oh gods this isn't as good as i wanted but

6

AAARGH IT’S FINALLY FINISHED I DON’T WANT TO LOOK AT IT ANYMORE

It took weeks. W E E K S.

[Also, I don’t like to be harsh but don’t even like it if you’re not going to reblog - I usually don’t care (well, I care, but it’s not like I can do anything about it), but this one took really A LOT of effort, time and bloody tears (especially time and bloody tears. AND frustration. Did I mention curses? I’ll spend a century in Hell for all the curses I said working on this.)]

10

“there’s a prophecy of four heroes who fell from the sky, an ancient prophecy thousands of years old -” “oh thank god, we have five heroes.”

(x)

mistystarshine  asked:

Another thought: please imagine Touka and Amon becoming a weird friend pair that discusses relationships together. Touka already nudged him toward Akira, and while she has her own reasons, since she wants to talk to Akira, I could see her wanting to see them work out. And Amon has to notice the Touken eventually. I mean, it's a difficult thing to not notice. His relationship advice might not always be superb, but he Tries.

Ok I’m gonna be super real here: that’s exactly what I was imagining. The two of them giving each other relationship advice, but also low-key being like “how do I get closer to the person you’re in a relationship with”. Touka advises Amon on Akira, but also takes little tidbits about her from him. Amon does the same about Kaneki, all the while really badly wanting to reach out to Kaneki himself. 

The two of them commiserate early in the morning over coffee. Touka sighs into her cup, mumbling, 

“He’s always busy. I don’t want to be selfish with his time…” 

Amon reaches out and pats her head, saying, 

“You know he wants to talk to you, too. Every time more people burst in the door, he’s always looking at you, waiting for you to tell them to go away. He’s not used to you waiting, Touka.”

Late one night after Akira has finally managed to walk on her own again, Touka finds Amon with his head in his hands. 

“She’s never going to be able to return to her old life. I took that away from her, in a way. Seidou is gone and I’m all that’s left…”

Touka feels tears stinging at the back of her eyes because God, he reminds her of Kaneki too much for it to be a good thing, 

“It’s not a competition. She just wanted somebody to come home. Seidou wanted that somebody to be you.”

Once Kaneki and Touka have begun to reform a tentative friendship and Amon and Akira have begun leaning on each other once again (”just like the old days..” Amon says. He doesn’t sound happy, not really, and Touka echoes the sentiment), their conversations begin to change. 

“He’s always busy. I don’t know how to ask him what I want to ask, let alone get him alone long enough to ask it.”

Amon mumbles, and Touka tries not to let deja vu overtake her. 

“I took her life away from her.”

Touka says, and Amon freezes for just a second. 

Teen: I wanna have sex with someone!!

Old people: Oh my god. Oh mY GOd. What the fuck is wrong with the youth today. All they can ever think about is sex! What is wrong with society.

Another teen: I don’t want to have sex ‘cause I’m asexual.

Old people: tHE FUCK. The fucking fuck does that mean. You’re aSeXuAl?? Stupid, foolish kid. The sex is tHE BEST. Sex is good. You need sex. What kind of person doesn’t want to have sex? Naïve child. Go look at photos of naked guys until you get fixed. haha. ace they say. *go away while chanting* SEX SEX SEX

The Idea of You

Jeon Wonwoo

Genre: Angst (I think it’s angst…there isn’t really fluff in this, so…)

Word Count: 920 

Dt: gxlden-maknae I wanted to write something good as revenge for making me cry during that Minhyu scenario, but this didn’t turn out that great. I will redeem myself with a better scenario soon. 

   Wonwoo is something of a writer, a poet, a romantic. He whispers poems in your ear and transcribes love letters on your flesh. With every breath that hits the back of your neck, he sears his words into your brain, into your soul, and he lets them settle there, leaving small bits of him inside you.   

   He has left bits of him everywhere, and as you sit alone in your apartment, you become more aware of his dwindling presence.    

   It’s another summer night, and it’s ridiculously cold. It’s never been cold in your apartment before, but tonight the chilly air seems bent on drilling through your skin and bone, settling in the nooks and crannies it finds. Every light breeze that softly dances over you skin brings a sheet of goosebumps, and you shiver uncontrollably.    

   You draw the sweater—his sweater—around your body closer and closer. It smells like him, a mixture of a musky cologne and sweat, and you bury your nose in it to try and hold on to the last of his scent. You sniff and sniff at it, desperate to smell as much of it as you can. The smell of him is euphoric, and it brings you peace of mind for a few seconds.    

   You have sweater paws, just like he used to have. His beanie is jammed on the top of your head, a shock of red in the otherwise dull apartment. The sweater and the beanie are the only tangible traces of him left in the apartment, but there are so many memories crammed in your small apartment. The memories are sharp and pointed, stabbing at you, demanding to be remembered, and you desperately drag the beanie down your face, covering your eyes and ears to block out the pouring in your head and your heart. But it doesn’t help.   

   You remember.   

   All you can do is remember.   

   You remember how he first met you: in a coffee shop. A chill autumn morning, the leaves just beginning to change from a bright green to a warm orange and red. It is on that morning that he walks into the cafe, a delicious latte wrapped in a sweater and beanie. He looks warm compared to the chill drawn over the people outside, and when he strolls up to you, who is nervously waiting to take his answer, he tells you that he’d like a hot chocolate, extra whipped cream. His voice is deep and smooth, pulling you in and leaving you hanging on his every word. And as you rushed to prepare his drink, he sat himself down at a seat by the window, a model against the autumnal backdrop.    

   You remember when he first said he loved you. He was closer than necessary, his breath ghosting on your lips, teasing and intoxicating. He whispers things about you. He whispers that you and him are two puzzle pieces, two doves, two flowers in a forgotten garden. The words don’t make sense, and he doesn’t even make sense most of the time, so you ignore it. You only wait to hear him say what you want him too, and you’re torturing yourself when you try to imagine how good it’ll sound coming from him. You try to imagine how you will be able to hear the love and pure affection pour out of his mouth, slow and sticky like honey.    

   Fingers dance up your side, coming at a stop at your collarbones. He traces down your arms, rubbing at your crystal veins, circling around your glass wrists.    

   “I love you,” he whispers, and you deflate. A breath leaves your lips, shaky and uneven because it’s disappointing. He doesn’t say it the way you thought he would. He says it, hollow and empty. It’s as if he thinks he loves you. Your lips part, to maybe say it back to him, or maybe to say something else, you’re not too sure. But his lips steal the beginning of your sentence, swallowing it up whole.    

   He says it time and time again, and you stop hoping that one day he’ll say the words differently.    

   And now, you sit alone in your apartment. You sit on the couch where he used to sit, covered in the things he used to wear. Your eyes are blank as you stare down at the floor, at that small stain from when Wonwoo accidentally spilled his coffee on your carpet. He had apologized for it back then but had still made you clean it up instead of doing it himself. You are alone in your apartment, drenched in the scent of him, covered in memories of him.    

   You are alone in your apartment with what used to be him. You’re waiting for something, although you’re not exactly sure what it is. Maybe you’re waiting until you fall asleep. Maybe you’re waiting for him to come back. But you know it’s pointless. He’s never coming back. He was never truly with you to begin with. Because when you’re alone with only memories, you realize things. You realize that Wonwoo had always compared you to the girls in the books and the movies. You realize that Wonwoo always tended to take bits and parts of you and blow them out of proportion. He had always performed every romance cliche known to man. He had romanticized your relationship, molded and shaped it into something he wanted.   

   He was in love with your presence and your existence.   

   But he was not in love with you.