i just kick them in the rib

anonymous asked:

Hey, hey! Shy anon here. Would you like to share your Klance headcanons, please?

heuheuhehuehueheu don’t mind if i do

  • Lance loves Keith’s hair
    • listen. you do not constantly comment on the feature of someone else unless you are coveting it or jealous of it or love it in some way
    • lance: god your hair is stupid
      keith: then why are you running your hands through it right now
    • in all honesty, Lance loves to play w Keith’s hair???? he will braid it then run his fingers through it til it untangles then braid it again or just play with it and Keith will doze off with his head in Lance’s lap
  • they get in fights
    • a lot
    • and it’s normal and it’s okay because, in every way, opposites attract, and Lance is scared of Keith’s impulsiveness and is worried it’s gonna get Keith hurt, and Keith doesn’t understand why Lance keeps putting himself down every time someone tries to compliment him and it’s this cycle where they both eventually start to realize that maybe they have to concede their stubbornness and listen to make this work
    •  usually it ends with one of them kissing the other quiet mid-fight and gripping their cheeks and whispering “I love you, you know that?” 
  • Lance sings them to sleep when they spend the night together in one of their rooms
    • it starts off as playful, joking, annoy-the-shit-outta-Keith sing-song, until Lance starts to sing one of his favorite songs from back home and he finds he can’t make it a joke anymore because there’s this hole in his heart and it hurts so much that he has to stop because he can’t breathe anymore
    • Keith just rests his hand over Lance’s heart and whispers soft reassurances until he calms down again
    • and a little later, when Keith asks Lance to sing again for him, Lance can do it without crying this time, and it becomes their nighttime ritual, Lance humming and singing soft lyrics as they stare up at the dark ceiling that they both know will never feel like home
  • Keith likes making out
    • very much
    • to the point where their lips are numb and they can’t feel their jaws and both of them are panting and kind of pawing at each other’s faces and pushing into one another but they’re really having trouble breathing now, but they still can’t stop 
  • sometimes the two of them will just go hang out inside of Blue because Lance loves his girl and Keith loves watching Lance talk to her and get excited when buttons light up after Lance asks a question, because the way the two of them interact is so sweet, bordering on endearing, and what makes Lance happy makes Keith happy too
  • whenever Keith and Lance are stargazing out of one of the many floor-to-ceiling windows throughout the castle, Keith will always point out a blue star and say “Look. Just like your eyes.”
  • those bone-shaking, armor-clacking, rib-crushing hugs after near death battles? yeah. lots of those.
  • spooning that turns into annoyed kicks because Keith hates getting too hot and “fuck off, Lance, you’re sweaty” and “c’mooooon, you love it” and “oh my god, I will put you on the floor” 
  • Keith is a cat person so when they go to a planet and the aliens who needed help are literal cat-people with toe beans and floofy ears, he’s in near tears the entire time and he’s like “hi sorry, I just-sorry, can I-sorry-can I touch ur toe beans” and the cat-person is like “whom” and Keith is like “PLZ CAN I HOLD UR HAND” and the cat-person is shook bc a Paladin of Voltron wants to Hold Their Hand so of course they say yes and Keith nearly passes out bc he is touchin the toe beans
    • also, turns out that as much as Keith loves cats, he’s fuckin allergic to them (and he already knew this so rly he’s just a masochist) and starts uncontrollably sneezing for the entirety of the mission, but despite it all, he is still smiling and sniffling and just so Happy that he met real live cat people who let him touch the toe beans
  • sometimes when Keith gets really upset over something that’s happened or a battle that almost went horribly wrong, Lance will just hook his pinky finger around Keith’s and it’s like this thing that grounds Keith and helps him focus and close his eyes and breathe, because he knows Lance is there and that they’re gonna be okay
    • Keith never really knows how to vocalize his thanks to Lance for these moments, so he just lets it speak through his actions, like when they’re all heading to bed for the night and Keith stops Lance just to press their foreheads together for a moment before kissing Lance gently on the lips

Harry X Reader: Smut

In which Harry loves your boobs and hates when you sleep.

Request? Yes:

Omg please write something about harry and his missus boobs I’m dying for it

Harry has been in a mood since the moment he woke up, hands roaming your body under the sheets, cupping the underneath of your breasts, lips sponging over the back of your neck. He woke you up with his feely touches, much to your annoyance.

“Harry, leave me alone,” you mumbled, rolling away from him. The two of you were out late last night and had a long day ahead of you. You needed all the shut eye you could get.

“Jus’ wan’ some cuddles, love,” he complained with a tired whine, fingers snaking over your hip in an effort to pull you back to him.

“No, you don’t. Let me sleep.” You had to shove his hands away twice more before he finally relented, climbing out of bed to get ready for the day. You were thankful for the peace, but no matter how hard you tried, there was no getting back to sleep.

Now, here you are, yawning through the doorway after a busy schedule of meetings and catch-ups, toeing off your shoes in the entryway. Your feet lead you to the couch where you collapse onto your back, eyes resting closed. A wave of relieved bliss washes over you until it’s broken once more.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

When I was 11 and training in martial arts (internationally​ competitive and consistently​ placed in every competition) I had to spar against an adult in clads for practice and did break their ribs with a well placed kick and because they'd forgotten their chest padding. So, just speaking from personal experience that a child could break an adults ribs, but I was a very highly trained kid who'd been in karate for several years at that point.

Well, that was the point of my response. The character in question had no training. You know as well as I do what someone with no martial arts training throwing a kick looks like. What chances would you give them in a managing to successfully perform the technique in a fight for their life? The odds are not in their favor.

Just from my experience teaching martial arts, the number of kids who could what you did at age eleven in a sparring match is tiny. Possibly by dumb luck. If you competed internationally then you were obviously in the top tier, and that puts you in a league far beyond what most kids are capable of. Most adults too, for that matter.

Consider though, the amount of time per day you spent training for your competitions in comparison to your classmates including those in whatever school you went to. In all the karate students in all the world, you were probably in the top percentile of a select group that ever makes it that far. I can list on one hand the number of martial artists I’ve known who went to international competitions. That’ll really skew your perspective.

And, of course, the chances of sparring injuries increase substantially when we forget our pads.

While we’re on the subject of injuries:

My brother almost lost his leg, for example, when he decided to throw a roundhouse kick at Starke when they first met. My brother was eighteen (and a fourth degree black belt, who should know better) and Starke had police self-defense training from a cop in Wyoming when he was a kid. The cop was a little on the crazier side and taught small children the standard joint breaks they were teaching at the time to regular officers. One of them was the defense against the roundhouse kick, which includes a knee break. My brother came very close to walking with a limp for the rest of his life. Instead, he went on to become a boxing national champion in the welterweight division.

Those of you who’ve heard about my brother before might remember the time he almost lost an eye when our instructors were dumb enough to let two young black belts spar with UFC fiberglass gloves and perform head blows. To this day, he is (just a little) walleyed.

Then, of course, there’s the story I got off Starke from one of his karate friends in college. The two brown belts that the black belts let spar without restrictions and each of them ended up with a broken leg.

Not everyone highly trained is smart or responsible. Sometimes, they’re really, really dumb. Or not paying attention. Or criminally negligible.

Let this be a lesson to every writer out there who wants to write a “No Pads” sparring session with beginners or… just in general. There’s a really good chance that if no one’s paying attention someone will be leaving with broken bones even if the match started with the best of intentions.

This also isn’t counting what happens when the kids decide to spar and no one with sense is there to stop it. That happens too.

And then there’s the part that’ll horrify some of the readers out there, which is martial artists swap these kinds of stories around with each other and laugh about it after the fact. The explanation for this behavior is injuries get normalized when you’re in a culture where the chance for experiencing them is high. This happens with soldiers and cops too, in regards to their own. Then martial artists, soldiers, and cops will swap these stories with each other, because its one of the parts of all three cultures which cross over. It’s like the stories you tell about family vacations, and stupid things your friends did, except its about breaking ribs, dislocating joints and the time you watched someone’s leg turn into a screw. Panic in the moment, but funny later.

If you’re outside that culture, the casual disregard will sometimes sound absolutely bonkers. That casual attitude, however, is a nice tell for someone who’s been in the business awhile. The chance being injured or seeing an injury happen on a training mat or walking the beat is something you’ve adjusted too. Not that you want it to, but you’ve seen it. Plus, you’re getting little minor injuries all the time which helps when it comes to handling them.

Figuring out how to present various normalized mental states for characters of different backgrounds is hard because we’re so used to thinking about our state of normal. The problem is everyone’s version of “Normal” is different.


Essays in Existentialism: Monarchy II (Preview)

The wedding was a celebration that didn’t want to end. The halls were decked and the church was set with al manner of ancient allies and long forgotten grudges. For a week, the entire thing was all over the news, all over the world, in fact. It was a party akin to a United Nations summit, and it had the makings of an infamous reception.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

NSFW Stuckony; while doing one on one training in the gym with Tony;: Bucky and Steve don't realize that yes Tony may be smaller than them but he knows how to defend himself (thank you very much). When they try to tackle him theyre stunned when he punches Steve knocking him down then flips Bucky over his shoulder tossing him on the ground. He expects both to be angry that he kept this particular set of skills to himself, but actually both are turned on and double team him then and there.

Tony tries not to show off how skilled he actually is because most people expect him to be useless outside the suit and he kind of likes to keep it that way (I mean he’s always a little insulted and/or hurt depending on the person but he likes the element of surprise). But Steve and Bucky are going all out, or as all out as they go on him, and he’s being pushed into a corner, so really, they should have expected Tony to whip out his can of whoop ass on them.

Tony doesn’t expect to just stand there like a dumb ass as his boyfriends gape up at the ceiling though. Rude. It’s not like he’s a fucking delicate flower or anything. But then–oh no. Maybe–maybe he actually hurt them. Unlikely, but… shit, man, his luck has been terrible in the past, it would be just his lucky that he killed both of his boyfriends–

“The FUCK!” Bucky blurts out, then he’s up on his feet, lunging at him, and Tony makes an embarrassing ‘meep’ sound and stumbles backward instinctively, but instead of empty air he stumbles back against Steve’s chest and Steve wraps his arms around him to hold him still, and Bucky crowds against his front, and their hands are everywhere, Tony doesn’t even know where to–Oh.

“Aw, come on!” Natasha shouts, incensed. “I work out in here! I work out on that mat.

“Sorry,” Tony manages weakly.

Natasha stalks over to kick Steve’s naked ass, making him yelp. “I’m not yelling at you, I’m yelling at your stupid boyfriends! Do you think that Tony lived this long not being able to take care of himself in a fight? God.” She aims a kick at Bucky’s ribs for good measure. He makes a sad sound and nothing else.

“Hey so are we still on for a fuck my life, seriously, in the fucking gym?!” Clint exclaims when he sees them. “Is nothing sacred?

“Will you hand me my towel?” Tony asks Natasha awkwardly.

“What happened to your–OH MY GOD they literally tore your clothes off of you? I HATE YOU!” she shouts at Steve and Bucky, kicking at them again, but they scramble away, pulling their sweats up frantically, and just fucking run.

“They just–they just fucking left me here,” Tony says in disbelief, hurt.

Clint takes pity on him and throws a towel to him so he can cover himself. “I’d say you should break up with them but even I can admit the sex must be awesome.”

anonymous asked:

Michael x Jeremy with #10?

You’ll die and I can’t watch the person I love die.” Jeremy’s voice shook as he tightened his grip around Michael’s shoulders, as if holding him still was the only way to keep him on the ground next to him. Streaming tears and swollen eyes decorated Jeremy’s face, the stains of blood almost completely covering up his scattered freckles. Michael trembled slightly, and kept his breathing low. With his vision altered by the black eyes, Jeremy could only assume Michael’s expression was nothing less than furious. His tone matched identically.

“I can’t just let them get away with this, Jer.” He spoke softly, as if Jeremy’s physical wounds matched Michael’s emotional ones. Another sob spilled out as Jeremy winced in a new pain that blossomed over his rib cage. He took a hand off Michael’s shoulder, and pressed it against his side as he coughed through more agony. Michael leaned down, gently bringing Jeremy closer to his chest. He put his hand on top of Jeremy’s, a slight crack in his voice slipped out as he spoke.

“I don’t care how many of them were out there. I’ll fucking kick their asses. Every one of them.” Jeremy’s heart skipped for a moment, a sinking feeling in his gut pulled down as he felt his throat close up in fear of what to say next. Michael never cursed often, even in his angriest moments between them. He swallowed, a taste of blood trickled down his throat as he softly shook his head back and forth. He parted his lips to speak, letting heated breaths escape his body before arguing.

“There were so many, a-and I don’t want this happening to you too. I couldn’t live with it.” He paused between each phrase, coughing again, and gripping his side tighter as he heard Michael try to clear his nose slyly. He looked up, able to make out the steady but quiet tears racing down Michael’s face. His expression frozen in a look of concern and anger.

“And you think I can live with this? I’m the one who was stupid enough to schedule work today so late at night. If I had been there to pick you up like I always do, you wouldn’t be…” Michael trailed off, holding Jeremy’s rested hand that sat on his shoulder tightly as he let out the cries he had been holding in. He shifted his weight, pulling Jeremy off of him as he prepared himself to leave. Jeremy, in a state of panic, frantically threw himself into Michael, knocking his balance back onto the floor.

“Please! Please Michael you can’t leave me!” Jeremy desperately latched onto his hoodie, begging him to remain inside the comfort of Michael’s bedroom. Ignoring the pain, he burrowed his nose into his shirt, feeling the warm of Michael calm him nerves.

“Can’t we just… Sit here instead? Let’s just sit here as you hold a pack of frozen peas to my face and tell me funny stories, and I won’t care that it hurts to laugh because it means that we’re happy. I’m happy just being here with someone who does love me.” He stroked Michael’s cheek slowly, his hand still weak from being crushed under one of the stranger’s foot. Michael’s expression shifted as his nose began to run. Jeremy smiled.

“I need you to be safe, Michael. Please. For me.” Michael returned a hesitant smile as he nodded his head, still letting warm streaks of water flow down his pink cheeks. Wiping his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie, Michael scooped Jeremy up into his arms with ease, and set him down on the bed. Jeremy stuck out his tongue playfully.

“Ew Michael, that’s so gross! You just picked me up with that sleeve.” Michael stuck his tongue out back.

“Oh, shut up. You know you’re gonna steal this sweater later tonight regardless.” Jeremy laughed as he held his rib cage in pain. Michael knew him so well.

Writing requests are closed, but you can see other writings I’ve done here! 

In Joy and Sorrow

Daryl Dixon Imagine

based on a request (Hope you like it)

After Negan had taken away Daryl you’re barely able to go about your daily chores. When Negan finally gets to Alexandria you can’t hold back your anger.

word count: 2993

approximated reading time: 15 minutes

Three weeks. Three damn weeks since Negan had taken Daryl with him. Three weeks of worrying if he was still alive, if he was okay. Three weeks of wondering what kind of torture he had to go through at the Sanctuary, as that bastard called his devil’s pit. Would I ever see him again? Daryl… My eyes fell on the little piece of paper I had in a frame on the wall. The message he had left for me the last time we had been separated. I couldn’t believe it had happened again. I screamed as I walked up and down unsure what to do. I cried as I stood in the kitchen staring out of the window hoping that the answer would just magically appear at the front gate. I was about to go back to the bedroom to grab one of his shirts hoping that it still smelled like him when I saw a shadow approaching the gate. Trucks. The silhouette of a man. With a bat.
I was out of the door running towards the gate before I knew what I was doing. Negan, followed by a bunch of his men, entered the gates to Alexandria with Lucille on his shoulder and a smile on his lips.
“Rick”, he said patting him on the shoulder. “I’ve missed you.”
“You bastard!”, I screamed dashing towards Negan. “Where is he?”
“Oh, look who’s here as well. Thought ya’d given up by now.” Negan grinned at me.
“Fuck you”, I hissed. “Give him back!”

Keep reading

Gasoline: Chapter 4

Members: All

Genre: Angst, Gang AU

Words: 1.7k

Warnings: everything and anything lol,, violence, swearing, death, guns, etc

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 

Originally posted by nakamotens

Everything moved far too quickly, it had become a blur of constant action. Taeyong cursed like a sailor, orders barked in all directions. 

“WinWin, Jaehyun, hold them back. Taeil, Johnny, get the truck and load it up. Mark, you know what to do.” He nodded to everyone, roles assigned as they got to work. The majority of the room had stepped out the door, before turning to Ten.

 “Take her to the van.” He gave Ten his orders, to which both gave a solemn nod of agreement, before Taeyong left the door.

Ten rushed to my side, a reassuring hand on my leg, another gentley rest against my head to tilt it to the side and look me in the eyes. “Stay awake” He ordered, eyes searching mine for remnants of consciousness. His gaze held no emotion, as if he was looking at an inanimate object rather than a human being.

I dumbly nodded my head, fighting to keep my eyes open. A wheezing, shaking breath reignited the pain in my ribs, a wince grazing my features. In the haze of pain, I focused on Ten’s hand coming to his pocket, pulling out a switchblade with care, fingers that promptly flicked open the blade clearly experienced. I flinched, earning a sigh from Ten. Events muddled in my head and all I could register was the knife, the hurt it had inflicted, the defence I needed to protest. “I don’t know anything else” I half whispered, head dropped to my chest.

Keep reading

Oh, Baby (Namjoon x Reader) Pt. 11

[Pt 1] [Pt 2] [Pt 3] [Pt 4] [Pt 5] [Pt 6] [Pt 7] [Pt 8] [Pt 9] [Pt 10] [Pt 11] [Pt 12]

Pairing: Namjoon/Rap Monster x Reader
Rating: M
Genre: Smut/Mafia-ish AU

Words: 3,286

Summary: You were only supposed to have seen him twice. Only twice, no more, but now you’re getting dragged into situations you never wished for and Namjoon just keep showing up.

A/N: Wow, I actually wrote a chapter kinda fast :o amazing. ANYWAY–enjoy!! :D and feedback is always appreciated~ <3

Namjoon’s heart grinds to a stop the minute the door to the shop bursts open—gunshots sounding and ricocheting through the room. Each pull of the trigger is accompanied by a blood-curdling scream and the terrifying gurgle of blood filling lungs. And Namjoon can do nothing but watch it happen—young and scrawny and terrified.

Get the fuck down—are you retarded?!” one of the men shouts, the barrel of a revolver suddenly thrust into Namjoon’s face, and without another second of hesitation Namjoon places his hands behind his head and drops to his knees. The man laughs at his apparent fear, and despite the fact that Namjoon is completely defenseless—hits the butt of his gun on Namjoon’s head.

Namjoon goes down immediately, sprawled on the cold tile and wincing in pain as blood drips down his face and stains the floor. In the back of the shop he can hear more screaming—more gunshots.

Why is this all happening?

Laughing again, a polished shoe makes contact with his ribs, and Namjoon coughs up blood. Another blow—


More screaming.


Please stop!


Eyes flying open, Namjoon jumps into action and rolls over—grabbing the person shaking him and pinning them to the mattress, his hand tight around their airway. In the darkness of the room it takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, and when he sees your concerned, terrified face staring back at him—he releases you immediately and rears back as if he has touched fire—shameful at his actions.

“I…are you ok??” you ask, getting over his sudden defensive actions and sitting up to grab at him. You rub your hand lightly over his cheek, and he flinches but doesn’t pull away—his eyes cast to the wall.

“You were having a nightmare…,” you explain gently, your shirtless body your last concern as the cold air of the room causes goosebumps to rise on your skin. Namjoon’s rapid breathing had been what had woken you, and after seeing the sweat on his forehead and the pained look on his face, you’d decided to wake him up. And clearly you were right in thinking that he’d been having a nightmare judging by how he’d instinctively grabbed you.

“I…I’m sorry,” he breathes, still clearly on edge as he runs a hand through his hair. He scoots off the bed and traces a hand over his chest, checking for any cuts or bruises just to make sure. He hates when those dreams feel so damn real…

“No—no, you don’t need to be sorry,” you assure him, scooting to the edge of the bed and watching him as he paces around, body wide awake and his eyes locked on the floor. “I’m just worried…”

“I’m ok,” he assures you, sighing. “I just have a reoccurring dream that needs to fuck off…”

“Do you wanna talk about it…?”

“I…shit…first I need a shower,” Namjoon responds unhappily at noticing just how much sweat is on his face and body. It’s embarrassing that this had happened in front of you.

“Alright, you do what you have to do,” you respond, sending him a small, reassuring smile when he glances at you. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

Staring at you, Namjoon feels his heart finally start to calm down.

“Thank you.”

Namjoon returns to his bedroom half an hour later, a damp towel thrown around his neck and his hair messy atop his head. The room is lighter than when he left—illuminated by a small bedside lamp which you had turned on in his absence. You’re lying under the covers still, back facing towards him, but judging by the rate at which your chest is rising and falling, you’re awake.

Sighing, Namjoon rubs his hair a few more times with the towel around his neck before tossing it into the nearby clothes bin and making his way to you. He slips under the covers and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into him until his head is nuzzled between your shoulder blades.

“I wasn’t born into the mafia life,” he begins quietly, his warm breath fanning against your skin and his thumb stroking soothingly over your stomach. “I was a normal kid. Went to school, got good grades, had a pretty normal family.

“After high school was over I decided that I’d go to a university, because I had nothing better to do. I got a part time job as an assistant at a small business firm, and basically just filed papers for them for 20 hours a week,” he laughs at the memory. “I hated that job a lot.”

Smiling smally at hearing his laughter, you reach your hand up and place it a top his, attempting to comfort him—because while he may be laughing at the moment, you have a bad feeling that this story isn’t being told just to make you smile.

“A few weeks into working there, I heard some shit from the other works. People were kinda freaked, and from all the whispering I heard I picked up on the fact that that business owner made deals with some guys connected to the mafia—and had fucked up those deals. Everyone was scared that someone would come and attack the business, but the managers assured us that everything we were hearing was rumors—that the mafia was small, and something of the movies.”

Namjoon laughs again, but this time it’s bitter.

“Too bad the ‘mafia’ is basically anyone who does illegal shit and works underground—and when you live in the daylight, you don’t concern yourself with what goes on when you’re tucked in bed at night. That’s why none of us knew how serious crossing the mafia actually was—not until they barged in the front doors one evening and started killing everyone.”

Keep reading

BITE: Chapter 10

percy jackson / teen wolf crossover
sorry about the wait, i really appreciate how supportive you all are of this fic, i really appreciate all the likes and reblogs and asks and i hope you enjoy the update (✿◠‿◠)

10/? - Annabeth

The McCall’s couch was comfortable. It was better than the motel bed that Annabeth and Percy had been staying in, anyway. It was soft and long enough for Annabeth to stretch her legs out, and she felt relatively safe there, but she couldn’t sleep.

Percy was lying on a blowup mattress on the floor beside her; she could hear him breathing, a steady rhythm in the otherwise silent lounge. She wanted to check if he was awake, but didn’t want to disturb him if he was asleep.

So Annabeth was stuck lying on her back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling of this strange house and running over everything that she’d learnt over the last day.

Werewolves could be friendly, for one.

Keep reading

Lana Del Rey - Flaunt Interview

Lana Del Rey is… happy? 

“I think I was feeling happy that I was present, and not afraid in a way that I couldn’t enjoy my everyday things,” the musician says of the new record’s title, sat in blue jeans, cross-legged on the floor of a Chateau Marmont hotel suite, enjoying French fries and a Diet Coke on a balmy, breezy Friday afternoon. “I’m the kind of person that really loves those things. Like when I drive, I love every road, and I can’t believe that I’m in L.A. I love the architecture, grabbing a coffee, striking up conversation with the people I encounter. And I hate when I can’t enjoy the little things because in the back of my head I have concerns or preoccupations. So for me, it was that sort of lust for life. It was kind of just about happiness.”

“The record has fewer dimensions,” she remarks. “But they’re more beautiful than in the past. I had no idea that would make it easier to talk about.” Has this ease with discussing the content perhaps coincided with a sort of softening, or openness toward her in the arenas of public or journalistic reception? “I feel that,” she says thoughtfully. “And it’s helped me be more open as well. Because it’s hard to talk about your innermost feelings if you feel the reception will be cold. And I hung back for a while. I did a handful of interviews, but not many in the last few years. But also I was writing and writing, and digging through stuff, and not writing things as easy to digest or discuss. It still comes from me, but as I’ve evened out as a person, I don’t have as much I don’t want to say. I feel comfortable.”

“Da-vid La-Chapelle. Whoa. Da-vid La-Chapelle,” Del Rey says breathily, “I just couldn’t believe it,” Del Rey says. “Because I always make things really hard to work, because I don’t want to talk that much. So I had defiantly said to someone, ‘Don’t ask me unless David LaChapelle is shooting it.’ And then I get a call from Stephen Huvane [a partner in Slate PR], and he’s like ‘David LaChapelle is shooting it and you’re going to do it.’ So when I got to his studio, which is like a few blocks from my house, I was blown away. He’s amazing. And he thinks big picture, and different picture, and textures, and he doesn’t want to do a simple portrait right now because that’s not where he is in his life. And I’m the same way. I don’t want to make a pop record if I’m feeling more acoustic, for instance. And so he’s very true to his own space. There’s not that many people that I would follow into the unknown, so to speak, but with him, I would probably do most of what he suggested.”

David LaChapelle - “I have had a relationship with Flaunt for a long time. Lana’s a down-to-earth person. I like her writing. I saw her show at the Hollywood Bowl, and really liked the music, and that inspired the concept and ideas for the photos. Lana was interested in the artistic angle, not a promotional angle, which I really liked. Much more interested in creating art than promoting something.”

Notably, there is a track on Lust for Life, recorded with Sean Lennon, a layered and playful number that explores, among other things, John Lennon and Yoko Ono – a canonical deity of lust and artistry if ever there was – that sees Del Rey refreshingly step outside her own paradigm. “I felt like it belonged to someone else,” she says of the single, “Tomorrow Never Came.” “And I never feel that, because I like to keep everything for myself. I thought it might be strange for Sean to sing a song about John and Yoko as well. But I think the fact that I sing, ‘Isn’t life crazy now that I’m singing with Sean.’ It points to the fact that we’re both aware. I didn’t want it to come out exploitative in any fashion. Not that it would. Still, I wanted to be as careful as possible. I wanted it to come across layered with this sort of meta narrative mixed in. In a way it’s a song about a song.”

I speak over the phone to Lennon, currently in New York, who originally received a very simple version of the song from Del Rey with only her vocals, guitar, and an organ. “To me,” he shares, “Ninety-nine percent of what is magical about that song was already contained in her original vocal performance. I felt like it was my job to simply highlight and accentuate what was already there in her voice and melody, and in her lyrics. Everything I played was merely ornamental, like tailoring a ballroom gown on an already stunning woman: the only way to mess up is if you take away from or disguise the beauty that is already there.”

Considering the lineage in the song and their first collaboration together, I ask Lennon what he learned from the experience. “She has exceptional taste,” he remarks. “I told her that working on her song was a valuable lesson since I often modulate and take unintuitive chordal and melodic twists and turns, and she reminded me that you can be perhaps even more compelling if the melodies and chords feel natural and intuitive, not contrived or disorienting as in my music. Anyway I’ll never forget when she called me after I sent her what I did and her first words were ‘It’s perfect!’ I almost cried with joy because I honestly don’t think anyone has ever said that to me about anything I’ve ever done. It was a very good feeling.”

Beyond the meta-awareness of the lyrics and rich instrumentation [Lennon added “acoustic six- and 12-string guitar, electric guitar, lap steel, upright bass, vibraphone, harpsichord, orchestra bells, drums, and Mellotron strings, and shaker”], a particularly resonant lyric repeats itself a handful of times: You weren’t in the spot you said to wait. I ask Del Rey if there are running themes of stasis or waiting elsewhere on the record. “I think that’s why I felt that of anything on the record, that wasn’t my song,” she considers. “I didn’t feel like I was waiting for anything. It’s really not about anything personally, except that I love the sonics of it; the filters. I try to be as careful as I can that I’ll want to sing stuff on stage that I write. And that song will be an easy one to do because it doesn’t pull at any heartstrings or anything. And I know it’s special to Sean as well, because he’s his dad’s biggest fan. And so I like that, in a small way, they had a moment, in whatever surreal way that could happen.”

 Accordingly, you have my personal favorite track on the record, “God Bless America,” an unbridled spanker of a song that’s title refrain is followed by, “And all the beautiful women in it”—that’s instantly echoing through your melon and one in which Del Rey remarks, “Yeah, I went there.” She describes the song, of which Mawson shared earlier his reluctance to release as a single, given the tendency of Del Rey to net the mentioned public polarization, “It has some strong messaging,” she says nodding. “Some iconography, with Lady Liberty, fire escapes and the streets, and I do get a little New York feel when I listen back to it.” I tell her the song feels grandiose in production, anthemic in verse… very New York in fact, a sparkling pile of empire and accomplishment. And while New York (and its banks) have churned out the free world leader and a boys club not so concerned about everyone therein being blessed, moreover the “beautiful women in it”—reminding us that grandiosity has its pitfalls—“God Bless America” could easily ascend the ladder as a 2017 rally cry.

I ask her if she feels the appropriative nature of the song title may stir any pots of sorts.”Well, it’s the God word,” she says measuredly. “But the phrase has wider meaning. It’s more of a sentiment. When I wrote it I didn’t feel like it was confined to a traditional portrait of the Lord, as some sects might see it. It was more like, ‘Fucking God bless us all and let’s hope we make it through this.’ She further explains the genesis, “When all the Women’s Marches were happening, I had already written this song, because I had been hearing a lot of things online. And I have a sister, and a lot of girlfriends, who had a lot of concerns about things that were being said in the media by some of our leaders. And I saw an instant reaction from women, and I was like, ‘Wow. There is no confusing how women are feeling about the state of the nation.’ And so without really trying to, I felt compelled to just write a song and say we are all concerned. And it really made me think about my relationship with women. And I felt proud of myself, because I do love the women in my life. And I take care of them, and I ask them what they think about music, and guys, and problems, and I thought it was so cool that I’m really right there in the same boat with them. And sometimes I’m not. Sometimes I feel like I’ve got my finger right on the pulse of what’s going on, and then some of my music comes out and it’s like, ‘Fuck, that was a miss. Fuck, that’s not what people feel, at all. But with this, I was right there with everyone.”

Considering the caution from management around the track, I ask Del Rey if the potentiality for rib kicks, or what have you, is particular to her, not just someone famous. Does she feel she’s been on the receiving end of a sort of media lust? A presumptive, dutiful debunking of myths? “Perhaps,” Del Rey considers. “Or the journalists don’t have enough going on personally andthey feel like their contribution to current culture is myth building. It’s either one. It’s a broad mix. And I’ll definitely take accountability for how my energy has informed a lot of not true stories. But 50% of that has just been someone’s personal agenda.” Still, despite the pricks and pokes over time, Del Rey does feel the media is incredibly important and worth fighting for at the moment. “That’s why I do love journalists,” she says, “when they’re not assholes, because writers are critical thinkers. They’re people who think it’s important to have conversation, and conversation can lead to change.”

I’d agree: the fundamental purpose of media is to present the facts and propel conversation. That, of course, has been tossed into the bullshit blender of late; a corrupted election, orchestrated intel leaks, and in turn media’s brandishing “the enemy of the people” by the venal and orange President Trump, has the press in a pretty gobsmacked, beleaguered position. So ass over heels that even the governing party’s own Fox News mascot, Bill O’Reilly, has finally been ousted for sexually pawing and verbally gnawing on women whom his employers have considerably paid off over the years to keep hush. It’s a mess out there, right or left or between. “I feel like this election jolted almost everyone who was floating around, feeling weird, whatever… right into the current moment,” Del Rey says. “I know several people that had a sort of drifter mentality that are now in the thick of it, considering things, and considering their own contributions, and what matters. I’ve known what matters to me for a long time, so I was already kind of there, but I didn’t really see it going this negatively. I feel like we’re in a bit of a Hitchcockian experience, and you’re in a scenario, and every day you wake up and you can’t believe the things being said and done are real. And I think some people are questioning if this shit is actually happening, like especially with the North Korea issues, which are really the scariest because you’re talking about nuclear annihilation.”

“The world is in an extraordinarily tenuous place. And while it could be said, certainly for the sake of this piece, the earliest seedlings of civilization were wrought with lust for power, we are, it seems, at somewhat of a tipping point. On the topic of the Women’s March, I share a video of the protests in Caracas, Venezuela, where some two million people were marching that morning against President Nicolás Maduro, dozens of whom were reported killed by police or government backing loyalists.” I remark that the collectivist, community-making nature of protest could perhaps only be likened to the power of song. Is there anything on the record that explores this swell of community-making here and around the world at present? She considers. “Well, I have a song that’s quite aware about the collective worry, about whether this is the end of an era. It’s called “When the world was at war we kept dancing.” But I actually went back and forth about keeping it on the record, because I didn’t want it there if it would make people feel worse instead of better. It’s not apathetic. The tone of the production is very dark, and doesn’t lead to a fucking happy feeling. And the question it poses: Is this the end of America, of an era? Are we running out of time with this person at the helm of a ship? Will it crash? In my mind, the lyrics were a reminder not to shut down or shut off, or just don’t talk about things. It was more like stay vigilant and keep dancing. Stay awake.”

Given the pace and intensity of the environment in our surrounds of which the artist speaks, I point out that there are still moments on the record that feel lonely, or lost in expectancy, far from active. I cite a lyric: “We get all dressed up to go nowhere in particular.” Del Rey shares that she’d had a phone call with a friend earlier that day, about their personal lives, their music, and she states that he too raised that when talking about artistic stall as a demonstration of stasis. She disagreed with him. “It wasn’t about stasis. I meant that you don’t need to have anything to do to get dressed up and feel special.”

We live in a culture where pressure and precedent abound, one in which women are constantly challenged with not feeling special based on their body, their skin color, their age, their social position, their follower count. Does she agree? “It’s more like we just don’t have as much cultural practice at taking the time to appreciate ourselves for who we really are,” she says. “We spend a lot of time when the nation was founding building government, money, and then getting the education system down, so it’s not like some cultures where you take time to mediate, et cetera, on your own dreams, wishes, self worth. I think it’s not enough practice. It’s not like they teach you that in school. But I think that that’s changing too. That’s actually a lot of what the record is about. Even in “God Bless America”… ‘Take me as I am, don’t see me for what I’m not… Only you can save me tonight.’ It’s about seeing people: what they’re actually doing. Who they actually are.”

In that sense, Del Rey is championing the same values as her influential predecessors, few and far as they may be, or as bamboozled by the power systems in which they thrived. Consider “Beautiful People,” where she trades verses and coalesces on the chorus with the one and only Stevie Nicks, of whom I refer to as a bonafide badass. “I didn’t know what to except or that I could even ask her, Del Rey remarks. “When I went through ideas of women that could really add something to the record, she was the one we kept coming back to. ‘Bonafide badass’ is a great phrase for her. She’s really real. And she’s still fucking touring, which baffles me. There are so few women doing that. You’ve got Courtney Love, who works, sings, tours… there’s not that many women who were making music in the ’70s or ’80s who still make music. It really is pretty crazy.”

“I know a couple of people who love to write,” she says as we’re collecting ourselves to leave the hotel room, “and love to rhyme, love melodies, and I do too. But to me it’s so much more than that. It feels like a life’s work and it feels like it’s really important just to me, so I put a lot of time into it.”

We’ve been speaking for a little over an hour. I return to a conversation we’d briefly shared on the photo shoot regards this, Flaunt’s music issue, and its theme (“heartbreak”), determined before we’d secured Del Rey as our cover subject. She’d been briefed on this by her publicity team and was admittedly wary about aligning. Again, that embodiment dilemma. Appropriation? Role playing? “Everything I’ve done in the last two years,” she says with confidence, “I would never say anything that wasn’t true. Even in the music. That’s why I was nervous about me being on the cover, and in big font “The Heartbreak Issue” because the thing is, I don’t feel heartbroken. So I didn’t want to continue a narrative that didn’t apply to me. Because the only person who truly cares about whether I continue that narrative, or any, is me. So I have to do my due diligence. And it doesn’t always work, but I’ll be damned if I don’t fucking try.”

“God Bless America,” an unbridled spanker of a song that’s title refrain is followed by, “And all the beautiful women in it”—that’s instantly echoing through your melon and one in which Del Rey remarks, “Yeah, I went there.” She describes the song, of which Mawson shared earlier his reluctance to release as a single, given the tendency of Del Rey to net the mentioned public polarization, “It has some strong messaging,” she says nodding. “Some iconography, with Lady Liberty, fire escapes and the streets, and I do get a little New York feel when I listen back to it.” I tell her the song feels grandiose in production, anthemic in verse… very New York in fact, a sparkling pile of empire and accomplishment. And while New York (and its banks) have churned out the free world leader and a boys club not so concerned about everyone therein being blessed, moreover the “beautiful women in it”—reminding us that grandiosity has its pitfalls—“God Bless America” could easily ascend the ladder as a 2017 rally cry.

I ask her if she feels the appropriative nature of the song title may stir any pots of sorts.”Well, it’s the God word,” she says measuredly. “But the phrase has wider meaning. It’s more of a sentiment. When I wrote it I didn’t feel like it was confined to a traditional portrait of the Lord, as some sects might see it. It was more like, ‘Fucking God bless us all and let’s hope we make it through this.’ She further explains the genesis, “When all the Women’s Marches were happening, I had already written this song, because I had been hearing a lot of things online. And I have a sister, and a lot of girlfriends, who had a lot of concerns about things that were being said in the media by some of our leaders. And I saw an instant reaction from women, and I was like, ‘Wow. There is no confusing how women are feeling about the state of the nation.’ And so without really trying to, I felt compelled to just write a song and say we are all concerned. And it really made me think about my relationship with women. And I felt proud of myself, because I do love the women in my life. And I take care of them, and I ask them what they think about music, and guys, and problems, and I thought it was so cool that I’m really right there in the same boat with them. And sometimes I’m not. Sometimes I feel like I’ve got my finger right on the pulse of what’s going on, and then some of my music comes out and it’s like, ‘Fuck, that was a miss. Fuck, that’s not what people feel, at all. But with this, I was right there with everyone.”

Considering the caution from management around the track, I ask Del Rey if the potentiality for rib kicks, or what have you, is particular to her, not just someone famous. Does she feel she’s been on the receiving end of a sort of media lust? A presumptive, dutiful debunking of myths? “Perhaps,” Del Rey considers. “Or the journalists don’t have enough going on personally andthey feel like their contribution to current culture is myth building. It’s either one. It’s a broad mix. And I’ll definitely take accountability for how my energy has informed a lot of not true stories. But 50% of that has just been someone’s personal agenda.” Still, despite the pricks and pokes over time, Del Rey does feel the media is incredibly important and worth fighting for at the moment. “That’s why I do love journalists,” she says, “when they’re not assholes, because writers are critical thinkers. They’re people who think it’s important to have conversation, and conversation can lead to change.

—  Lana interviewed for Flaunt Magazine, 2017
Blood of Passage: Part Eleven


She ducked low, stabbing the male in his side; a torrent of blood spilled over her fingers, so thick it was near black. The male dropped and she struck high as the next male came at her, right in his throat. He collapsed, clawing at his throat, gasping for breath that would not come.

She spun, kicking the next male square in the chest, hard enough she could hear ribs crack beneath her foot. Male after male went down and she refused to feel guilt over it, not when they could have just left them alone.

Fists connected to throats, vertebrae crunching under her knuckles. They collapsed to their knees, choking for air and were conscious until her knee connected with their faces.

Male after male froze in their places and she stared each one down, “Leave us alone and we’ll leave you alone. If not, you’ll end up just like the others.” Conflicting emotions rose in their faces, battling their instincts to take her out as a threat. Do it, she thought. And you die.

They walked away and the bloodlust began to fade in her body. “Bring him over here.” She knelt down, cleaning the blood from her hands and ripped strip after strip of fabric from fallen males’ shirts.

Cyrian and Zev stood over them, guarding them as she moved the hair from in front of his eyes, the hazel was filled with such agony and bone deep fear, her heart clenched. His pupils were wide in response to the pain and his breathing shallow but he was stable; his Illyrian healing knitting over his wounds. She dipped the straps into the water before wiping the blood from his skin. She tried to block out the feel of his blood, the feeling that her hands would be stained forever.

He hissed at the contact of the cold water. “Maze-”

“Shush, don’t speak.” She cleaned wound after wound. They were closing too fast; the debris were getting healed over and- “Adrien, I have to open some of these to clean them.”

“Just do it,” he groaned.


A numbness rolled through his veins, the rush of feeling Nate gave him started to ebb away; His need to find and protect Adrien from threats, and Nate, were the only things that fought his instinct to isolate himself; a feeling he had grown accustomed to his entire life.

Males surrounded them; at least twenty of them. Unsurprising, considering they were near a water source. Adrenaline rushed through him, burning away his Depression. Beside him, Nate grinned.“I told you I’d need you to protect me, Baylor.”

He rolled his eyes, fixing a look on the largest male; he stood several inches taller and wider than him; almost dwarfing him and Nate both. “No one has to die, Karis. Leave us alone and we’ll let you live.”

“Big words,” Karis crossed his arms, grinning. “Considering you are outnumbered and weaponless.”

“We both know I could beat you without one.” Bay crossed his arms, “The Commander has trained me since I was eight. Personally.”

Special treatment,” Karis snarled. “Everyone knows that you’d be ranked at the bottom without Cassian there to give you an advantage. You don’t deserve your rank.”.

Bay hesitated, his words sinking in deeply, rattling his confidence. Nate glanced at him before turning his dark eyes on Karis. “You’re just pissed that Baylor can kick your ass.”

The male smirked, “Sticking up for your boyfriend, Nate? I’m shocked.”

Bay ignored the taunt; his burning ears betraying him; Karis’s grin grew. ‘What do you say, Karis? One on one? If you kill me, you can finally prove that you are, in fact, better than me. After all, Cassian isn’t here to give me the advantage.”

Nate frowned. He ignored it, his eyes on Karis. The male laughed, “I’ll enjoy killing you, Baylor.”

“You go after Adrien and I’ll meet up with you,” Bay said.

 Nate glared at Karis, “I’m not leaving you with this ugly-ass waste of space.”

Bay forced Nate to look at him; His eyes were black; the brown engulfed by his pupils. “Yes you are. Adrien is your brother. He needs you.”


Karis crooned, “Trouble in paradise?”.

Go,” he ordered Nate. “I will force you.”

Nate rose a brow. he could almost see the challenge in them but instead he said, “I don’t want to leave you. He doesn’t fight fairly.”

He almost kissed him, his hesitancy noticed by every male; snickers filled the cavernous space. Fuck this; they already knew and he was planning on coming out anyways. He summoned his courage and brought Nate’s lips to his, a sound of surprise escaped Nate; Whistles sounded. He parted from him. “Please.”

“I fucking knew it,” Karis said. “You are a faggot.”

On instinct, he held Nate back from attacking the male. He was used to name calling. He was also used to ignoring it; Nate just broke the person’s face. This was his fight; Karis was his kill.

“I’ll meet up with you after I shatter every bone in his body,” Bay promised.

Nate’s eyebrows were almost to his hairline; he was fighting a grin despite his eyes filled with a burning hatred for the male. “You better.”

Bay turned to Karis, Nate’s steps disappearing behind him. He loosed his shoulders. “You’re going to die, you homophobic piece of shit.”


His fist connected with a throat; the male doubled over coughing blood. “Need help, Tarus?” He ducked, a fist cut in the air, narrowly missing his jaw. His elbow connected to the male’s throat.

Tarus spun, his weapon sinking into a male’s eye. “Nope.” He retracted his weapon, jamming it in the throat of another male. “You sure you don’t need mine?”

Blake snorted, his knee connecting with a male’s groin. A pang of guilt hit him; he ignored it. As the male doubled over his knee hit the male square in the nose; a satisfying crush of the cartilage filled his ears.

He looked around, that was the last of them. “They weren’t even trying.”

Tarus snorted, “You are not a very humble person.”

“What gave it away?” Blake retied his hair back, catching the loose strands from in front of his face. “When you got the best of the best teaching you, you can afford to be a little arrogant. Especially when you can back it up.”

“You ever consider cutting your hair? It would be easier to fight.”

Blake rose his brows, “I think the fuck not.” His shadows picked up Adrien again, his brother was alive and stable, for now. “Let’s go, I pinpointed Adrien.”


It was his own fault. He should never had let Ezekiel near them. He was blinded by his own guilt and gave the male a benefit of the doubt despite sensing the betrayal from a mile off; But now his fear of losing his wings near paralyzed him all because he didn’t kill the male the first chance he got. He will never make that mistake again.

The cool water was keeping him conscious despite his mind wanting to shut down from the pain. His healing blood working against him, forcing Maze to reopen the wounds just so she could clean them properly.

Her dark eyes were vivid with worry and barely restrained anger. It was his own stupidity that put those emotions there. “I’m sorry,” He groaned, trying to not wince at the cut she was making.

She snapped her head up at him, “What could you possibly have to be sorry for?”

Cyrian. Ezekiel. Her hands covered with his blood. “Everything.”

Cyrian snorted behind him. He ignored him, his eyes focused on Maze, her outline fuzzy from trying to stay conscious. He held back a wince as she cut open the wound on his abdomen; it cut from his sternum, down his chest and around his side. It was deep enough he knew it would scar. A reminder of what happened when you gave someone the benefit of the doubt; From being kind.

A torrent of blood spilled over her fingers, so thick it was almost black. A dizziness filled his head, trying to pull him into the darkness.

“Count her freckles.”

He made himself look at Zevakyn; the male’s dark eyes were soft and kind, not something he usually saw in an Illyrian. The war camps, especially the brutal ones, take away a male’s softness and kindness and turn it into a blade ready to kill. Kindness got you killed, just like he almost did.

“Count her freckles,” Zevakyn said, motioning to Maze. “It’ll keep you awake.”

He turned back to her, wincing at the pain slicing through his neck. Her eyes were trained on his wound, her lashes so dark and thick they casted shadows over her cheekbones. Her freckles splayed across her cheeks and over her nose. They were what drew him to her in the first place.



Despite it being nearly ten minutes later, Nate could still feel Baylor’s lips on his. When he kissed him in front of all those males it surprised the starlight out of him. He knew nearly everything about Baylor; Where he went when he was depressed and isolated himself; what he did when he was manic and nearly got himself killed. Why he climbed trees when he could just fly up the branches still puzzled him.

But Baylor, Baylor, kissed him in front of nearly thirty people. He who wasn’t outwardly affectionate with anyone in public, who was so serious about his training and everything he did… When he wanted to make a statement he surely knew how to make one that everyone would remember. He didn’t just come out he barrelled his way out.

The cheering from the males still echoed off the walls. Anxiety jumped through him and he wanted to go back to help or at least cheer; but Baylor was right. He needed to get to Adrien.

He wasn’t worried about Baylor dying…well maybe a little bit. Baylor was second ranked for a reason and it wasn’t because Cassian raised him. He knew that Baylor wanted to be a high ranking officer, just as Cassian was. His ear twitched; picking up crunching and cheering followed by pure silence.

He forced himself to continue forward towards the ravine, an eye on each male he crossed paths with. He was ninety percent sure that Adrien was at the other water source but they needed to be sure. His shadows picked up the fighting as he kept moving. He was fighting a grin; Baylor was kicking Karis’ ass. He was going to kill him too. Baylor gave him a chance to walk away and the stupid fuck didn’t take it.

He pulled his hair back, getting his hair out of his face before he drank from the ravine. The water was cold enough he could feel it shock its way down his throat. He drunk deeply before continuing forward.

Thank the Cauldron the males were leaving him alone. There faces were gaunt, some of their eyes haunted or hardened by their brutal fighting. He kept loose, just incase someone got an idea to attack.

A few of the males started shifting glances between each other and him. He stiffened, his instincts already preparing to fight his way out. “If we’re going to fight, I suggest we get it over with.”

His shadows picked up someone behind him. He turned, wringing his hands. A male barreled at him and he sidestepped, pulling the male by his collar into the ravine. Two other males reached for him and he used their weight against them, pushing one male into the other, the impact had them into the ravine right along with the first one.“Anyone else?!”


Sorry this took so long. School’s been a bitch and I’ve had serious writer’s block. Please, please leave a comment XO



Sungjin: boy’s got his feet up on the bed and his back on the floor casually strumming a guitar until S/O pushes his feet off the bed and he flips. Pokes his head up the side of the bed with a glare and pulls S/O off the bed to have a real shitty dance battle complete with the Sprinkler and Shopping Cart

Jae: S/O catches him taking frighteningly embarrassing pictures of them sleeping and starts a wrestling match over the phone. Roll snapshot footage of them getting in even worse positions with increasingly bad facial expressions all in quick takes via the phone’s camera.  

YoungK: S/O gets out of the empty bed only for Brian to walk back through the door holding a box of incredibly unhealthy cereal and a couple of juice boxes. Brian slowly shakes his head then gives S/O a “gentle” shove which knocks their ass back on the bed. Bri Bri sets down the snacks then does that sexy crawl thing back on the bed and leans over S/O ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Wonpil: two words: SING OFF!!! So begins the bed jumping/dancing, invisible mics, and silently boisterous crowds. Unlike Sungjin and his S/O Wonpil is all about the teamwork so all moves are in tandem, even when he slips off the mattress and brings down his S/O with him. 

Dowoon: Do you see him? No. Bc the shy little sneak is under the covers jabbing S/O in the ribs and tickling their knees. It doesn’t take S/O long to realize what he’s doing and kicks him off the bed taking the duvet with him. He peeks up with a smile, blanket around his head, then he grabs the edge and pounces back on the bed with the duvet trailing after him like superman’s cape obscuring both of them from the camera. 

It is raining again

fandom: Stony (Steve x Tony)

summary: it is raining and Tony doesn’t understand why he has a feeling that something is about to happen

length: 1 313 words (double luck!!)

a/n: fic inspired by this prompt, with a request to continue from this During rainy days and During rainy days, part 2 fics. ufff, that was a complicated beginning. knowing previous fics is not mandatory to enjoy this one (I think), especially if you enjoy ticklish!Steve! dedicated to my Fondue!Anon! (would be posted earlier, but I kept falling to sleep after coming back from work)


It is raining again

Tap tap tap.

Tony watched the droplets of rain sliding on the window, while New York became clouded and gray, falling a victim to unstable spring weather. It was either sunny and warm, or rainy and cold, just if the weather couldn’t make up its mind. All those changes were giving Tony a headache.

“Hi, babe!”

Tony didn’t reply hearing Steve behind his back, and instead, a panicked shiver ran through his body, slowing his reaction. Huh, that was weird.

Keep reading

It’s Normal!

A/N: (I hate titling things) On the bright side I found my muse again! I’m so happy I cried! Two fics in two days?! Who would have guessed it lolol

( thanks @amazingmsme for the help and idea! )

Summary: Evan’s got his anxiety. Connor’s got his height. Jared’s got his snort.

Keep reading

My YOI Mafia AU

Link to Ch. 2

I’ve always LOVED Mafia au’s, and really want to attempt to write my own!
I really want to try and make a couple chapters out of this…we shall see! I’ll be posting this on my ao3 account as well!~


How long had it been? Ten, maybe fifteen minutes? Yuuri took a long draw on his Cuban cigar, let it settle on his tongue, then exhaled.
The thunking sound of flesh hitting flesh filled the spacious office.
A scream, a plead, and then more flesh being beaten in. Yuuri took another inhale of smoke.
He really didn’t like to go about things this way, in fact he hated it.
It was troublesome and tiring.
Just kill them and be done with it, it would save so much time.
But his right hand man Viktor was so damn extravagant. He absolutely loved to show off his physical skills.
Yuuri watched the silver haired man laying into the accused; jab, upper cut, a kick in the ribs, a step on the knee. Another long, loud scream.
Yuuri sighed.
“Enough.” Viktor was still going, though. Did he not hear his boss?
“I said enough.” It was very dangerous for Yuuri to have to repeat himself. If you lived to hear the repetition, you were very lucky indeed.
But of course, Viktor Nikiforov was no ordinary man to Yuuri. Not at all.

Viktor immediately stopped and grabbed a prepared towel off the desk, calmly wiping the blood off his hands.
“Damn it, this is a new suit, too! It was so expensive.” He whined, trying to wipe the blood off his cuff links.
“But, it was worth it. I’ve wanted to beat the shit out of Mr. Jacques for quite some time.” He winked at Yuuri, who was snuffing out his cigar.
“Jean, I don’t have much more patience. And I’m only going to ask this once. Where is my money?
Yuuri cocked his head to the side, surveying the extensive damage Viktor had done.
The man laid sprawled out on the floor, but slowly managed to sit up on his elbows. His face was a bloodied mess, quickly purpling all over.
Jean Jacques, otherwise known as JJ. Twenty six years old, ran the largest gang in Canada. He co-owned a surplus of prostitution rings with the Swedish black market overseer, Christophe Giacometti.
These clubs were spread out over his native country, Sweden and America, too. He named his strip clubs “JJ Girls”. Befitting of the man’s cockiness. He was very loud and obnoxious, boisterous, and tended to overstep his boundaries. But, atleast twenty percent of the clubs he owned himself were funded by a loan from Yuuri. And unfortunately for JJ, he had overstepped.
“Fucking bitch…” JJ spat out blood on the floor. Viktor went striding back over.
The beaten man threw his hands up. “Don’t worry. I have your fucking money.” He tried to stand, favoring his left leg. “You really had to go all out, eh?”
“I’ll transfer the money over today. As soon as I get out of here.”
“And who says we’re going to let you out of here?” Viktor asked nonchalantly.
“Enough.” Yuuri tapped his index finger on the desk. Viktor knew he used up his last time to speak out of turn.
“You will be accompanied by one of my men to your bank of choice, just to make sure everything goes as planned. Please be on time with your payments in the future. The next missed payment will have a very heavy late fee. You are dismissed.” Yuuri relit his cigar, leaning back into his large leather chair. He really had to stop smoking those things.
JJ smirked and began walking towards the door. “I definitely don’t want to pay that kind of a late fee. See ya.” He waved, as he was escorted out of the room.
Yuuri sighed heavily. “The other organizations are getting way too comfortable, these days.”
There was no response from Viktor, who stood on his right, with his arms crossed.
Yuuri sent the remaining guards out of the room.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to over talk me, Viktor? It’s getting annoying.” Yuuri, again, put out his cigar.
Viktor shrugged and turned to him, leaning on Yuuri’s desk.
“Sorry, moya lyubov. I can’t help it. I get overly excited sometimes, you know that.” Viktor caressed Yuuri’s lips with his thumb,
Yuuri smacked his hand away.
“Please don’t think too much of yourself Viktor. I am leader the Russian Mafia.” Yuuri grabbed Viktor’s tie, pulling him down for a deep, tongue-filled kiss.
“Make sure you don’t forget that.”
Viktor got on one knee, and grabbed Yuuri’s right hand. He kissed the matching gold ring that glinted in the window light. “Yes, sir.” Viktor interlaced Yuuri’s fingers with his.
As Viktor and Yuuri were getting prepared to take a long break, there was a knock on the door. Shortly followed by loud cursing and the door being swung open.
Yuuri groaned.
The slender, blonde young man came stomping in, his face flushed in anger.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt!” He threw a stack of papers on the desk.
“Is this a fucking joke?”
Yuri Plisetsky. 23. Known as the “Russian Ice Tiger”. He was a ferocious little beast, with a temper that even exceeded that. The mafia’s top ranking assassin; he could shoot a target dead from eight hundred feet with his eyes closed. Sounds exaggerated, but Yuuri’s seen him do it. He also was only second to Viktor in hand to hand combat. And he was the third closest person to Yuuri.
“Plisetsky. I am really not in the mood.” Yuuri began to rub his temples. What he had been in the mood for was some personal time with his lover, and of course the kid had to come in and ruin it.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. Please forgive me for wanting to know why the fuck you decided to have me work on the mission with that pussy?”
He was referring to Minami Kenjirou. Who was a senior to Yuri by two years. Minami was a go-between, a person who sealed deals with opposing gangs. He was energetic and jovial, a rarity in the business they are were in, also looked at as weak. But he actually doubled as an interrogator for the mafia, a secret of which only Yuuri knew. Those who were questioned by Minami did not keep a tight lip for long. He was overly skilled in torture; Yuuri had sat in to oversee one of his interrogations, and Yuuri decided that was the last time he would ever attend one again. The longest record of anyone that lasted was five minutes, and Minami had interrogated a countless number of people.
“I can do this fucking mission alone, goddamnit! I’m not bringing that little annoying shit with me-”
“Plisetsky. I’m tired.
Silence. Yuri grit his teeth, but knew better than to continue his rant.
“Minami is going with you because of that terrible mouth you have. He’s a good talker, and knows how to persuade people. Talk to people. Qualities that you severely lack. The both of you together will make a good team. I need you to get that informant as soon as possible.
Please don’t disappoint me.”
Yuri was already stomping out of the room, hands balled in fists.
Yuuri exhaled, he really hoped Plisetsky wouldn’t do anything irrational. He was prone to doing terrible things when he was in one of his rages.
“Okay. Lock that damn door, Vitya. I don’t want anyone else coming in here.”
Viktor chuckled. “You got it, boss.”

Yuuri had his head nestled in Viktor’s neck, inhaling deeply. When he was with Viktor, all other intrusive thoughts failed to plague him. It was just the two of them in the entire universe; nothing else mattered.
He remembered when he first met Viktor. Yuuri had been recruited by the Mafia and became a drug runner. He was initiated in to the gang with a severe beating; he was sure it was so bad because he was a foreigner. Not too many of the members agreed with his joining, but Yakov had quickly silenced the doubters.
After he had been beaten almost half to death, Viktor came and helped him. He patched his wounds, with gentle yet strong hands. Yuuri thought that was probably the moment he had fallen for him.
“They went too far, those bastards. I hate to see such a pretty face ruined like this.” He ran the back of his finger down Yuuri’s cheek.
“I’m Viktor Nikiforov. The successor to the Russian Mafia.”
Yes, the successor. How Yuuri became the leader of the Mafia, is a story to tell some other time.
Viktor held out the hand that had touched Yuuri’s face, Yuuri shook it. He was extremely surprised Viktor was speaking to him, had actually cared for his wounds like that. He heard stories surrounding the man, he was known as “Faceless”. They would say he always wore a smile on his face, and no one could ever tell when he was angry. Until it was too late, of course.
“…K-Katsuki Yuuri. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Viktor’s smile widened. “Oh, what beautiful manners! I like you already.” He winked. Viktor grabbed one of Yuuri’s arms, and shouldered his weight to stand.
“Let’s get you something to eat.”

Yuuri was taken out of his reverie by Viktor brushing his hair to the back of his ear.
“How much longer do we have to play mobster, Yuuri?” Viktor pouted, pulling him in closer into his embrace.
They had this conversation at least twice a day, and it seemed to be increasing. “Vitya…can we just be quiet and hold each other for awhile? I don’t feel like arguing.”
Viktor huffed “But I’m getting bored of all this. Why can’t we go hide out on an island, forever? Just you and me and palm trees? I know all of this is taking a toll on you-”
“Viktor, please.”
The man continued. “I know you’re getting tired of this, too. Let’s leave this all behind.” Viktor put his forehead to Yuuri’s. There still were no words from the dark haired man. Viktor pulled back.
“Are you really going to choose this life over everything that we have? Over real love and happiness? Over me?” Yuuri did not respond, which made Viktor grab his chin and turn up his face, forcing Yuuri to look at him.
“Yuuri?” The hurt and anger was beginning to creep into Viktor’s eyes. This was a question Yuuri had been waiting to come up.
Though, he wished it never would.
Yuuri had joined the Mafia to make some quick cash, originally.
His family lived in a one bedroom apartment back in Japan. So when Yuuri got scouted by the Mafia, he was offered what they presented all newbies. Money, protection, power. Three things Yuuri craved, though at that time money was all he truly wanted.
With the pay he’d get, he would be able to support his family. Move them out of the Hasetsu slums, give his mother and father the Onsen they’d been dreaming of owning ever since he could remember. Maybe he and his sister Mari could attend college. He had planned on getting rich quick, and then finding a way to escape the organization.
But one thing led to another, and the next thing he knew, he was addicted. Every day he fell deeper and deeper into the darkness. Each day a piece of his old self, the little chubby boy that ran around alleyways playing tag with his best friends Yuuko and Nishigori, disappeared. Once he was able to provide for his family, money became an after thought.
He wanted power. He wanted underlings. He wanted his reach to spread across every damn country on the earth. It consumed him.
By the time his relationship with Viktor had really began to flourish, it was already too late. Yuuri had long since succumbed to the allure of the dark path. The only small decimal of light that he allowed within himself was his family, and the man he was lying next to.
Viktor took Yuuri’s unresponsiveness as his answer. He unwrapped his arms from around him, and got off the couch. He began putting back on his suit, which was now wrinkled from being strewn across the floor.
“Vitya…I’m sorry.”
Viktor turned around, adjusting his button down, tucking it into his pants.
He smiled. This wasn’t Viktor anymore, it was Faceless.
“I understand.”
Yuuri grabbed Viktor’s wrist, but it was jerked out of his grip.
“Is there anything else you require of me, Mr. Katsuki?”
It was a cold question, one that pulled at Yuuri’s chest. When Viktor became like this, Yuuri had long ago realized it was best to leave him alone for a little while. There was no breaching the wall that Viktor built when he did not want any interaction.
“No. You may leave.”
With that, Viktor pulled on his blazer and stalked out of the room.

One day, if this darkness ever releases me, and if we’re both still alive;
I would love to run away with you.

The Rescue Attempt (Part 2)

Would ya look at that, Jack? This one knows my name" Anti’s voice was distorted and shrill. He kept his unnerving stare on you. You were drawn his glowing green eye.
“Don’t hurt them, Anti.” Jack struggled as he got to his feet. “It’s me you want”
Anti turned to Jack, keeping his grip tightly on you.
“Yer fadin’ Jackaboy.” He sneered. “This one’s full of life, maybe I should just leave ya in there to rot n’ play with this one instead?”
You scratched at the hand that held you, trying desperately to get him to let you go.
“See? They’ve got a lot of fight in ‘em” said Anti in a gleeful tone
You growled and kicked out, making contact with his ribs.
Anti only laughed at your effort. He swung a punch to your stomach and threw you across the hall. You slid along the floor and groaned.
“Anti!” Jack cried “Stop!”
His pleas fell on deaf ears as Anti made his way towards you. You had managed to roll over onto your front and slowly lifted yourself up. The wind had been knocked out of you and you gulped down as much air as you could. Your head was swimming as you wondered how much power Anti had. One swift punch knocked most of your senses out of balance and that throw was enough to send you into a daze. How could you possibly fight someone who could do that to you so quickly? You felt a foot on your back, it pushed you back down onto your stomach. You felt the cold floor underneath you and winced.
“That all ya got?” Asked Anti as he pressed down further.
The world around you started to darken, you were losing consciousness. It was too easy, Anti had won without breaking a sweat while you were on the ground, helpless and very much beaten.
“Anti! Leave them alone!”
You could hear Jack’s voice and the rattling of chains. He was using what little energy he had left to get Anti to stop. Something inside snapped. A new resolve surged through you. You couldn’t let him down, he had called out for help and you answered. You had to at least try. You took the deepest breath you could and found enough strength to roll away from Anti. You got up onto shaking legs, your vision was still blurry as you tried to focus on the figure in front of you. You shook you head and gritted your teeth. You were going to fight for Jack
Anti cackled and cracked his knuckles.
“Awesome!” He said excitedly “I was nearly disappointed”
You fought the urge to be sick, your balance was nearly non existent but you weren’t going fall. If this was going to be your end, you weren’t going to be facing it under the foot of Jack’s dark side. You were going to be standing and hopefully causing some amount of pain to the glitchy trickster. You raised two unsteady fists and gave a steely look to Anti.
“Let’s go”