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choidaisy · 3 months

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where mingyu finds memories of his first girlfriend and decides to send her a message upon realizing she is nearby (part 1)

Part 2 here

words: 1,892 warnings: not many, just mingyu feeling nostalgic and regretful about past choices a/n: i think im a bit sad after writing this, i wish i could hug mingyu

Upon awakening at dawn, Mingyu felt an unexpected urge to revisit the past. The day promised to be busy with a looming show, but he decided to dedicate some time to organizing dusty relics that had rested for years in his closet.

As he pulled boxes from the dark hideaway, one of them caught his attention in a peculiar way. "I didn't even remember you were here," he chuckled, releasing a sigh of nostalgia. He sat on the floor, unraveling the treasures buried in layers of memories.

The lid of the box, when lifted, unleashed a specter from the past. Photographs, yellowed and blurred as if the previous decade had wrapped them in a nostalgic veil. Mingyu held one of them, observing with eyes that absorbed every detail. A smile, immortalized on paper, evoked long-dormant emotions.

Among the relics, a crumpled and aged letter captured his attention. The faded ink gave the words a melancholic tone, as if time itself had intertwined them with sadness. Unfolding it, Mingyu encountered handwritten messages, a distant voice echoing through the lines on paper.

Each item taken from the box told a story from ten years ago, a time when the world seemed simpler, and smiles came more easily. The room, once bathed in morning light, transformed into a theater of shadows and longing, where the silent echo of the past filled every corner.

Mingyu, sitting on the floor, embraced his memories as if holding a part of himself that had been left behind. The clock on the wall, like a silent witness, marked the present, but the open box cast a bridge to a persistent past.

Thus, he spent the morning immersed in the melancholy of recollections from a decade ago, a journey through time that left scars on the fabric of his soul, like indelible marks of a sad song echoing beyond the decades.

Mingyu's gaze lifted towards the ceiling as a specific photograph emerged from his memories. He closed his eyes, leaning against the wall. The image captured a moment of genuine laughter between him and Y/N, an instant immortalized where worries were forgotten in the face of her amusing words. A bittersweet smile illuminated his face, contrasting with the frozen joy in the photo.

Mingyu's mind traveled back in time, recalling how Y/N had the gift of eliciting laughter from him at every turn. Nostalgia enveloped him like a mist, and he found himself smiling in a different way than that depicted in that old picture.

"How must she be these days?" he questioned amidst the shadows of the past. He decided to explore the virtual world in the hope of finding traces of her life. He opened Instagram, typing her name in the search bar with a tentative expectation.

And there she was. Y/N's account, though not abundant in photos, revealed the path she had taken over the years. Mingyu scrolled through the images, witnessing fragments of a distant life. She had grown, distancing herself from the scene they once shared.

The photographs told silent stories of adventures and growth, of laughter that now echoed elsewhere. Mingyu, lost in the visual narrative, felt the distance that time had imposed between them. A sigh escaped, echoing in the quietness of the room as he absorbed the metamorphosis of the one who had once been the constant source of his joy.

He opened photo after photo, immersing himself in the visual narratives that composed Y/N's life. He read comment after comment, each word resonating like a melancholic melody that transported him to a time that no longer existed. "Damn, why am I doing this to myself?" he wondered, a storm of emotions churning within him. On impulse, he turned off his phone screen, trying to distance himself from those bittersweet memories.

He closed the virtual box that was her profile, and with a heavy sigh, he promised himself that it was time to close this chapter of the past. The day progressed slowly, each second feeling like an additional weight on his shoulders. Mingyu became entangled in the whirlwind of emotions, struggling to find a peace that seemed elusive.

When night settled and the show in Seoul finally came to an end, Mingyu remained backstage, the energy of the stage still pulsating in his veins. A persistent intuition whispered in his ear, urging him to reopen her profile. A mixture of curiosity and self-destruction led him to succumb to the silent call.

The screen lit up again, revealing Y/N's world in a way he couldn't avoid. The past resurfaced in digital colors, the photographs a window to a time he thought he had left behind. Mingyu found himself scrolling through the images, a roller coaster of emotions sweeping over him as the silent backstage of the show became the backdrop for a personal drama unfolding before the cold glow of the screen.

Y/N had posted a story, an update that hadn't existed before. Mingyu took a deep breath, feeling his heartbeat quicken as he embraced all the risks of being caught snooping on her social media. "What the fuck is this?" he exclaimed, the intensity of his voice echoing and surprising those around him.

"What's going on, Mingyu?" Wonwoo asked, showing surprise at the sudden reaction.

"Oh... sorry, guys," Mingyu stammered, distancing himself from the group still stunned by what he had just discovered.

Sitting on a bench, disbelief written on his face, Mingyu fixed his gaze on the phone. "Y/N, are you here? Were you watching our show?" he whispered to himself, as if uttering the words made the situation more tangible.

Without giving himself much time to think, Mingyu decided to respond to the story. "You here?" he added a shy emoji, a mix of surprise and anticipation that shone through the typed words.

The night stretched on, a tapestry of anticipation woven with threads of uncertainty. Mingyu, immersed in the anticipation of a response that felt surreal, watched the hours drag on. Before heading home, he joined the other band members, sharing a few glasses of beer in a ritual that would normally be synonymous with relaxation and laughter. However, his mind was elsewhere, more focused on his phone than the lively conversation permeating the table.

Even amid laughter and toasts, Mingyu was shrouded in a cloud of thoughts, lost in his own reflections. Tension hung over him as his eyes occasionally drifted to the device, eager for a notification that had yet to arrive.

It was then that Mingyu made an unusual decision. He was the first to say goodbye, breaking the tradition of staying until the end. The night continued for the others, but for him, the journey back home was marked by a heavy silence and an anticipation that stretched beyond the visible night horizon.

It was around six in the morning, and Mingyu was still tossing and turning in bed, desperately trying to fall asleep when a notification flashed on his phone. "Mingyu...?"

She had finally responded. Without thinking much, he initiated a voice call right there, in the Instagram direct messages chat.

"Oh... Mingyu. Is everything okay?" She answered with a cautious voice, a tone laden with surprise and concern.

"Hm, hey Y/N, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called, I just..."

"Did something happen?"

"I just... thought about you all day... I'm sorry." He scratched his head, words coming out in a thread, his voice choked with emotion, an echo of the restlessness consuming him.

"Are you drunk? Your voice sounds (pause) weird (pause) and it's like six in the morning..."

"No, I'm not drunk... I'm sorry, Y/N. I'll hang up, I shouldn't have done this." There was a tense pause, a contained sigh in his voice, echoing regret. The girl on the other end of the line sensed the vulnerability in every word, the complexity of what was unfolding in this unexpected conversation.

"No, Mingyu... Stay on the line, I'm just surprised... It's been so long since we last talked. I thought it might be an emergency or something."

"Yea, quite a while... Almost ten years?"

"Something like that... How are you? Did you have to wake up early today?"

"Oh... actually, I haven't been able to sleep yet..." A pause to take a deep breath. "And you, why are you up early?"

"I'm at the airport, heading back home..."

"Oh, so you didn't move back to Korea?" Sadness echoed in his voice as he verbalized the realization.

"No, just passing through..."

"Ah... I was really surprised when I saw you were watching my show."

"My niece is a big Seventeen fan," she explained.

"Daennie?" That's how he used to call little Shin Dae years ago. "God, she was a little kid... She's, like, twelve now?" The question arose gently, an attempt to map the years that had slipped away, even though distance had kept them apart.

"Yea" she laughed from the other side of the screen. "She's almost my height now."

"That's crazy..."

"Yea, time flew by... Mingyu, how did you find my Instagram?"

"Oh, about that... I stumbled upon a photo of us yesterday morning... I got curious about you and looked you up... Don't think I'm a stalker or anything."

She laughed on the other side of the screen, a gentle laugh hovering between nostalgia and the present.

"Y/N, I miss you, you have no idea how much..." he confessed. "You know, you'll always be my first girlfriend, my first love... I regret my decision so much."

"Mingyu, you didn't decide alone, it was the wisest choice. You know that."

"Honestly, I don't know if it was worth it."

"How not? You're living your biggest dream."

"But you're not here with me..." The last sentence slipped out like a sigh, heavy with a lament that echoed between the words, outlining a wound that time hadn't completely healed.

"Mingyu, don't do this." She heard him let out the sound of a sniffle. "Mingyu? Are you crying?"

"I'm sorry for saying these things, Y/N... I just wish I could go back in time and make different choices; I would have found a way to make both things work well."

"You would have regretted it, Mingyu. Look at how you're a star now."

"I regretted the same way."

"Mingyu, listen to me... We were very happy together, but our story happened at the wrong time. We were young, but we had an important choice. We did the right thing." She paused. "We grew up well."

"And will our story ever happen at the right time?"

"I don't have the answer to your question." Her response hung in the air, a sincere confession that floated between the uncertainty of the future and the certainty of the past. Silence became a delicate bridge between two hearts that, even at a distance, still shared an intertwined story.

"Y/N, I always thought I couldn't have you, that you're someone I should forget, but..." He was interrupted by the girl who spoke hastily.

"Mingyu, I need to hang up; I'm boarding now... we'll talk later."

"I wanted you to know that..." The call ended. "I still love you." Mingyu murmured to the silence of the phone, the words lingering in the void like an unspoken sigh, while the sound of farewell echoed in the distance between them.

Part 2 maybe? let me know :)

#svt fanfic #svt imagines #seventeen #svt #svt fluff #svt x reader #mingyu #kim mingyu #mingyu x reader #mingyu x y/n #mingyu x you #mingyu fluff #mingyu scenarios #mingyu fic #mingyu imagines

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tarotwithavi · 7 months

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Some random things your FS will say to you (poetic edition)

How to choose a pile?

Close your eyes and take a deep breath and ask the angels to show you the right pile for you and open your eyes. The first pile that catches your attention is the right pile for you.

Piles : 1-2-3

Masterlist

Paid services

Let's check their poetic rizz 🤪

Pile 1

"Every moment with you feels like a new chapter in our love story."

"You are the poetry my heart never knew it could write."

"In your eyes, I found my forever."

"I'll be your shelter in the storm, your anchor in the chaos."

"Even in a world of millions, my eyes are drawn to you alone."

"Your laughter is the music that fills my soul."

"I'd travel through time and space just to be with you."

"You are the missing piece that completes my puzzle of life."

"Every day with you is an adventure, and I wouldn't have it any other way."

"No matter where life takes us, my love for you will always be a constant."

"Your love is the canvas upon which I paint the masterpiece of my life. And my life is a masterpiece because of you"

"You are the serendipity I never knew I needed."

Pile 2

"In your presence, I find my peace and my passion all at once."

"With you, even ordinary moments become extraordinary memories."

"You are the star that guides me through the darkest nights."

"My love for you is like a fingerprint, unique and indelible."

"In a world of fleeting moments, you are my eternity."

"Like a compass points north, my heart always points to you."

"You're the reason I believe in love stories that last a lifetime."

"With every beat of my heart, I choose you, over and over again."

"You're not just my love; you're my favorite adventure."

"Your laughter is the melody that brightens my darkest days."

"In your eyes, I see a reflection of my best self."

"Loving you is as natural as breathing."

"You're not just a chapter in my life; you're the whole story."

Pile 3

"Your love is a garden, my heart the willing seed."

"In your eyes, I find constellations of dreams."

"Love is the ink, and you are the poetry written on the pages of my soul."

"Your love is the lighthouse that guides my ship through life's turbulent sea."

"In your embrace, I've found the warmth of a thousand suns."

"We are two souls entwined in the delicate dance of love's eternal waltz."

"You are the whispered secret of my heart, the answer to all its questions."

"Every word you speak is a verse in the sonnet of our love."

"In your smile, I see the reflection of a thousand beautiful tomorrows."

"With each sunrise, my love for you blooms like a radiant flower."

"Our love story is written in the stars, a celestial epic of two souls bound by destiny."

"You are the moonlight that guides me through my darkest nights."

"With you, every moment is a stanza in the epic poem of our love."

I made this a long time ago as you can see I don't dress my posts this way anymore lol.

Remember to Reblog lovelies 💗

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witchydykebitch · 1 month

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Thinking about how my love and adoration for butches started when I was just a little kid.

My mum had a lesbian colleague who I only ever met once but just meeting her had an indelible effect on me.

It was the early 2000s and I was off school for the summer break when I came downstairs to get something to eat, only to find the coolest person I had ever seen in my eight or so years.

She sat at our kitchen table, her arms covered in various tattoos, the swirls of ink climbing upwards to disappear underneath the t-shirt she wore. She had eyebrow and nostril piercings, gauges and spiky hair with frosted tips.

She was sipping coffee and chatting animatedly with my mum. Her laughter was pleasant and boisterous, the kind that just flooded the room with warmth.

On the table in front of her was a stack of DVD cases, she had stopped by to drop off a bunch of DVDs she'd burned for us, many of which were movies she thought I may like.

I stood in the doorway, just watching—as an undiagnosed autistic child I was not one to approach people, even if they were sitting at my kitchen table, bathed in sunlight.

She greeted me kindly when she turned to me, a bright smile on her face. I gave an awkward sort of wave, mumbled something in response and hurried back up to my bedroom having forgotten to grab a snack from the cupboard.

I was astounded, I had never seen anyone so beautiful and effortlessly cool before. I didn't know if I wanted to be her or grow up to marry her one day.

I didn't yet have the words to describe what I felt, to this very day I'm still unsure if the reverence I felt for this butch was due to my attraction to butches or simply the fact I had never seen masculinity displayed in such a comforting way.

But ever since, anytime I see a butch out in public I get that same warmth in my chest that I felt that summer day.

#I love butches with my whole heart #lesbian #butch #butch lesbian #sapphic #wlw

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heliiacus · 2 months

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reflections

tags: armin x reader, reader is an artist, reader uses she/her pronouns, takes place during the tent party in marley, mutual crushing, drunk confession

warnings: inebriation

words: 2.4k

★ Tucked into the corner of a drunken party, drawing a secret of your own, Armin finds you; more importantly, he finds a reflection of him on paper, crafted carefully by your hands, and you do not even try to resist his plea to let him see.

★ Or the one in which Armin has terrible alcohol metabolism, your heart comes this much closer to a stroke, and an intervention is required to resolve the mess that comes to.

He'd been so silent. Akin to a mouse. By the time she noticed him, quiet and solemn, towering over her shoulder, the drawing had been almost finished.

And he was staring at it. At her.

She didn't even have time to yelp in surprise. Her body froze when she saw him, his shadow spreading like ink over her journal, and an odd sort of shock coiled through her muscles as she looked back. Heat sinking into her cheeks, breath stuttering, she felt herself grasp at the leatherbind in her hands, so tightly it almost hurt.

Watching him now, staring back at him, she doesn't say anything. He stands there, one shoulder leaning his weight on the wooden frame of the tent, and she knows he can see her skin grow flushed.

In truth, she shouldn't have startled this much. She knows that. He always does this. He always finds her, no matter where she may hide.

Finally, voice deliberately slow and eyes cast down at her, he tells her: "I feel like I should apologise."

She opens her mouth. She thinks to say – what? To admonish him? She thinks to snap her journal shut, or to leave with an indignation. But there he stands still, watching her with that darling, repentant glint in his eye, and who is she to stay mad at him, or to grow upset with him in the first place? She simply sighs, waving her hand at him, waiting for him to sit beside.

"I'm sorry," he says, smile all sheep and no teeth, and she scoots over for him. "I noticed you were gone, and–"

"–And you went ahead to try and find me–"

"–And then I saw you here, drawing your heart away. I thought to call out, and, well.." His eyes cast down, lingering on the drawing laying helplessly in her lap. "I'm sorry." He looks back in her eyes, face earnest and shoulders tight. "I know how private you are about your drawings, I know I should have asked."

She can't help the sigh that leaves her. Looking at him, feeling him press against her shoulder so tentatively, she really can't be upset with him – even if she tried. "It's fine."

And he knows this. Of course he does. Armin grins at her, bordering on something someone else could call impish. "Am I forgiven?"

"Don't push your luck," she warns, and he laughs, loud and indelicate, and it sounds so delightful that she can't help but laugh with him, filled with an odd murmuration within her heart at how close he is sitting to her.

Then his eyes linger on the drawing again, and she can tell he tries to be subtle about it, or to resist it. She pushes the journal into his lap, his eyelashes fluttering with a soft panic. "You don't have to," he murmurs, his fingers curling delicately around the edge of the leather.

"It's okay," she tells him, just as gently. "You can look. You've already seen the most of it anyway."

And he does. This time, with a careful hold and a soft, with an amused smile curling at the edge of his lips, he looks at it unabashedly, eyes roving through the lines. "If I ask, will you tell me?" He asks, tone playful, outshined by the happy flush on his cheeks, and he chuckles when she sighs.

She thinks about lying. She wonders, for a moment, if it would be the best course of action. But he does not look back at her as she thinks to herself; instead, he looks ahead, at the journal in his hands, over and over, as if it were magical, or something he wanted – needed, desperately – to commit to memory. So instead, timidly, she admits: "You looked so happy. I couldn't let it pass by. I wanted to save it." And even as she says it, so awfully earnest and open, she thinks perhaps she should have kept her mouth shut. She feels breathless, almost vulnerable as she sees him close the journal shut at her words, as she watches him raise his eyes and look at her, eyes wide and simmering with something that she can't quite read. Then she watches, panicked, as his lips part, as he inhales, words ready on the precipice of his tongue, so instead she tells him: "You can look through the rest."

He blinks at her. Her words swim and sink into him, and then he is closer to her, so much closer, loud and exuberant. Clutching tightly at the journal, he asks her: "Really? I can see?"

Her heart skips a beat. Loathe as she may, it does; for a moment, he is so close she can smell the sweet wine on his breath. Watching the spark burst and sizzle in his gaze, she feels her panic die, dragging her hesitation with it. "Of course you can," she finds herself breathing out, watching, with a private, quiet satisfaction, as he pulls her journal open with that sheer, pulsating delight.

And he does. He does look. Fingers ghosting reverently over each page, she watches as his joy changes, morphing into a strange sort of awe that has his eyes transfixed on each stroke of her pencil. His hands follow the lines, some more delicate than others, but he never touches them, not once. She can see it in the way he holds the corners of each page; he is wary of them, of tarnishing them, as if his touch could somehow ruin them, despite the charcoal and graphite having been smudged by the years of wear already.

"You drew all of them," he breathes then, taking her back to the reality before her. "All of them. Ymir, Reiner, Berthold. Annie. Even Erwin." He flips another page, his chest rising heavily as he inhales, a quiet reverie passing between them as he flips and flips the pages, the reflections of their peers and their seniors, the dead and the living, staring back at him – at the both of them. "None of them knew, did they?"

"Annie caught me once," she admits, pulling her knees to her chest. "Made me show her. I think she liked it."

He chuckles. He doesn't look back at her, flipping through the pages slowly and attentively. She continues to watch him, too: feeling brazen, bold, as if she were taking something in return, a sort of penance for allowing him to have this. It stretches and stretches, this quiet exchange, until he pauses, swiftly and suddenly. It is an odd pause, a stretching one, and she knows what he sees. He doesn't say it, he hasn't once this whole time – but she knows.

"I remember this," he says eventually, lingering on the page. "Six years ago. In Trost."

She hums in response. As the man sits by her side, enveloped in the years of graphite she has put down into these pages, his reflection as a boy from six years back looks back at him, smiling wide and bright. This one, it used to be a favourite of hers. In a way, it still is.

She tries not to blush, or to begin explaining herself. She wonders if he will say it –– if he will ask her, finally, if he will wonder out loud why her journal is filled not just with their friends, but with him; him, and him, over and over again, hiding in every nook and cranny of the paper she had once felt too treasured to tarnish with her drawings. He had not said it yet, but there he is now, paused mid–journal and staring without a word.

She waits for it; she thinks she is ready for it. But he doesn't say a word. He turns to her, smiling kindly, softly, and instead of curiosity she sees a sadness in his eyes, deep–rooted and strange and almost sorrowful, and it is all that takes for her heart to flip upside down.

"What's wrong?" She asks, hand steady on his elbow, and he only blinks at her in return.

His gaze falls. He looks down, face growing even more somber, and looking at him like this, she almost grows desperate. She waits, hand unwavering on his arm, and eventually he tells her: "I look so much happier. In your drawings. I guess it's just.. Odd. An odd feeling, that is. A lot has changed."

She wishes she could erase it. Take the pain from his voice, spread white paint over it until it is gone, until it is sparkling clean and bright.

She knows she can't. She can't do that – neither would he allow it. So instead, she scoots closer, leaning her side into his. They sit in silence, and she feels a warmth undulate from him; one she tries to not think of, to ignore, until she feels his head lean on hers, heavy and weighted.

Her hand travels to the page he's on. It ghosts over her drawing, watching the boy memorialised in it with the man beside her.

"I think that can be said about the lot of us," she says quietly, and he sighs, his breath stuttering in his lungs. "All of us have gone through changes. I see it. Perhaps they don't, but they're all here. All versions of them." She traces her finger over his hair, a deep gray within the page. "Including you." For a moment, they are silent. Her hand on the page, his own at the edge of it, untouching. "Why'd you cut your hair?" She asks quietly, wondering out loud, suffocating from the feeling of him so close, so warm – his hand just out of her reach, tracing the edge of her journal.

For a time, he doesn't reply. He leans on her, and he is so heavy, so quiet, that she thinks he may have fallen asleep, driven to exhaustion by the excitement and the drinks.

Then he tells her, so softly, so weakly: "Don't laugh."

"Of course not."

He does not pull away when he tells her why. He stays leaning on her, hiding his face from her, his breath hitching quietly once in a while, as if he were short of breath. "I thought I could be more like him. Erwin. If I'd cut my hair, if I wore my uniform like he did, if I talked more like him. I think, I.. I think a part of me feels indebted in a way I can't really repay. So I've got to, you know.. Fill his shoes. Make up for it. Something."

"Armin," she begins softly, leaning away, looking to turn towards him, reach to him, and then she freezes, muscles tight as she sees the tears streaming down his cheek, the skin red and blotchy.

"I.. I don't know. It's stupid. Fuck." Did she hear that right? "I know. I know, that's not how it works." He brings his hands to his eyes, pressing deep, urging his eyes to stop.

She flusters. Pulling herself straight, she crawls to him, her hand closing around his wrist. "Armin–"

"It's so stupid," he interrupts her, and she sees it now – the dragging of his breath, the red sheen on his skin; he looks at her, eyes wide and glistening, tears never–ending.

"Armin, that's not.. How much have you had to drink? Armin," she calls, wiping at his tears, and he sniffles, and then he hiccups, honest to Rose. "Oh, Armin," she says, cooing desperately, pained at the sight of the boy in front of her.

Armin is drunk. Armin is drunk, and now he is clutching at her hand, and he is weeping into it, words incoherent and slurred through the tears and the alcohol that must be hitting him belatedly, over and over and over again.

And she thinks it will be that, she thinks it will fizzle out; his cries will soon ebb, and he'll tire himself out, and until then she will stay here, wiping his tears, letting him hold onto her hand as tightly as he needs – even if it's bruising.

But he has other plans. Of course, this is Armin; when are his plans orthodox?

He pulls at her, both hands in his grasp, and he is looking up at her now, eyes wide and pleading. "I didn't even thank you. I'm sorry. Your drawings are so pretty." She can't think. He is so close to her once more, and her heart is going rabid, wild at the sight of him like this. She can't even wipe his tears, not with both hands in his hold. "And you're so pretty," he cries more, small, pitiful wails shaking his entire frame.

"What?" She squeaks out, embarrassed and out of her wits, and it takes all of her self–restraint to not scream bloody murder when a crack echoes through the tent, the cloth dividing them from the rest pulled open.

"What the bloody walls is going on here?" Eren asks, laughter bubbling out of him.

In mere seconds Mikasa is towering over the both of them, eyes cast in a glare that makes her whole skin crawl with a panic, and before she can even open her mouth to say a single word, she feels Armin tug at her tighter, crying out the woman's name.

"Mikasa," he sobs, cheeks glistening and tongue stumbling over itself. "Mikasa, she's so nice to me. Did you know? She's.." she watches as Mikasa sighs, kneeling to try and peel Armin’s desperate hands from her. The man sniffles in return, refusing to let go. "She's so pretty!" He cries out.

Mikasa curses, putting effort into prying his hands off, and Eren laughs and laughs, scarlet in the cheeks. "You had to get piss drunk to finally tell her that?" He bursts out, bending down in hysterics.

"Armin, I swear.. I didn't raise you to be like this," Mikasa says, hauling the crying boy over her shoulder with an impressive force. Then the woman turns to her, cheeks red not in amusement but in embarrassment. "I'm so sorry," she says, looking over her with care.

"No! It's fine," she replies, standing quickly. "I mean– Mikasa, I think you really need to put him down. Like, right now. Immediately. Mika–"

"Ohhh," comes a thin wail. "I'm going to be.. I'm gonna be sick."

"Mikasa–"

"Oh, walls."

#armin arlert #armin fanfiction #armin x reader #armin x you #armin fluff #armin aot #attack on titan x reader #aot headcanons #attack on titan x you #aot x reader #aot fanfiction #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #eren jaeger #armin arlert x reader #armin arlert x you #mikasa ackerman #fanfiction #my writing

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heich0e · 10 months

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tags: pls look away, inspired by this art by @/iinoruu, yakuza!suna/escort!reader series masterlist

The first thing you recognize as you stir from the loosening grip of slumber is that your body hurts.

An ache, tender and warm, has rooted itself deep in your muscles. Your back. Your thighs. Your hips. Just rolling over under the soft cotton sheets exacerbates the pain, makes it throb a little hotter underneath your skin.

The second thing you recognize is the familiar smell of smoke.

"You should quit, y'know."

At the window of the hotel room, Suna stands. He's half-dressed now, silhouetted by the breaking day beyond the pane of glass beside him, his trousers on but his button-up still unbuttoned—it leaves just the faintest curl of the ink that spans his arm and his back on display, a sliver of black swirling next to the divot of his collarbone, as well as the design that spans the column of his throat. He looks at you with the burning cigarette still held to his lips, and you watch as the cherry flares brighter on his inhale.

You're not supposed to smoke here. Not in a hotel this nice. But you doubt anyone will be complaining to him, or will even say anything at all, given his particular influence and his reputation in his line of work.

"I should?" he replies in his usual low tone. The corner of his mouth is ever so slightly turned up, and a wisp of smoke rushes out along with his question.

He pauses for a moment, and then stamps the mostly-unfinished cigarette out in the ashtray on the table in front of him—where it came from in a room you're not supposed to smoke in to begin with, you can't be completely sure.

You push yourself up in bed, wincing at the pain such a simple movement causes. You rub at your eyes a little, still bleary from sleep. "It's bad for you."

Suna hums.

"I didn't realize you cared."

You bite your tongue from letting a comment slip out that could get you into trouble. Instead, you flop back down into the embrace of soft cotton and feathers that the plush hotel bed provides.

"Do what you want, then," you say quietly.

He's good at that, after all.

"What I want?" you hear him ask, and let your head loll to the side against the pillows just in time to see him approach the bed. His movements are slow, unhurried—like a predator as it stalks in the night.

You don't offer him any substantial reply, just a breathy, affirmative sound.

You're lucky to have this job. Lucky to be the one that Suna Rintarou calls for so often. Of all the girls that work at the club, you seem to be the only one that's caught his eye as of late. You know that if you do something to mess that up it might cost you more than just the thick stack of crisp bills you leave the hotel with a few times a week.

You've never been the most successful girl at the club, nor the least. Your performance and popularity has always been relatively middling, comparatively unremarkable. You're not bad at the job by any means, you know what to say and do, the line you have to walk, the fantasy you have to satisfy when duty calls.

Lately that line has proven harder to toe with him.

Suna kneels at the edge of the wide mattress, leaning across the bed towards you. His shirt falls open as he angles his body nearer to your own, revealing more of the tattoo that's etched into his skin. It's always a stark, indelible reminder of just who and what he is.

"It's pretty bold of you to assume to know the things I want," he murmurs, holding himself over you on one of his arms. His other reaches down to the top of the sheet that covers you, peeling it gently away to reveal your skin.

On instinct, you grab for it, rushing to cover yourself. You realize quickly it's not your place to hide yourself from him, that it's not what he pays you for, and you let your grip on the sheet slacken, looking away as a shameful heat crawls up your throat.

He doesn't try to pull the blanket away again.

"You woke up too early," he says quietly, still hovering over you. "You should sleep, you're still sore."

You watch as his eyes trace your face in the dim light of the hotel room.

"Are you leaving?" you ask.

That same little smile appears, lifting the edge of his lips ever so slightly. This expression always confuses you, though he makes it often. There's no real joy behind it, it's a drier, almost sardonic twist of his mouth, like he knows something you don't.

"Work," he says, though he owes you of all people no explanation. "I'll leave the cash on the table by the door as usual, I won't short you for any of your time."

You nod slightly. You hadn't been thinking about payment at all.

The corner of Suna's nose twitches. It's a movement so slight that if you weren't so terribly close you might not notice it at all. There's something behind his perpetually heavy-lidded eyes that makes you nervous.

His hand, the one that had just reached for the blanket, comes up to cup your cheek. You can still detect the scent of tobacco that clings to his skin, and you've never liked the smell but for some reason you don't mind it so much anymore. He dips down, your cheek cradled in his palm, and slots his mouth against yours.

His kiss isn't innocent—no one kisses a whore chastely—but there's something about the way he's holding you that feels different. Something in the gesture that's wholly and completely him.

He pulls away, and his warm breath fans across your mouth and catches in the slickness of your lips. Your eyes flutter open to look up at him.

Something aches in your chest, different from the way the rest of your body has been left tender but no less his fault.

Maybe Suna isn't the only one with habits that are bad for him, after all.

#suna x reader #suna rintarou x reader #hq drabble #hq writing #writing

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s-lfo · 2 years

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Dispo Canap 2022 technique mixte sur papier A4 250g . . . #abstractart #automaticdrawing #abstractfigurative #contemporaryart #modernart #design #graphicdesign #graffiti #postgraffiti #instart #ink #artist #artistsoninstagram #draw #drawer #drawingart #drawing #drawinglab #indelible #ignorantstyle #naiveart #art #artlife #artwork https://www.instagram.com/p/Cf_u9IbIL5N/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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callsign-rogueone · 3 months

Text

by your side - b.d.

Bodhi Durran x girlfriend!reader Your friends suggest that your recent bouts of nausea might be something more, and it sends you into a spiral, but Bodhi is there for you, as always. [requested] wc: 1.1k 🏷: no spoilers this time? set toward the beginning of Iron Flame (his third year and yours). descriptions of vomit / nausea, anxiety, one (1) reference to sex. healthy established relationship between reader and Bodhi :) writing this one was fun because I know exactly how it feels (it sucks lmao)

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Imogen says rather indelicately, patting your back as you heave into the grass at afternoon formation for the third time in three days, “but is there any way you could be…”

You blink once, twice, realizing what she’s implying, and the mere idea has your stomach turning again, but there’s nothing left in your system - you haven’t been able to keep food down for days.

“Imogen,” Sloane scolds from your other side, still holding your hair back from your face, “we agreed that now was not the time.”

You take measured sips from your waterskin, trying to rinse the acid from your throat, but the burning feeling doesn’t subside.

You look to Violet, who remains quiet as the grave.

“I agree that it’s a possibility,” she says carefully. “But either way, we’re here for you, and I know he will be too.”

Oh, gods. You hadn’t even considered having this conversation with Bodhi yet. What would you even say to him? Hey, I know we’re in military school and doing this whole double-agent-arms-dealing thing on the weekends and there’s a very real chance that neither of us will make it to next month, but I think I'm pregnant with your child?

The women you’ve come to regard as younger sisters can sense that you’re spiraling.

“He’s a good man,” Sloane says, rare praise from her, “and he loves you. You’ll find a way to get through this together, whatever it is.”

You’re too drained to argue, but that doesn’t stop the swirl of thoughts in your head.

You, Bodhi, and a child.

Maybe in another life, where the both of you hadn’t been conscripted to Basgiath, and you weren’t in mortal danger all the time… but even then, you’re barely adults yourselves, and your parents won’t be able to help you from the grave. You’d be doing this entirely on your own.

You shake the feeling off. Today is a Saturday, one that you have free. You’ve completed your assignments already. You’ll try to sleep this off, you decide, and if that still doesn’t kick it, you’ll see a healer.

Sleep comes easily with how exhausted you are, but it does not show you mercy.

Muscled arms cradle a bundle of blankets. You recognize the swirling pattern of Bodhi’s relic easily, having spent many nights tracing the black ink with your fingertips as you lay beside him in the afterglow.

There’s a soft sound of discomfort from the baby. “Shh, darling,” he soothes, rocking them gently. “We don’t want to wake your mama.”

A hand rests on his shoulder; Xaden’s. “She looks just like you,” he says quietly, a soft smile on his face.

A tiny hand peeks from the blanket, stretching to grasp Bodhi’s finger, which now bears a silver wedding ring.

You shake yourself awake, heart pounding as you move to sit up.

There’s a knock at your door. “It’s me.” Bodhi.

“Come in,” you reply weakly, and you hear the lock click — the day you had moved in, Xaden helped you ward it so that only you and Bodhi could open the door, doing the same for Bodhi’s room down the hall.

“Vi said you weren’t feeling good, so I brought you dinner,” he says gently, sitting on the side of your bed and touching a hand to your cheeks. “No fever,” he observes, kissing your forehead, and continuing to check you over for injury.

You’re going to cry. “Bo,” you say quietly, “I need to talk to you.”

“Anything, darling.” He says, ready to listen, and your heart twists hearing the same petname he’d called your daughter.

“I don’t know if it was a vision or just a dream, but…” you swallow, the words getting stuck in your throat.

Bodhi stills beside you, fearing the worst.

Your signet gives you clouded images of the future, but they usually aren’t happy sights. You’ve come to talk to him about your visions in the middle of the night many times, as distressed as you are now.

“What did you see?” He asks gently, taking your hands in his.

“You, holding a baby girl. Xaden was there, too, but I woke up before I could see anything else.”

He doesn’t follow.

“I’ve been throwing up for days, and I think… I think I might be pregnant,” you whisper, eyes brimming with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, darling, don’t apologize.“ He pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “I love you, and I will be by your side every step of the way in either case.”

His words of reassurance are the last straw, and you finally start to cry, your tears dampening his collar.

“I’m going to stay right here, for as long as you want me to, and then we can go see the healers, together.”

You nod against his shoulder, too exhausted to respond.

Every step of the way.

He holds your hand all the way across the bridge to the other side of the college, only letting go when a kind older woman in pale blue healer’s robes comes to take you into an exam room.

You stay quiet as she takes your pulse, listens to your heart, and goes through the motions of a physical.

“You appear to be reacting to something you’ve been eating or drinking.” She diagnoses, handing you a small paper bag with medicine to take. “This should help.”

“So I’m not…,” you trail off, and she knows exactly what you mean. She’d seen how terrified you were walking in here, hand in hand with your boyfriend, and instantly realized what you were concerned about.

“Not with child,” she confirms with a knowing smile, and a weight is lifted from your shoulders. Thank Zhinal.

Bodhi is still waiting outside. He stands as soon as he sees you, ready to draw you into a warm embrace.

“It was those damn berries,” you say, shaking your head, and he laughs, no doubt feeling the same relief as you. The rich sound soothes every nerve in your body.

He tugs you closer, wrapping you in his arms. The paper bag crinkles between you. “The moment we graduate, I’m marrying you.”

“What?” You ask, stunned.

He pulls back so he can look you in the eye.

“I thought about it while you were with the healer,” he says, as if it’s that simple, “and I decided that I want to be there for you for the rest of my life. Through all the visions, good and bad.”

You smile up at him, pure happiness flowing through you. “I love you, Bodhi Durran.”

“I love you more, darling,” he says, tucking the bag into a pocket of his flight jacket and taking your hand. “Now, I snuck you an extra piece of cake from dinner, and if you aren’t going to eat it, I will.”

You burst into laughter. Yeah, you decide. This is the man you want by your side forever.

#bodhi durran #bodhi durran x reader #fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing reader insert #fourth wing x reader #mine

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