” Sylvain drops to his knees to gather the parts of the vase left intact. “Look...see-ow!”

“This is how it’s going to be, isn’t it?” Dimitri murmurs as Sylvain examines his bloodied fingers. “For the rest of my life…”

“No, no,” Sylvain exclaims, “this is just an accident...don’t think too much about it! It was fine until I took it, honestly!”

Dimitri sucks in a deep breath and storms out of the room, away from the chaos. Sylvain flops down onto the floor with a sigh, dropping the shard of ceramic that sliced open his fingers.

“Do you think we should go after him?”

“And say what?”

Felix’s words are sharp, though betrayed by his tone.

“I dunno,” says Sylvain, “that feeling scared is normal when you first have a kid.”

“Did you hesitate to hold Isolde?”

At that, Sylvain’s eyes drop to the floor. Everyone knows that he didn’t.

“Speaking of Isolde,” pipes up Ashe, “where is she?”

~~~~~~

It’s been a while since all of the Blue Lions have gathered at once. Byleth sees Mercedes and Annette at the monastery fairly frequently, while Dimitri, Sylvain and Felix remain in touch via council meetings and the day to day running of the kingdom, but the only time they all seem to be in one place at the same time is at a wedding or a baptism.

Byleth has missed the idle chatter of her students and it’s plain to see that they have missed one another’s company. She acquired a fragrant tea and lemon cakes for the reunion, only for them to lay forgotten in the excitement of updates on one another’s lives. Hours have passed and conversation has barely halted, leaving only Byleth to sit in relative silence. She’s always been something of an introvert and at present there’s a lot on her mind.

Today her son will be tested for a crest and then presented to the people of Fhirdiad. She knows that it shouldn’t have come as a surprise considering how often crests and their holders have changed the course of history, yet somehow the reality of it is only just hitting her.

Since Dimitri’s ascension to the throne, the topic of crests has been hotly debated. Where before it was a cornerstone of life as a noble, now it is considered outdated at best. It’s certainly true that noble families have continued to have their children’s blood tested, though the results are rarely-if ever-made public knowledge. The practise itself might not have survived were it not for the consequences of using a relic without its proper crest, leaving it as a safety measure and little more. Even so, Byleth feels anything but safe.

She does not want anyone to break the skin on her son’s finger, no matter how gently it is done. She brought in Hannemann for the task in the hopes that she would feel better about it, but her stomach still churns with anxiety. She did not know she had a crest herself until adulthood and that knowledge gnaws at her heart. Would it really matter if none of them knew if Alexei had one either?

She only half listens as Dorothea and Manuela frantically exchange notes on the newer compositions they heard in taverns on the journey to Fhirdiad. Enough time has passed that the war of the three houses has fallen mostly into legend, with travelling bards the world over composing tales of the noble chivalry and grand deeds of the Blue Lions and their allies. One particular ongoing theme (and consequently, ongoing joke) is the valour and strength of Ingrid of house Galatea and her incredible modesty on the matter. Ingrid has never truly known how to respond to the stories comparing her strength and beauty to that of the goddess. Naturally, her blushes only inspire Manuela and Dorothea to repeat them with gusto and their current tale involves a certain knight falling from the sky.

“...and next, next the beautiful stranger opened her eyes….”

“Oooh!”

Annette leans in closer, as if she’s listening to a secret. Ingrid blushes furiously, though tries to hide it from view.

“...she asked the innkeeper to listen closely and he crouched at her side to hear her whispers…”

Byleth has heard this story before. During a raid on a number of bandits, Ingrid fell from her horse, crashing through the roof of the inn. Somewhat miraculously, she escaped relatively unscathed from the impact, far more dazed than bruised. She stayed in the inn for a couple of days at Mercedes’ insistence and, while the true sequence of events was rather dull, the retellings grow increasingly dramatic with each passing year.

Everyone in the room knows this story, yet still wait with bated breath. As such, when Dorothea opens her mouth to whisper the request of the grand lady knight, only to be drowned out by the chaos of the door crashing open, everyone is startled.

The shock is only temporary, though, and quickly transforms into curiosity when it’s Isolde who rushes into the room. It’s certainly true that some present know Isolde better than others, but everyone in the room is acutely aware of two things.

One, that Isolde is nothing if not intelligent. She knows exactly how to manipulate her father into giving her extra dessert or a later bedtime, much to the ire of her mother.

Secondly, that while her loyalties certainly fall with Sylvain, who is easily the softer of the two, she will run to her mother whenever she is truly frightened.

“Momma,” she calls out, cheeks as rosy red as her hair, “Momma! Papa dropped the baby! It broke on the floor!”

~~~~~

By now, Alexei has fallen silent, sleeping soundly in the crook of Dedue’s arm. Sylvain disappeared in search of Isolde, leaving Felix and Ashe to sweep up the broken vase.

“Stupid idiot,” mutters Felix, “leaving us to clean up his mess…”

Ashe can’t contain his laughter. Felix, after all, was the first to grab a broom.

“Don’t you find it nostalgic?”

“Nostalgic?”

“Mhmm,” says Ashe. “It might sound silly, but it sort of reminds me of when we started to restore the monastery.”

Felix presses his lips together and continues to sweep, albeit in completely the wrong direction. It is nostalgic even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

Back then, Byleth added restoring the monastery to their list of after school chores. It was difficult to retain morale with enormous gaps in the ceiling. Many of the Blue Lions and their allies continued to clear the rubble long into the night. Felix complained the loudest, but more often than not stayed until dawn.

Ashe can’t keep the smile from his face, even as the door flies open and the Professor rushes in, the remaining Blue Lions and Isolde in tow. Byleth has never been easy to read, but it’s all too clear what’s running through her mind as she crosses the room and stands up on her tiptoes to peer into Alexei’s sleeping face.

“Is that...a vase ?”  Annette crouches on the floor and picks up one of the shards, holding it up to the light. “Why is it in a blanket?”

“Baby,” says Isolde, pointing at the mess.

Byleth peers around the room, taking note of every guilty face with two significant exceptions.

“Where’s Dimitri?” she asks.

~~~~~

There are very few paintings of King Lambert in Fhirdiad, though not through any sort of misfortune. In truth, he was far more interested in practising his sword arm than sitting down for a portrait, and as a consequence his likeness was captured only once.

The portrait of King Lambert sits pride of place on the wall of the heroes gallery, one singular floor of the palace dedicated to preserving the legacy of notable citizens of Faerghus. There are statues of Loog in every corner, portraits of long dead and largely forgotten kings, dusty tomes detailing the history of the land. To be placed in the gallery is one of the greatest honours in the country and Lambert’s portrait is the brightest of all. The artist captured him perfectly, from the sharpness of his jawline to his gleaming armour. He appears dignified, noble…

...and not at all as Dimitri remembers.

Dimitri remembers only his final moments, an image that so often drowns out the rest. When he tries to remember his father’s booming laughter, he recalls the sound of his final gurgles. When he thinks of his proud form, his mind immediately drifts to the moment it fell still.

He made peace years ago with the knowledge that Lambert was never coming back, but he wishes more than anything that he could remember more of him than the moment of his death.

Dimitri very often visits the painting of his father and it’s there that Byleth eventually finds him. His arms are folded, his back straight as an arrow, staring into the eyes of the painting so deeply that he doesn’t notice Byleth approach until she’s standing beside him.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says.

“With what?”

“The silence.”

She stays quiet, as is so often her way, eyes drifting from him to the portrait. She, of all people, should understand. They’ve both been numb for as long as they remember and this past year has brought wave after wave of emotions to the surface.

Today they are duty bound to present their son to the kingdom and promise the very thing neither of them remember. Who are they now that there’s no battles to fight?

In the end, Byleth says nothing at all and instead links her fingers through his.

She doesn’t let go, not even as Hanneman pricks their boy’s finger and casts his blood into the flames, revealing the Blaiddyd crest.

She doesn’t let go as they stand on the balcony, waving to their subjects and declaring the arrival of an heir to the throne. As far as the people of Faerghus are concerned, the baby’s mere existence is a victory.

They don’t need to know how badly their king’s hands are shaking; they don’t need to know about the tears in their queen’s eyes as Hanneman’s needle broke his skin.

From this distance they can’t see the dents in his crown, nor can they tell that the bundle nestled in the crook of Dimitri’s arm contains nothing more than one of Isolde’s dolls.

The real heir to the throne is fast asleep in his nursery, as blissfully ignorant of the celebrations in his name as he is the battles that won him his birthright.

That, in itself, is the true victory.

#fire emblem three houses #fe3h #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #byleth #dimileth

[cozy-the-overlord]

Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince

A/N: Based on the Taylor Swift song of the same name. MAATHP is my favorite song off of Lover, and ever since I heard it this is what I saw in my head. I don’t know what that says about me, but here we go. This is my first time posting on Tumblr, so I’m sorry if this absolutely sucks.....

She came to the school when she was young.

They all do. They arrive as children and leave as adults, marching through the arched gateway with crowns on their heads and smiles on their faces as they turn their sights onto the world at large. And above them, their queen of kings, watching over them all in her sparkling gown and prom picture smile.

Miss Americana.

The girl knew from the moment that she stepped through those doors that someday she would be that woman, that pure and powerful figure who stood above the rest, raised to a pedestal by her doting peers to represent them as a class and as a people. Here, on the ground, she was no one, voiceless, meaningless… up there, she would be everything.

To get her classmates to adore her was critical, and yet it was so simple. She went to games and rallies, plays and parties, cementing her face and figure firmly at the core of school spirit so that they could not think ok one without the other. She danced on the football field with the other cheerleaders as the boys plowed through the enemy and skipped over the line, ball in hand. She relished in the roar that echoed through the stadium and beyond, the sound of screams, of chants, of victory.

“GO! FIGHT! WIN!”

She sat stick straight at the desk in the front of the room, making a show of how attentive and responsible she was by scribbling down notes every time the teachers opened their mouths. Classes didn’t matter as much, though—people looked for devotion, not intelligence.

And so, she rose through the ranks. The Future Majesty, they called her. The Best of All of Us. They clapped for her as she walked through the halls, patted her on the back while telling her she was destined for great things, and she smiled and thanked them because she knew it was true. She basked in the glory of their worship and bathed in the validation that was their love.

They weren’t completely devoted, however. There was one, one boy who sat next to her in the front of the room, who said nothing. He sat at his desk and wrote in his notebook and slunk out of the room with his head down, never sparing her a second glance. She didn’t spare him many glances either. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her. Many girls had looked at him with hearts in their eyes and hope in their chest, but he looked past all of them. He was weird, one weird boy in a class of a hundred normal ones, and he didn’t matter.  

Still, she wondered about him. Outside of class, she never saw him. Not at the football games, not at the theater troupe’s performances, not at the many dances throughout the year. She had never known a fellow student to have so little spirit. He was an oddity, a challenge. Miss Americana was meant to inspire spirit—surely she could stoke up the fire of patriotism within him?

And so, one day, she leaned over to whisper in his ear.

“Are you excited for this Friday’s ceremony?” she asked.

He looked up at her. Looking at his face, she could see why so many fell for him. His eyes were deep and promising, the sparkling shade of a glacier.

“What’s happening this Friday?” he asked, his voice low and disinterested.

“Why, the End of Year Ceremony! You know, when this year’s Miss Americana is crowned and a football game is played in her honor? It’s going to be fabulous, I just know! I can’t wait to see who Miss Americana will be!”

He turned back to his notebook. “You will.”

She smiled and gave her well-practiced soft giggle. “Do you really think so? I’m not sure. There are so many girls who are worthy of it, you know--”

“You will,” He scratched out a mark on the paper as he spoke. “They’ll call your name and put a crown on your head and everyone will clap and lose their minds over it.”

She frowned. “You’re speaking as though you won’t be there.”

“I won’t.”

“Oh, but you must come!” She wrapped her hands around his arm, resting her head on his shoulder. “It’s our last big hurrah before we graduate! Don’t you want to savor every moment of it before we leave forever?”

He pulled his arm free and pushed her away. “No. I’m counting the seconds until I can leave and never come back.”

This wasn’t working. How could someone be so stubborn, so cold? “But… why? This is your home, it’s been your home for years--”

“Just because I’ve lived here doesn’t mean it’s home.”

“But it’s been such a wonderful home--”

“Are you really that blind?” He stood up abruptly, snatching his books from his desk. “Do you honestly believe that this is heaven on Earth? Open your eyes. We’re losing.”

She prickled. “We’re undefeated in all of our sports--”

“No. We’re losing to ourselves. We’ve been losing for a long time.” He turned to leave the classroom. “It’s about time you saw that.”

She huffed, her face burning in embarrassment. If that was the way he felt, fine. She didn’t need his support. She didn’t need his love. She didn’t need anything from him. She already had everything.

They crowned her just as he predicted they would. She was all smiles and waves as she ascended to her throne, the picture of grace as she lifted the red silk of her gown oh so slightly to walk up the steps. They cheered, her subjects, her peers, her friends; they all cheered and clapped and roared for her as the crown was placed atop her curls.

“Thank you!” she said. “Thank you so very much! I love you all!”

And then the game began.

It felt odd to watch the cheerleaders run onto the field, waving their red and blue pom poms as they danced to the band’s chant. She was so used to being there, on the grass, welcoming the players herself. It looked a bit different from up here on the podium. Everyone seemed angrier, rougher than usual. But what did it matter? She was Miss Americana.

Until the first snap, and the players rushed at each other. She screamed when boy attacked boy, the football lying forgotten in the grass as players pounded their opponents to the ground, bashing their ribs, their shoulders, their skulls into the dirt, staining the field with splashes of red.

“What are they doing?” she yelled. “Stop them, somebody stop them!”

Everyone else was yelling too, standing on their feet, jumping up and down as they clapped and cheered.

On the sidelines, the cheerleaders screamed.

“GO! FIGHT! WIN!”

She stood up, whipped around to the wizened old man who stood next to her, the one who had crowned her only moments before. “What’s wrong with them? You have to stop them!”

He gave her a quizzical look. “They’re just playing the game.”

“No, they’re not! They’re killing each other!” A new set of players lined up on the field for the next snap, kicking aside the lifeless bodies on the bloodstained grass.

The whistle blew, and the ball went flying, the sound of crushing bones and mangled cries drowned out by the frenzied applause. The man nodded. “They’re winning.”

“Are you blind?” she shrieked. “That’s not winning! They’re hurting each other!”

“My dear, that’s football. It’s fine. The referee will call a foul if things get too bad.”

The referee stood on the sidelines, whistle resting languidly against his chest.

“Are you crazy?” she hissed.

“GO! FIGHT! WIN!” The cheerleaders danced across corpses, their white shoes stained red.

Someone on the sidelines hurtled a rock at one of the players. It struck him in the shoulder, causing him to drop the boy he had been throttling. With a roar, the player rushed at the guilty party, ripping off his helmet to beat his opponent with it. The audience whooped and cheered.

She was shaking. “This isn’t my school.”

The old man smiled. “Yes, it is. We’re winners here. Can’t you see that we’re winning?”

She ran.

She ran away from the screams and the cheers, tripping on her heels as she tumbled down the stairway. The hem of her gown, her gorgeous red gown on which they had spent hours sewing every tiny red sequin, caught between her foot and the floor, and she winced as fabric ripped and sent her sprawling.

“GO! FIGHT! WIN!”

Behind her, they were screaming. Were they coming for her? Did they thirst for her blood as well? She was afraid to look behind her. Kicking off her shoes, she scrambled down the hallway barefoot.

The floor was slick and wet. Blood? How? How could it be here? Lockers flew by her, dented doors barely hanging on to their hinges.

It couldn’t be. She panted as she rushed down the hallway, skidding to avoid the shards of glass that littered the bloodstained floor. It couldn’t be like this. Her school was beautiful, kind, a beacon meant to make the world a better place. Her classmates weren’t savages; they loved and cared for each other and wanted the best for everyone. They elected her to represent that to the rest of the country. This wasn’t right!

Open your eyes. We’re losing.

She tripped, her lips kissing blood as she hit the tile. Frantically, she tried to stand, but the floor was so slippery, there was nothing to hold on to, there was nothing—

Arms wrapped around her waist and she shrieked, writhing like a feral animal as they hauled her to her feet. She whipped around, ready to fight for her life….

The boy from class stood behind her. He cocked his head as he studied her, his glacier eyes piercing deep into her soul. She grabbed his wrist.

“We’ve got to get out of here—out there, did you see? It’s a massacre—”

“I know.” His voice was low and quiet, his eyes never leaving hers as he spoke. He tucked a piece of loose hair behind her ear.

“Has it always been like this?” she asked. “Every game?”

He nodded. “And the rallies. And parties. And everything else.”

She inhaled. “How did I never see?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Nobody seems to see. I thought I was the only one.” He offered a hand. “We should go… It’s not safe here. Probably never was.”

Her eyes followed his hand, but she didn’t take it. “Why are you here?” she finally asked. “If you could see everything, the whole time, why did you stay?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes seemed to be clouded, the glaciers obscured by a fog. “I hated it here. But leaving… never felt right.”

“But it does now?”

“Yes. It does now.” He lifted his gaze back to hers and let out a breath of a laugh, the tiniest smile cracking across his lips. “Maybe I was waiting for you.”

She laughed too.

He thrust his hand towards her again, as if to emphasize its existence. “Well… shall we?”

The girl smiled, the shouts and screams of the field melting away into nothingness. “Lead the way.”

#taylor swift #miss americana and the heartbreak prince #songfic #lover

[scifimagpie]

The Art of Destruction: Distressed Aesthetics

A belated happy new year, my dear followers!

So, I have a neat idea for a new series coming up. But after the holidays (which were pleasantly busy) and some interpersonal scuffling in January (which was not nearly as lovely, but came to an all-right enough resolution), my idea bank was absolutely flat broke.

A nice chat with friends has filled the bowl up, but while I work on those posts, here is something I stashed off to the side after a Facebook conversation last year.

I often reference fashion and clothing to help get in the right mindset for my writing projects. Whilst working on Poe's Outlaws (Book 4 of The Meaning Wars series; book 3, The Meaning Wars, is ready for beta-reading and edits now!) I indulged in my usual technique of sifting through Dolls Kill and Pinterest to look at various bits of outre, fun, futuristic fashion.  Of course, when working on Monsters and Fools and planning for After the Garden's sequels, I also like to look at post-apocalyptic and distressed clothing. I like distressed clothing anyway, but it tends to get a lot of flack. =

On an episode of a podcast called Minion Death Cult, the hosts discussed some common reactions of tradespeople and Boomers to distressed and some faux-muddy jeans. (Not unsurprisingly, there were a lot of tired jokes about just selling people old, worn-out jeans from "real" tradesmen.) But not a lot of people understand how distressed clothing works, or why it's somehow different from their dad's old, grimy jeans and tattered denim jacket, so I'm going to break it down. 

Note: all images in this article came from the Nordstrom website. Most or all are designed by PRPS.

  I'm gonna take the unusual stance here of defending distressed jeans, because I've been studying and making distressed knit clothing and other types of distressed clothing for a bit. Why? Because I like post-apocalyptic fashion, and I think wrecked things are often beautiful. 

You may be familiar with the term "wabi-sabi," which sometimes passes in and out of vogue for decorating trends. The term is comprised of two Japanese words - wabi, in a nutshell, refers to the beauty of simplicity; sabi, to the beauty of age and use. There's a bit more to it, but that's the quick explanation of these beautiful and imperfectly translatable terms. Wabi-sabi is usually used in reference to home decor, but it totally applies to clothing, too. 

Anyway, getting on with the point - the thing about dirty jeans is that they're gonna leave dirt on wherever you sit. Fake dirt still captures the same look, the rather beautiful way the brown stains and fades into the tightly woven blue threads, but it won't leave big ol' scuffmarks on your leather car seats.

As for the distressing, the interesting and beautiful way that denim falls apart tends to happen in less sexy areas - the knees, the thighs, the crotch. Distressing clothes on purpose lets you get the look without impairing the wearability and structural integrity of the clothes. Sometimes that doesn't work at all, like with the cheaper distressed jeans that are all holes and have a high spandex content, but that's still the idea.

As far as how this relates to designing and making clothing, with knitwear (such as the awesome punk sweaters we all may love, or at least have seen before), it's important to know how the particular fibres and yarns work structurally. There's a reason why clothing made to be or look distressed looks so awesome and a lot of actually busted up clothing or "home-made" distressed stuff looks crappy. Knowing where and how to cut fabric in pre-made knits, how to style the runs, or how to make patterns with the runs and holes, is all very calculated. As I've learned myself, if you try to distress a finely-knit sweater, it'll look like crap; distressing needs a chunkier, thicker yarn to be really noticeable. And wet-blocking a ravelled sweater (stretching while wet) is very important - otherwise, the threads maintain their curled appearance, and don't become those straight lines that create contrast with the curving knitted stitches. It's also really important to actually tie off runs in a distressed sweater, or the whole thing will, in fact, unravel. 

The advantage of knitting a sweater with a distressed look is that you can control this process. In effect, dropped stitches and yarn-overs create a sort of freeform lace look, and don't destroy the structural integrity of the sweater (which unravelling a pre-made sweater CAN do). 

So basically there IS a method to the madness in pre-distressed clothing, and knowing how to distress your clothing well and safely - whether it's for a stage production, Halloween, or fashion - takes more than sharp scissors and boredom!

Predictably, clothes like this inspire retorts like, "I could give you my old jeans covered in cow manure and farm dirt and motor oil for that price!" But that's the point - the "fake dirt" that so baffled the Washington Post and CNN, where reporters appeared unfamiliar with the concept of "p a i n t", will not rub off or dirty other surfaces. The pants don't contain the scent and sweat of another person's work, nor are they worn out and about to fall apart, as those pants probably are. (For example, the wear patterns and distressing and whiskering all appear on the thighs and calves of the jeans, rather than in the crotch, around the bottom cuffs, and etcetera.) 

It's not about pretending you work - it's about exploring the beauty of entropy and things that are lived-in. The way fabric dye fades, the soft whiskering of denim fabric, the delicate feathers of raw-edged cotton - all of these have their own beauty. Repairs can create a contrast from the original fabric or material as well, and it needn't be ugly. People familiar with "that weird gold thing," kintsuogi, may also know have seen it in cases where useful objects are repaired and the cracks are patched with gold leaf to highlight their beauty. 

Here's another example of finding beauty in marks and unexpected places. When I saw an advertisement for Canada Post that featured a very intriguing necklace, I tracked down the artist's work and had a look at her site.

https://www.instagram.com/p/BUkgqx4hXdu/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

View this post on Instagram

#fbf to my 30 seconds of fame 😛 I custom made this piece especially for the #canadapost commercial. It took every spare second I had for a month....... and it will be on-screen for a second at a time for three years 😪 💰#lianevazbespoke

A post shared by Toronto Goldsmith (@lianevazdesigns) on May 26, 2017 at 2:22pm PDT

However, to my surprise, most of her jewelry was either minimalist and geometric, or covered in dented and scratched textures, like this!

https://www.instagram.com/p/Bw10Dy7AWYp/

View this post on Instagram

HEX textured pendant in 18k gold on a vintage chain ✨

A post shared by Toronto Goldsmith (@lianevazdesigns) on Apr 29, 2019 at 6:17am PDT

Or, like this! 

There is real value in appreciating things as we wear them out. If we are to shift to a less consumption-driven culture, which is necessary in the fight against climate change, we're gonna have to get used to not having things that look new all the time. Supplies and availability of items may be restricted. Repairing clothing and items instead of just throwing them out has also become pretty popular amongst Generation Z, many of whom are embracing thrifting and minimal-waste lifestyles. 

But in addition to that, there's also a beauty in the broken or fraying, the imperfect, the less-than-new. Most of the time we spend with an item will be active. Jewelry gets scratches. Clothes rip. Colours fade. Paper tears. And all of those things expose new beauties and different aspects of the item, revealing its structure and design and suggesting or reminding us of experiences we've had.

After all, our possessions act as anchors for memories. There's a reason why in pre-industrial times, treasured items were passed down through generations or repaired over and over. Our things aren't just pretty diversions or useful parts of daily life - they're parts of our lives, woven or tangled with our memories.

***

Michelle Browne is a sci fi/fantasy writer and editor. She lives in Lethbridge, AB with her partner-in-crime and Max the cat. Her days revolve around freelance editing, knitting, jewelry, and learning too much. She is currently working on other people’s manuscripts, the next books in her series, and drinking as much tea as humanly possible.

Find her all over the internet: * OG Blog * Mailing list * Magpie Editing * Amazon * Medium * Twitter * Instagram * Facebook * Tumblr * Paypal.me * Ko-fi

#wabi sabi #distressed #DIY #knitting #fashion #sci fi #post apoc rp #apoc #cosplay #futurism #clothing #apocalypse #post apocalyptic #grunge #punk

[ageeksnerdyworld]

Shameful in the Light

Characters: Zale Young, Bonsai Warner, Mayor Whiskers

Word Count: 5,870

Trigger Warning: Swearing, Drug Use (kinda), Death

A/N: The only thing I actually had inspiration for so here ya go... As always the Cyber World belongs to @voiceoflarka

Summary: Life tricks even the best of men into avoiding the truth. Often subconsciously their daily thoughts and actions only aide and abet. Burying a man deeper into his sins and his ignorance. But nothing, not even the deepest love, can keep the demons out forever. Click that read more if ya want...

~~~

The bed was cold. Cold and oddly comforting. The sensation pulled him down and silently begged him to stay. Beckoning like a siren's song from the deep. It didn't matter that one arm hung off the side. Or that barely a corner of the thick blanket covered his person. Or that he couldn't properly breathe with his face buried deep in the pillow. He would've gladly kept laying there and slept the day away.

But the force on his back had other plans. The motion, the light push, was far too familiar for him to ignore. His eyes slowly fluttered open; blinking against the sunlight. What sleep continued to linger, attempting to call him back, made his dark lashes stick to one another.

"C'mon Mayor Whiskers," he groaned. "It's too early for this, man."

"Mmrow," came the response.

Turning over onto his left side he pushed the gray tabby off his back.

Laying on his side Bonsai's face filled his vision. Despite events of the previous night, the state of her hair and makeup, she looked at peace. Her chest rose and fell in perfect time with her deep slumber. She was clutching the blanket close to her chest. He didn't want to wake her. He didn't want to bring the moment to an abrupt end. But at the same time he couldn't not touch her.

Reaching out he softly pushed a couple strands of hair out of her face.

She instinctively moved away; turning her head in the opposite direction of his touch. A quiet, annoyed, grunt escaped her lips. She flung her right arm over her face to block out the light.

"Mrrow," the cat called again. The annoyance in his voice was clear despite the lack of human speech.

"Chill out wouldja? I'm up, I'm up," Zale whispered.

Pulling the blanket off he swung his feet over the side of the bed. Mayor Whiskers took this as a sign and jumped off the bed. The cat hurriedly rushed out of the room. Zale took a few seconds to stretch before stepping onto the bedroom floor.

A low, very aggravated, meow came from down the hall.

"Fucking relax," Zale muttered to himself as he left the room.

Outside the open door he stood in the short hallway. From there he could see the front door to the apartment and the kitchen beyond it. There was the gray tabby cat; standing by the food and water bowls. As Zale walked over the cat rushed back to him and rubbed against his leg. Mayor Whiskers continued to walk with Zale to the kitchen. All the while airing his grievances with drawn out meowing.

Stepping onto the cold tile floor sent a shiver through Zale’s body.

The cat rushed to the spot, adjacent to the small kitchen closet, where his bowls were kept. Once again he started meowing with an annoyed urgency.

When Zale saw the empty bowls he sighed. Bending down he ran his hand along Mayor Whiskers' head before scratching the cat's chin.

"No wonder you're so pissed, huh, bud? You must be starving," he said.

Pulling himself to his feet Zale shook his head. This wasn't the first time either of them had forgotten to feed the cat. It wouldn't be the last either. Even so each time he woke to a hungry, thirsty, Mayor Whiskers his heart sank.

"Some pet parents we are," he muttered to himself.

Bending down again he picked up the bowl on the right side. It was a light gray with a red line along the bottom rim. Crossing the short distance to the sink he turned the faucet on. Letting the dirty, hot, water run for a few seconds he waited for it run cold and clean.

You think you can take care of yourself and her when you can’t even take care of a fucking cat?

He blocked the thought out as he filled the bowl with water.

“Here ya go, Mayor Whiskers,” he said as he set the bowl back down. The cat quickly lapped up the water. He was clearly dehydrated as he didn’t take a single pause for a good minute or two. And when he did finally take a second it was only to lick the excess water droplets off his mouth.

Zale turned back to the sink and reached for the cupboards. Gripping the old, rusted, handle as gingerly as possible he lightly pulled it. The cupboard didn't open but the handle came off in his hand. Sighing deeply he put the handle on the counter. Putting his fingers underneath the lip of the door he pulled. This time it opened. Reaching inside he pushed the other one open as well.

The sagging, nearly empty, bag of cat food sat sadly in the cupboard.

He took the bag out and set it on the counter, next to the sink, before opening it. The sounds must have alerted the cat as he quickly jumped up on the counter. He was circling the bag; sniffing and pawing at the paper.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Zale said as he picked the bag up again.

He took a couple of steps to the empty food bowl. It was the same size and shape as the other bowl. The only difference was the coloring; opposite to its twin. Red all except for a thin line around the bottom rim. Zale quickly filled the bowl and returned the bag to the cupboard. Mayor Whiskers took the short window for what it was and began eating.

The loud, crunching, sounds filled the small space. Zale knelt down next to the cat and began slowly running his hand along the cat’s back. A thousand yard stare overtook him as the thoughts, that he had blocked out earlier, came back in a flood of self-defamation.

Suddenly he realized that the crunching sounds had stopped. Shaking his head, knocking the fog out of his mind, he rose to his feet. He quickly walked back to the bedroom.

From the doorway he could see that Bonsai was still in bed.

She had shifted onto her stomach at some point. Her arms and legs were sprawled out over the mattress. Zale tiptoed back into the room as quietly as he could. Stopping at the foot of the bed he reached over and walked his fingers up her leg. Grunting quietly and annoyed she tried to kick his hands away.

"Morning, gorgeous."

"Go away," she replied; voice groggy and muffled. "I'm sleeping."

"You can't fool me, miss black eyeliner."

He crawled onto the bed; closing the space between them. Sitting on his knees he grabbed her hand and curled his fingers in between hers. Pulling her onto her back Zale leaned in and softly kissed her cheek. He let go and hopped off the bed once more. He crossed to the short dresser that sat a few feet from the door frame. Opening the drawer he grabbed the first thing he saw.

Pulling the shirt over his head, he turned to her and, asked; "Wanna head out?"

She nodded.

~~~

“Gonna tell me where we’re going, babe?”

Zale shook his head.

They had barely left the apartment before she began asking. And even after a few blocks, and a half-assed game of twenty questions, she kept at it. Zale continued to keep it a secret. His silence ticked her off more than the secret.

"Better be worth it,” she said with a bitter voice.

“Oh it is, trust me.”

Bonsai rolled her eyes and scoffed.

She wore an over-sized gray shirt under a red flannel. Layered on top was a light blue jean jacket. The fabric was distressed and faded. Various patches covered the surface in a randomized pattern. A pair of black fishnets covered her legs under a short, pale pink, skirt. Ends of the fishnets were tucked into the galaxy printed high tops which covered her feet. Days, maybe weeks, old polish colored her nails a deep black. Except for the top edges where it had cracked and peeled off. The aviator sunglasses on her face glinted in the afternoon sun. Her makeup was still a mess but she didn’t care.

And neither did he.

To him she was always the most beautiful person anywhere they went.

Like a moth flying dangerously close to a flame he caught himself staring and looked away.

But he was too late and she already noticed. Turning away from the passing cars she side-eyed him. Bonsai pulled the sunglasses down over the bridge of her nose. Looking him up and down she nodded approvingly.

“Mm-hmm.”

Zale chuckled and shook his head in embarrassment.

He mindlessly echoed her gaze and looked down at himself. His eyes glued to each article of clothing for a long time; analyzing every tiny detail. The old and discolored white t-shirt with its peeling black triangle. A pair of faded, over washed, black jeans haphazardly shoved into a pair of boots. Various sized patches of different materials covered the larger holes. One of the zippers had broken. It was stuck half open and the pull tab had fallen off. He wore an aging, and tattered, navy-blue hoodie. The hood covered his head; blocking his peripheral like a pair of blinders.

How in the hell did you get lucky enough to have her? Fucking look at yourself, dude. Look like you crawled outta the fucking dump. Probably smell like it too.

Zale started to zero in on the things he couldn’t see. The hard calluses on his fingers. Scrapes on his knees that burned painfully. Heavy, dark, bags under his eyes. Bruises, scabs, and strangely shaped dents covered his skin in various places. Fading veins, originally a deep oxford blue, were now barely visible. A few had died from overuse and turned black.

All with track marks to match.

Nobody’s gonna see 'em. Even if they did who the fuck cares? Mom? Dad? Cove? Fae? Don’t make me laugh.

As these thoughts ran through his mind he began picking at his sleeve.

Bonsai reached over, standing on her toes, and pulled his hood off.

Before he could fix it she ran her hand through his hair. Pulling her close he wrapped an arm around her. She leaned her head against his shoulder. Her long, wavy, black hair cascaded down his chest.

“This is it,” Zale said after a few minutes.

She peeled off him and looked around.

The couple stood in front of a bookstore. Its exterior was long and rectangular. Square transom windows ran along the top of the storefront; metal latticework spacing the glass apart. The square designs were echoed on the masonry pillars and the bulkhead. Two old fashioned street lamps hung from the top of the pillars; along the extended cornice. Everything that made up the storefront, that was not glass, had been painted a dark turquoise color. Large, square, glass panes sat on either side of the recessed entryway.

Display windows gave passersby a clear view inside.

Above the transom windows, and cornice, the facade was painted white. A sign was affixed to the building on the space. The nameplate shaped sign matched the turquoise color of the rest of the building. Painted on the stylized metal, in thin and sharp cursive, was the name of the store. Bright golden letters stood out against the dark black behind it.

“The Book Nook?” she turned to him and asked.

Zale dug into his back pockets; pulling out a Sharpie and a couple of pens.

He held the items out to her with a smirk. She took them quickly and opened the door. He followed close behind.

The interior of the store had a cozy, welcoming, atmosphere. Two or three tables were set up behind the large display windows. A deep, dark oak, counter jutted out from the wall not too far from the large window on the left-hand side. An elderly woman stood behind the counter. Her white hair was tied back in a neat bun; except for a few strands that had fallen around her face. She smiled at them as they entered but did not approach. Zale nodded at her as Bonsai rushed to the shelves at the back.

As he walked over to where his better half had rushed off to Zale noticed that not that many people were in the store. It was a bit late in the afternoon so it made sense. Most people, with normal lives, would be at work or school. Catching sight of Bonsai he quickened his pace.

She was standing near the back of the aisle; near the emergency exit. Book in hand she seemed to be intently reading whatever was typed on its pages.

But he knew better.

“Whatcha got there, B?” he asked as he stepped behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder.

“Some stupid self-help book,” she said; the disgust clear in her voice.

The Sharpie was in her hand; hidden under the spine of the book. Her brow furrowed as she searched for something. Flipping through the pages she finally found what she was looking for. The empty space under the title of the eighth chapter gave her a perfect canvas. With a delightful chuckle she pulled the cap off the permanent marker and went to work. It didn’t take long. A minute or maybe less and then she moved to place the book back on the shelf.

“Lemme see that again.”

“Enjoy,” she replied with a wink as she passed the book to him. She walked away and went about perusing the aisles once more.

He quickly flipped to chapter eight.

The chapter was entitled Horrors of Hate. But a dark, thick, line ran through the word “hate”. Above the text, in harshly scribbled handwriting, was the word “youth”. Under the title was a drawing of a girl’s crying face. Her hand was outstretched with an unclear object in her palm. The overall shape of the object matched a small hole in the girl’s chest.

Chuckling to himself and shaking his head he replaced the book.

He wandered through the store once more. Taking a red pen out of his back pocket looked around for the bookstore’s owner. Not seeing her anywhere near him he turned toward the nearest shelf just in case. He held the pen in between his fingers and hid it under the sleeve of his hoodie.

Randomly picking up various books he scrawled his own messages in the blank spaces.

Zale wrote stupid things that were funny in the moment. Short phrases like “doing a book burning? start with me” and “only read when high”. As he finished a small drawing of a dog pooping on the title of a rom-com piece of erotica he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Zay! Look at this,” Bonsai said as she shoved a book into his face.

It was a children’s graphic novel. The superheroes, in their brightly colored costumes, were fighting the villain. All of the typical violence that was associated with the heroes in question was nowhere to be seen. Or it was supposed to be as the book was for children. The heroes were supposed to talk the villain out of doing whatever damage they had planned.

Bonsai had taken it upon herself to fix the problem.

Red and blue ink turned a docile scene into a bloodbath. With the dialogue bubbles untouched the text remained the same. The juxtaposition of the flowery language with the added violence was hilarious. Now the scene ended with the villain, still claiming to be reformed, beaten and bloodied.

As Zale laughed she gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

“Thanks,” she said. “I really needed this.”

“Anything for you.”

She took the book from him and went to return it to wherever she first found it. He watched her go and smiled. After the night they had previously she was in dire need of a pick me up. Thankfully this did the trick.

He returned the book to the shelf and pretended to scan the rest of the books for another. After a minute or so of this miming he shrugged and walked away. Taking his time as he went he looked around for Bonsai. He knew that she couldn’t be far off as the place wasn’t very big. Walking around the store Zale felt the phone in his back pocket vibrate. He slowed to a stop as he took out his cell. A text came through from an unknown number. The message was a simple two word phrase.

In stock.

Before he could text back the phone buzzed again. The vibration was longer than the first time; signifying that a call was coming through. He pressed the green phone icon and put the phone to his ear.

“Howard Boulevard, green-gray,” the familiar voice on the other end said before hanging up.

~~~

The street was busy despite the odd hour. Most people should've been at work or school and yet cars practically flooded the street. Zale turned and gave Bonsai a confused look from under the weathered, dull, navy hood. She echoed his confusion with a cocked eyebrow. Turning back to the street they scanned the opposite side.

He felt her hand harshly squeeze his own.

A slew of parked cars lined the curb. A couple of bikes were neatly corralled by the edge of the sidewalk that turned down a narrow alleyway. But, mysteriously, only one appeared to have the engine on.

From this distance all they could see clearly was the profile of the car. Even with the bright lights above it was difficult to discern the color. They had no idea if this car belonged to who they thought. But already late they quickly rushed across the street. He held her hand as they ran; clutching it intensely. Like he was afraid she'd disappear if he let go.

Calm down, he mentally shouted to himself, nothing’s happened.

Slowing to a leisurely stroll once they reached the correct side of the street. Zale looked around for a car matching the color he was told. His head whipped around as he searched. A sharp exhale left his body when he saw it. Pointing it out to he lessened his grip on Bonsai's hand. She ran her hand through her hair; trying to shake out her nerves. As the couple walked the silhouetted shape of a person came into view.

The shape was leaning against the trunk; facing away from them. A thin reflection of the car's rear lights shined on the figure's dark jacket. Seeing the man's face Zale felt the tension leave his body. He heard Bonsai exhale a deep sigh of relief.

"Fuckin' took ya long enough."

Klynn Buffett was never a patient man.

He stood with arms crossed over his chest. An old, weathered, light gray jean jacket covered his chest. The sleeves were cut off in a very disordered manner. Fabric strands of varying lengths hung from the edges. He wore a white t-shirt underneath. On the fabric was an image of a skull; black on one side and white on the other. Behind the skull image was a series of pixels. Reversed coloring to the skull the pixels were of different size and shape. Dark blue jeans collected in a series of folds at his feet. On his feet were a pair of bright red street sneakers. The soles were white with black writing all over.

Klynn’s bright auburn veins cut through the dark.

Silver ink shone along the left side of his neck; illuminated by the car’s rear lights. Stylish filigree curled around his skin in an intricate manner. Inside the decorative ink was an image of raven feathers. Underneath the feathers was the Latin phrase; volenti non fit injuria. An impatient annoyance twisted his lips into a snarl. The emotion was perfectly reflected in his hunter green eyes. His white hair, shaved except for the top of his skull, was wavy and long. Swept to the right side of his face the curled locks covered his eye.

Zale shook his head and looked at the ground; "Sorry man. Lost track of time."

Kylnn scoffed. It was clear that he wasn't satisfied with that answer. But he pushed off the car and moved towards the front door. His dark eyes dug daggers into Zale.

"Gonna let it slide. This time."

Clutching the door handle Kylnn pulled it to open the door. It didn't budge. He chuckled and shook his head.

“You good, man?”

“Yeah,” came the struggled reply. “This piece of shit gets stuck all the time.”

Zale nodded and shoved his hands in his hoodie pockets. Bonsai moved closer and hooked her arm through his. Bonsai nudged him slightly. Looking over to her he gave her a questioning look.

“You ok?” he mouthed.

She shook her head.

He raised an eyebrow in confusion. Without saying a thing she nudged her head in Kylnn’s direction. Then she motioned to the area around them. Zale took a minute before he understood. Clearing his throat loudly he took his hands out of his pockets and stepped in front of Bonsai.

“Kinda noticing your boys aren’t here, Kylnn.”

“Yeah, so? If yo...” he suddenly stopped; freezing in place.

"Let's go," Bonsai whispered.

"What? Why?"

Bonsai's pleading eyes shifted back to where Kylnn stood. They took on a deep look of suspicion. A sprinkling of fear lurked inside as well. She crossed her arms over one another and hugged herself.

"I just have a bad feeling. Please, Zay."

Zale chuckled, smirking, "For real? We've been buying off him for years, B. If he wanted to rip us off he woulda done it already."

She nodded reluctantly. Zale could see that she was still bothered by something. He didn't know what it could have been but he pulled her into a hug. Holding her close for a minute; hoping it would help ease her nerves. Uncurling from the embrace he held her at arm's length. Zale looked at her for a few seconds before cupping her face in his hands. He kissed her on the forehead and rubbed her cheek with his thumb.

"I’m never gonna let anything happen to you. You're my tree of life, B. This soul," he said; laying a hand on his chest.

“This soul is useless without you.”

BAM!

The sound of the car door slamming made the couple jump. Turning in the direction of the sound they saw Kylnn walking around the car to the front side. He winked at them as he passed. Bonsai’s suspicions grew but she kept them to herself. Her veins began to glow just a little bit brighter as if to echo her feelings.

Zale put his hand on her shoulder.

Another loud slamming sound rang through the night as Kylnn let the hood of the car fall back into place.

“Why, man?”

“Just part of my charm,” Kylnn said with a smirk.

“So, the whole thing with the door was--?”

“Lost track of where I put it. That shit happens to the best of us.”

Kylnn joined the couple on the sidewalk and he approached Zale. He held his hand out. Zale took it and pulled him into a man hug. The exchange only lasted for a few seconds before they let go. As their hands moved apart a small plastic bag was passed into Zale’s hand. He curled his fingers around it before shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets.

“Pleasure doin’ business.”

Zale nodded and wrapped his arm around Bonsai again. As they walked away he leaned to kiss her head.

~~~

Once inside the apartment he pushed the door closed with his foot. Turning around to lock it caused the paper bag to shift in the crook of his left arm. He shouted over his shoulder.

“B? I’m back!”

Shoving the key into his pocket he simultaneously kicked his shoes off. After that he turned around once more. Now facing the inside of his apartment he could see that everything was exactly how he left it. An open carton of milk was still on the table. The small stack of books that held up the broken table leg was still askew from when he rushed out.

Exhaling the breath he didn’t know he held Zale walked across the floor.

“I got you something,” he called to the empty air.

He thought that maybe she had taken a nap. She had done that ever since they’d known each other. It didn’t matter what the argument was about, or who it was with, she always ended them the same way. When he asked why she explained that she didn’t want people to fight for too long. He always thought it was sweet.

So he turned the corner and walked to their bedroom. He took a breath before quietly pushing the door open.

But the room was empty. The bed, a small mattress on a thin metal frame, only housed a few pillows and a blanket. The beanbag that sat in the corner opposite the bed was also missing it’s typical occupant.

Walking out of the room he made his way back. It was clear that the kitchen was empty so he didn’t bother looking. As he moved to set the bag on the counter he turned to his right; scanning the small living room.

There she was.

Bonsai was sitting on the sofa with her back towards him. Her long, black, hair cut off at the base of her neck by the back of the sofa. It was clear that she hadn't heard him. Zale smirked and crept over to the couch.

It was the perfect time to surprise her.

Walking on tiptoes he approached the sofa from the left side. Turning the corner she had fully come into view.

She wore the same outfit from earlier minus the aviators. Her arms were on either side of her person. Palms facing up her thin arms were quietly laying by her side. A bright green colored rubber band tourniquet hung loosely off her left arm. Barely past the crook of her elbow was a syringe. The plunger had been pushed all the way down.

The needle was still in her skin.

On the old, dented, and stained wood table was another tourniquet. It was a bright yellow color. Next to the tourniquet was another syringe. Empty. There was an old, burnt and bent, spoon on the other side of the syringe. Also empty. A lighter and a couple cotton balls also lay on the tabletop.

The small plastic bag also lay on the table.

Most of its contents remained.

Zale’s eyes rapidly darted from each item he saw, to the next, and back again. His mind couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It just made no sense. In a daze, unaware that he was even moving, he rushed to her side. His knees slammed into the floor and he ignored the pain. His bottom lip quivered in fear.

With shaking hands he carefully pulled the needle from her skin.

He tried to call her name but the sounds remained in his throat.

The pulse of her veins was getting slower with each passing second. Slow and progressively more faint. Deep black broke through the bright orange every few beats. Her breathing was shallow and rapid. It seemed like there was something blocking the air from filling her lungs. Every couple seconds she would choke on nothing. The edges of her lips were turning pale. And a blank thousand yard stare glossed over her eyes.

"No, no, no," he repeated; anguish heavy in his voice.

"C'mon, c'mon stay with me, B. You were right. You knew and I... Fuck. I'm so sorry."

She pressed a finger to his lips and shook her head. The message was clear. Nothing he could say would change anything. There was no point wasting what time they had left on apologies.

"Babe," her voice a choked whisper, "can you sing something for me?"

He nodded as the tears ran down his cheeks. Clutching her hand in his own, a hand against her back holding on, he could feel the heat leave her body. A whirlwind of emotions ran through his mind as he started to sing. It was quiet and shaky. Completely off tune. He didn't even know if he sang any actual words.

But none of that mattered.

She wanted to hear his voice and so she did.

Lifting his head he took a deep, shaky, breath. Only then did he notice that the gray tabby had sat next to Bonsai. He had been purring quietly.

"Don't go, B. Please."

But she was already gone.

Panicked, afraid, and in pure disbelief he grabbed her shoulders. Shaking her lightly he called her name again and again. She didn't respond. Her head jerked back each time he moved her. Her entire body was limp, although still warm, and didn't put up a fight. Couldn't. Her eyes were dull. Veins now entirely black. Running his hands along her neck he cupped her face in his hands; thumbing her cheek.

He sat there, sobbing, until there were no more tears to shed. The grief poured out of his mouth until his throat was raw.

Why? Why? Why? the question repeated with the rapid, fearful, pulse in his veins.

Kylnn.

Shoving his hand into his jeans he aggressively searched for his phone. Pressing the button on the back brought the dark screen to life. The black void was immediately replaced with a picture of the two of them. He quickly tapped out the code on the screen.

But his nerves got the better of him and the screen informed him that he messed up. Shaking his head he bit his bottom lip and tried again. And again. And again. The screen stayed on the picture, the digital clock changing, as if to taunt him.

He screamed and tightly grasped the phone in his hand.

Mayor Whiskers walked over to where Zale stood. He let out a quiet meow to get the young man's attention. Rubbing his head against his leg Mayor Whiskers started to purr again. The sound was usually low and comforting, but, not this time. In the dead quiet apartment every minor sound, that typically wasn't easily distinguished from the rest, was now obvious. The loud mechanical hum of the fridge. A dull, rattle-like, sound emanated from the air vents. The creaking sounds from the neighbors' walking around their apartments. Even the cat's purr was loud.

The overwhelming sounds pulled him back into the moment. He took a breath and tapped the screen one more time. The picture disappeared. It gave way to the slew of apps that covered an image of gray squares varying in size and shade. Ignoring every other app in view his thumb moved to the dark, blue-green colored, phone icon. Pressing the square brought up his most recent calls.

Without a second thought he pressed the first number in the list.

Putting the phone to his ear Zale found himself hoping that the call went unanswered. But his hopes were dashed as the phone abruptly stopped ringing.

"What did you do?"

"Huh?" the voice responded.

"What the fuck did you do, Kylnn?!"

"Look man I don't know what this--"

Zale cut him off; "She's dead. So, I'm gonna ask again and you're gonna give me an answer. What. Did. You. Do?"

The sudden change in tone was shocking. Violent threats, subtly hinted at through his words, went unspoken.

“Alright, alright, ya got me. I put a lil’ somethin’ extra in it.”

Kylnn paused on the other end as if he was choosing his words carefully.

“Thought you two woulda got hooked on the combo. That’s it. Scout’s honor.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Zale could practically see Kylnn shrug. He could, very clearly, see Kylnn lounging in whatever hovel he currently called home. The man was most likely sitting on a dirty and ratty couch counting his earnings. His phone would be held in place by his shoulder. Even in his own base of operations Kylnn always had his cronies around for protection. He knew that one of the many girls and boys Kylnn kept would be there too.

"I was gonna marry her."

“Well, look, I gotta go. Same time next week?”

Kylnn hung up before Zale could respond let alone tell him off.

He quietly sunk to his knees; no energy to scream nor tears left to shed.

The shock overtook him again and he mindlessly scrolled through his messages. Quickly finding what he needed he typed out what he could. He didn’t look it over. He didn’t care. He clicked send and let the phone fall from his hand as his body melted into the floor.

Barely a minute passed before the replies came in. His phone loudly buzzed as it vibrated on the floor. At first it was a few short notification buzzes. Then it turned into longer, drawn-out, vibrations. Calls began to flood in.

He didn’t look.

He didn’t pick the phone up.

He didn’t move even when his front door slammed open.

Zale stayed in that spot, frozen in place, until his band-mates, his friends, pulled him to his feet. Someone wrapped a blanket around him. Someone else was pacing the floor; loudly yelling into a phone. Zale vaguely took in what was going on around him. Even as he did everything began to blur and blend together. He swore she was fine. He knew that she hadn’t shot up without him.

“She wouldn’t leave me,” he said. “Not on purpose.”

“’Course not,” Zephyr said.

“It’s my fault,” he continued; ignoring what Zephyr had said. He stared out at nothing and pulled at his hair. “It’s all my fault.”

They tried to talk him out of saying that kind of thing. It wasn’t true and they knew that. Emery interrupted at one point to tell the others that the police were on their way. Running a hand through his hair he looked around the room and whispered.

“Bro? Wanna go out into the hall? Cops are gonna be here--”

Zale cut him off with his ramblings; “She didn’t want to. I said it’d be fine. Same guy as always. She didn’t want to and bought it anyway.”

“It’s not your fault,” Dexterity said as they put a hand on his shoulder and quietly guided him out.

“I bought it! I left her alone! I was gone for five minutes all because I had to buy her some dumb fucking mini cactus! I bought her a cactus and now she’s dead. It’s my fault!”

Dexterity didn’t respond and continued to guide Zale out into the hallway. Their hand continuing to rub his back. Looking back to the others they saw Zephyr and Emery standing in the middle of the living room. Both of them were looking around for things they thought Zale might need. After they grabbed a few things, water and snacks, they followed Dexterity into the hall.

Mayor Whiskers followed the group closely behind.

The three of them stayed by Zale’s side until the police arrived.

#my writing #oc story blah #idk what else to tag this as #tw swearing #tw drug use #tw death #ageekwrites #zale young #bonsai warner

[shitpostingfromthebarricade]

The People want a masterpost of fics you enjoyed!!

Okay, I’m trying this again, because yesterday my computer shut down just as I was about to post this and I needed some time to recover.

Most of the fics I enjoy fall into one of four categories: it made me laugh a lot, it made me feel empty inside, it made me think (it might be the writing style, the concept, or the formatting style they used), or Iconic.  I did have to add a fluff category for all three of those that I apparently had bookmarked.

The order here is meaningless, I just went down my bookmarks tab on AO3.  A lot of these authors also have other really excellent works, so I highly recommend exploring their other works!

If your work or username are not here, that doesn’t mean I don’t like it or think you’re a good author!  As I said, I just took these from my bookmarks–I literally have some of my favorite authors listed at the bottom whose works I have never bookmarked.  Similarly, we just have a lot of good authors in this fandom, and I forget many of them.  

I laughed:

Press One for Revolution by LoveKhaleesi (@arcoiriseglitter) & Zimriya (@zimriya)

ExR texting fic.  It had me in tears.  

Note: discontinued, but near enough to closure that it’s still worth the read.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot by TellThemStories (@tell-themstories)

ExR assassin AU fic, Grantaire’s perspective.  R is an assassin, Enjolras is his target.  It doesn’t quite work out the way he planned.

We’re All Stories, In The End by TheGlitterati (@kyrstin)

ExR crackfic, Jehan’s perspective (Enjolras’s perspective for a scene at the end)

Les Amours de Marius by Elenchus (@aporeticelenchus​)

Marisette crackfic (kind of fake dating, but not how you’re thinking of it), Marius’s perspective.  Marius recruits Bahorel and Grantaire (or rather, they recruit themselves) to make Marius’s grandfather more amenable to his engagement to Cosette.  

#Roommate Chronicles by IAmSlytherlocked & ImpulseRun

Marius & Courfeyrac friendship tumblr fic, Courfeyrac’s perspective.  Courfeyrac catalogs his roommate’s misadventures and the art of Pontmercying.

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner by sigh_no_more (@babesatthebarricade)

ExR holiday fic, Enjolras’s perspective.  Cosette has asked him to attend their asshole bio-dad’s Thanksgiving dinner, but one Craigslist ad makes Enjolras slightly less begrudging in his attending.

Texting ‘Verse by Ladililn (@ladililn)

ExR texting fic.  Joly sends a text to the wrong chat.

How I Seduced Enjolras by Gwynplaine

ExR crackfic, Grantaire’s perspective.  My Immortal’s younger, smart Les Mis brother.

Note: this fic is rated explicit and contains explicit content throughout.  It is essential to the plot.  

I cried:

Just accept that all of these have a trigger warning attached, either for total whiplash or possible death/suicidal ideation.

Stereoscopic by TellThemStories (@tell-themstories​)

ExR?, Enjolras’s perspective.  Enjolras is working overseas for a year with only one-way video messages from his friends as communication.  He has a gradual revelation about his feelings for a certain cynic.

Orpheus, Play Yourself a Path From Hades by Sovin (@sovinly​)

ExR, Grantaire’s perspective.  Grantaire’s cancer returns, and he doesn’t tell anyone.  No dialogue.

If You Ever Come Back by MissAndrogyny (@missandrogyny​)

ExR break-up/make-up fic, alternating perspectives from work to work.

World War II AU by LoveKhaleesi (@arcoiriseglitter​)

ExR WWII AU fic, Enjolras’s perspective.  Enjolras and Eponine are harboring a Jewish fugitive.

The only fic I will ever accept the fix-it ending for.

Situational Irony by Ryssabeth

ExR fic, mostly Enjolras’s perspective (I’m not a masochist, I’m not rereading this on a lovely Sunday morning to check).  Coping with Grantaire’s death.

Barricade Dawn by Opium_du_Peuple (@just-french-me-up)

Jehanparnasse fic, Jehan’s perspective.  Jehan is trying to write a good-bye letter to Montparnasse in case he doesn’t return from the barricade.

Note: this has an explicit content rating.  The explicit content is most of the middle and nonessential to the plot, you can read just the beginning and the end.

I think this is also the only canon period fic.  Whatever that’s worth.

Life is Only Moments by Raeldaza (@raeldaza)

ExR fic, Enjolras’s perspective.  Enjolras reflects over the years of his and Grantaire’s friendship.

This has a fix-it ending, and that’s all well and good, but I prefer the suffering.

Serenata by IbbyLiv

ExR post-breakup fic, Enjolras’s perspective.  Enjolras writes notes to Grantaire after he leaves.

Apparently this is basically just a song with some different words swapped in and out.  I can’t say I care about anything but the emotions that bubble forth when i read it.

Cheers, Darlin’ by onemillionbranches

ExT post-breakup fic, Grantaire’s perspective.  Enjolras is getting married, and Grantaire helps.

It moved me, Bob:

I’m also including what about each one really made me think, because of the nature of this category.

Beautiful Things Have Dents and Scratches Too by A_New_World_To_Be_Won

ExR feelings fic, alternating perspectives.  Definitely makes you feel sad, but it has resolution.

I love how raw the writing style is and how directly it translates into pure emotion.

Tin Can by ejr

ExR relationship progression fic, alternating perspectives.  

This prose style intrigues me, and I really enjoy it and its application.

You Never Have to Wonder; You Never Have to Ask by GamesForMay

ExR fic, Grantaire’s perspective.  18 months after a major protest, Grantaire returns to Paris for Cosette and Marius’s wedding.

The!  Motifs!  Are!  So!  Good!  The way Enjolras is shaped and Grantaire’s decision is set before them…and I love the moment all of  this revolves around that happened 18 months ago.  It’s just a gorgeous piece.

Golden by the_sky_is_forever (@theskyis-forever)

ExR post-breakup fic, alternating perspective.  Enjolras goes to Grantaire’s first art gallery since he left the artist.

Okay, so this is also a sad fic.  But!!  I value the artistry of the writing and love how they were able to pull and shape the emotions with the way they handled their words and sentences and phrasing.

Primary Relations - A Politician’s Journey rev 2-1.avi by Samyazaz (@samyazaz)

ExR documentary fic.  Enjolras is running for president, and Grantaire is documenting it.

The prose is so interesting and inspired a yet-unpublished fic I’ve been working on!  It can be difficult to write from this perspective, and I think they handled it really well.

Have & Hold by arriviste (@arrivisting)

ExR fake-marriage fic.  Enjolras wants to make a political point about gay marriage and meets less resistance than he expected.

This is probably the only fake marriage fic I will ever love and appreciate because the author did such a great job representing the unhealthy feelings involved when you go from zero feelings to being married.

Dismantling Oppressive Establishments, Teamwork, And Other Things Your Coach Never Taught You by AnnaBolena (@annabrolena)

ExR mixed media fic, alternating perspectives.  

Usually stories that get told half through dialogue and half through articles drive me nuts with their incongruence and messiness with image formatting, but this author did a phenomenal job with the article styles and telling the story and keeping me interested without bogging the whole thing down with extra formatting. 

If There’s No One Beside You (When Your Soul Embarks) by ToBeFerre

ExR reincarnation fic, Grantaire’s perspective.  Everyone is back except Enjolras, and Grantaire is trying to keep the club running until Enjolras’s return.

I just really love the concept of the anxiety they carry and the ways they’ve changed since the first time around.

Felled By You, Held By You by EyeOfAHurricane (@eyeofahurricaneart)

ExR progression fic, alternating perspective.  Grantaire falls in and out of love with Enjolras.

The concept of love and affections being ephemeral things, the way that love moves more quickly for some than others, and the seasonal symbols made me start thinking and inspired another yet-incomplete fic.

Iconic:

The World Ain’t Ready by IdiopathicSmile (@idiopath-fic-smile)

ExR fake-dating fic, Grantaire’s perspective.  I’m not providing a description because this is required reading for anyone in the Les Mis fandom.  Just read it if you haven’t yet.

Friday I’m in Love by The Librarina (tears_of_nienna) (@thelibrarina)

ExR fake-dating fic, Enjolras’s perspective.  Enjolras is going to his family’s summer residence for a week and needs a way to stick it to his parents.

Words Never Spoken by StrawberryBubbles

ExR soulmate AU, Enjolras’s perspective.  Your first words with your soulmate are supposed to appear when you turn 18, but Enjolras’s never do.

Your Heart on Your Skin by Zade (@racetrackthehiggins)

ExR soulmate AU, Grantaire’s perspective.  Flowers appear on your body that represent different qualities about you as you experience life experiences that bring them about.

The Season Underwater by andtheheir

ExR swimteam AU fic, Grantaire’s perspective.  Grantaire is put on the varsity swimteam for his junior year and really doesn’t want to let Enjolras down.

This fic is just really beautifully written and really started to make me think about my writing style and start experimenting with it more.

BE by ToTheWillOfThePeople (@kvothes)

ExR theater AU fic, Enjolras’s perspective.  Enjolras is roped into directing a production of Hamlet.

Arcadia Ballet!Verse by Darrenjolras

ExR ballet AU fic, Grantaire’s perspective.  Grantaire shot his mouth off at some gorgeous up and coming dancer, and now he has to choreograph an entire ballet.

Fluff:

In Love When You Wake Me Up by BethXP

ExR fic, Enjolras’s perspective.  Enjolras wakes up from his surgery high and in the presence of his two best friends and a third person.

These Are Some of my Favorite Things (The Post-It-Note!fic) by Zimriya (@zimriya)

ExR fic, Grantaire’s perspective.  Enjolras has been leaving post-it notes on things (Grantaire) with seemingly no logic behind it.

Foregone Conclusion by Raeldaza (@raeldaza)

ExR fic, Enjolras’s perspective.  Enjolras is receiving gifts from an “anonymous source” (but he’s pretty sure he knows from whom).

As I was doing these, I realized that there are some others authors whose works I love that I didn’t have one or two fics I could choose to put up but still wanted to include (and there are probably more that I’m forgetting):

Myrmidryad (@myrmidryad)

Lovely, thorough writing style.

Sunfreckle (@mysunfreckle)

Lots of lovely Jehanparnasse!  They and Opium_du_Peuple are my go-to’s for Jehanparnasse content.

SarahYYY (@sarah-yyy)

So many ExR short stories!  Definitely peruse all of her stuff (though be aware–it’s a bit like Russian roulette for the sad stuff; there’s one in there that I was even prepared for and am still recovering from).

Lady_Ragnell

Everything by her is Just.  Iconic.  So good.

Noelia_g

Also really good.  (Sorry, I lost my steam by the end of writing this monster, I really do enjoy her work.)

If anyone knows the tumblrs for any of the authors that I haven’t already tagged, please DM me so I can add them in!

#for some reason tumblr either deleted these tags or i never made tags for this #it was a long labor of love so i probably forgot #fic rec #fic recs #les mis fic recs #les mis #les amis #enjoltaire #mostly #fanfic recs