Happy Valentine’s Day to my amazing Secret Valentine, @starscythe!!! I do hope you enjoy this gift, my friend, as you gift us with so many incredible manips all year long. Meeting you in person in November was such a joy, and I hope we can hug in person again in the near future.
He’s heard stories, of course, broken whispers
whenever a fierce storm blew in unexpectedly, mumbled musings if an
acquaintance suddenly fell ill. These are never voiced loudly, as superstition’s
lingering hold on the forest proves to be an ominous task master, leaving such
wonderings to drift from one listener to the next, more often than not finding
fertile ground stripped bare by black magic’s lingering touch.
The Evil Queen’s dark curse had taken many, but
there are those among the forest’s remnants who believe she herself still
dwells in this realm. They speak of her in hushed fragments, discuss sightings
of a dark, solitary figure who roams the forest at night, a cloaked woman who
has somehow lost her magic but now lives bound to it, perhaps in just
retribution for a curse so foul it emptied their lands and cast both friend and
foe into fates unknown.
Robin has never put much stock into
superstition, neither does he give credence to legends or fairy lore. His is a
world defined by what he can see, touch and confiscate, a world in which people
rarely fit into molds of “good” or “evil”, a world in which he’s observed
unspeakable acts committed by the most respected of citizens while those judged
as lesser are the very ones who offer shelter and food to the starving. He
lives by his wits and senses and surrounds himself with a thieving group of
outcasts he’d readily give his life to protect.
Yet even he, the infamous Robin Hood, has to
admit that the air feels odd tonight, that there is a charge to the impending
storm brewing in the eastern highlands that makes the hairs on the back of his
neck prickle. He senses a disturbance, one that feels altogether too personal
and close at hand for comfort. Roland must have felt it, too, for the boy had
clung to him as Robin soothed his son’s whimpers until he’d finally fallen into
a fitful sleep.
It is enough for him to grudgingly admit that
tinges of magic probably remain in his forest, even if the queen is nowhere to
be found. Dreams of Marian and of his mother plague his sleep and fill him with
sense of urgency altogether foreign, one that pushes him towards consciousness
even as his body rebels.
A loud clap of thunder finally awakens him, and
he’s surprised to find that he’s drenched in sweat. Roland is still sleeping
soundly, but one touch to his son’s forehead reveals that the boy is hot with
fever. He holds his child close, drawing the blankets up around him, but he
worries as all parents do, even as the wind howls just outside their tent.
Roland needs feverfew tea. Unfortunately, their
stashes of medicinal herbs have run dry in light of the recent bout of sickness
that have ravaged both his men and their families, and he lies there only minutes
before deciding to risk a trip to the lake’s edge to gather what he needs. He
wakes Little John and asks his friend to keep an ear and eye out for his son
before donning his thickest cloak and disappearing into the forest’s canopy.
He’s survived far worse storms than this, he reminds himself, ignoring the
tingling sensations skittering up his legs that feel altogether supernatural.
▽ Pairing: Jimin x Reader ▽ Genre: Romance ( Smut | Angst ) | auras!AU ▽ Summary: In a world that strives for homologation and demolishes any sign of individualism, Park Jimin is nothing but an outcast since the very early years of his life for he can see people’s auras in shade of colors that tell him so much about their personalities; all it takes is a glimpse of their true colors in the form of colored energy that surrounds them as northern lights in the night sky, to know even their darkest secret. He has learned the hard way that his ability is something it’s better to hide, to deny for he has no desire to be deemed as crazy. He has learned that solitude is a far better place to live in and he’s determined to not let anyone inside his walls. That is until she comes and asks him what her color is. And that’s when he decides pink is his new favorite shade.
▽ Word Count: 2.030 K ▽ AN: this story finds its origin in a dream I had after listening non stop for hours to “Colors” by Halsey (listen to it, it’s a beautiful song).
The sand is warm against his feet, infiltrating
between his toes as he puts the whole pressure of his body on them, sighing in
relief as the warmth engulfs him whilst his eyes fix on the cerulean expanse in
front of him. His knees push against his ribcage as he encircles his legs with
his small hands, his chin resting on the bare sun-kissed skin whilst the sea
waves fill his ears erasing all the mean voices swirling in his rattled mind. This is his safe haven, the desolated
coast where no one will approach him, disturb him or accuse him of being crazy, an outcast
that this world will never be ready to comprehend or accept. Park Jimin is a peculiar ten-year-old boy whose best friends are shriveled
books that won’t ever point a finger at him but, instead, welcome him in the
worlds enclosed between the yellowish pages. Books don’t lie, don’t mock and
most of all: they don’t have anything secret to reveal behind what’s already
there. He has learned the hard way that
solitude is a far better place to live in when you hold in your heart a secret
so ludicrous not a single person is ready to believe what you say it’s the
utmost truth. Not even the people that claim to be your parents, and therefore
supposedly able to love you no matter what abilities you’re born with. In his ten years of life he has learned
that people lie quiet often and expect to get away with it by being
exceptionally eloquent with their words. They always doubt someone is going to
be able to see right through them, especially when they are under a kid’s gaze.
They do not believe, because they fear a reality where someone could spill all
their darkest secrets with a simple glimpse in their direction. Deeming him
insane is nothing but a convenient approach to dismiss the real matter. In a society that strives for
homologation and demolishes any sign of individualism there’s simply no place
for someone like him, for he’s a nuisance, an inconvenience, an error in the
perfect structure of what is claimed to be human and mundane.
Um, so I’m not an expert on Japan, but the setting is festival/firework
showcase in Japan [meant to be kinda rural where there r hot springs n where u
can see stars], and I chose a kimono bc I heard yakuta are used during summer
and I wanted it to be cold n snowy, so yeah… I pulled this title out of my ass too
**THIS IS SMUT**
giggled, clinging onto Yuta’s sleeve as you trudged through the frigid snow.
You let out a shriek as he swooped down, collecting you in his arms.
are you doing?! It’s embarrassing-”
glanced at your snow-covered geta sandals, as if the answer was obvious. You
smiled to yourself, draping your lithe arms over his broad shoulders. His
ethereal features entranced you, his soft lips, yet keen gaze-
hi there <3 I've been following you for quite a while now and I always wanted to tell you that I LOVE YOUR TAGS. I always, always read them and they so often make my day and also make my little heart go "yesyesyes I feel the same" so I just wanna say thanks
Oh, thank you so much kind Nonny
–I LOVE writing them, especially as most are inspired by that most magnificent human being & the sweetest Muse I could possibly imagine, Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch. *sighs & smileslike a guileless goof* I’m happy they bring some sunshine to your day–perhaps in reflection of his sunny smile
(okay, once I found the smile gifs, you know I simply couldn’t stop at just one)
Um…yes…oh my…where were we? Ah, the tags. My tags. *how did it get sohard to concentrate, when did it get so hot in here?* Excuse me, I need a something cool to drink
…wait a moment, that’s not helping a bit. Perhaps I need to take a dip in a placid pool of water…there’s one that might do the trick right over there…
…yup…nope…that’s not helping either…how about a little
Nice try, Ben, but I’m not getting a whiff of breeze, and all this is making me do is wonder what your cologne smells like & how it might mix with the natural scent of you delicious skin…oh jeez, now I’ve really gotten off topic, haven’t I?
Okay, there’s only one thing for it, I’m afraid
Okay…okay…I think that will do…for the next few minutes, anyway.
But seriously, Nonny–thank you. Writing my tags are one of my daily joys, fun with wordplay (both sweet & naughty), and truly the closest I’ll ever come to posting a selfie here. They are, in fact, me–in all my beautiful obsessiveness.
being noticed by them, who are absent-mindedly engaged in chasing games among themselves, and bomb diving into the placid waters of the dam, Tobio observes the bold band in awe. Their striking beauty, though, somehow poses a threat – or perhaps it is the freedom of their gracefully dwelling in the open skies that instills fear in him, once he realizes his will is to stay rooted, glued to the top of the wall. Despite his newly grown wings. They are too big, too vast, too mighty, making him too visible, too distinguishable – or recognizable.
Is it possible that the dam frightens him more than the desert ever has? Or is it because he now knows the familiar desert to be no more than a small pool of sand, and the dam to be the unknown immeasurable? Or is it the wings that frighten him the most, and the new ability they should entitle him to?
As the warrior angels finally see him, like metal particles being irreversibly drawn to a magnet, with that speed of immediacy particular to dreams that is an abolisher of distances, all at once
a rampaging squadron is closing with low-passes on Tobio. Not with their giant hands or strong arms, the angels try to embrace him with their wings. If mighty in size but still soft in appearance, while flapping they emit raucous, metallic sounds that really disorientate Tobio. Their caresses bring back to him the sensorial, nearly nostalgic memory of the heat of the desert – located somewhere down below, or behind, but very far away now – as if the feathers are actually tongues of fire licking his skin – a feeling he cannot quite distinguish between excruciating or pleasurable, and whether he abhors or loves it.
This is completely dedicated to the shook eggos™ gotta love my fam. hope you enjoy it and please excuse any grammar/spelling mistakes.
His pale knuckles rap sharply on
the door, then fall back to his side in a fast motion. Jonathan Byers takes a
stiff step back as he waits for a response, pretending to admire the large pool
and opulent expanse of flowers decorating the backyard of Steve Harrington’s
The area is bathed in silver
moonlight, a lustrous gleam reflecting off the placid water, giving it a
ubiquitous magical atmosphere. It reminds him of a night not too long ago;
although now, all is quiet, save for the familiar sound of insects and
He isn’t sure why exactly he is
here. After all, Steve isn’t expecting him. It was a spur of the moment
decision, something very unlike the sixteen-year-old boy. But somehow, not
talking to Steve is much worse than beating the crap out of him. He hasn’t spoken
to him since the night the jock saved his life.
Jonathan is so lost in his
thoughts that he is quite startled when the door flies open, banging against
Expecting the worst – perhaps a
parent – Jonathan’s tense shoulders sag with relief to see Steve Harrington’s
huge grin plastered on his face.
“Well, well, well, Jonny boy!”
Steve spreads his arms extravagantly.
A faint blush tinges Jonathan’s
cheeks with color. He wants to say something – anything – but he just can’t muster
out the words. This is due not only to his social anxiety, but also to the fact
that Jonathan is just now processing the nickname that Steve had given him.
“Cat got your tongue?” Steve muses,
his smirk tilting to the left side of his face.
“I-I, um, just wanted to, uh,
thank you… for the camera,” Jonathan blurts hurriedly, wincing at the crack in
his voice. He had been through a lot in the past few months, yet that didn’t
change the fact that he was a still a teenage boy.
Steve raises his eyebrows.
Jonathan can only stare at him in
response. Steve’s hair is immaculately gelled back as usual. This is a feat
only feasible when it comes to Steve Harrington – even more so when it’s almost
midnight. Jonathan can’t help but think that it looks like fluffy cotton candy.
What would it feel like to run his hands through it?
“Man, are you okay? You sure you
aren’t here to beat the shit out of me again? That would kind of suck since I
saved your life and saved a month’s worth of allowance to get you that camera.”
Steve points at the camera around his acquaintance’s neck. Jonathan is
clutching it tightly, his knuckles unhealthily yellow.
Jonathan looks down, ashamed and
flustered, scuffing his feet against the pavement.
“Why don’t you come in? My
parents are out of town,” Steve taps his fingers against the door.
At this, Jonathan glances up,
licking his lips anxiously. There is an underlying tone to Steve’s voice,
something that almost makes him sound… nervous?
As much as Steve Harrington is
egotistical, he also cannot mask his feelings. Jonathan deciphers the look in
his accomplice’s eyes easily, for reading people’s emotions is a task that he is
always able to ace.
Steve Harrington seemed to be
shy… and insecure.
‘But why?’ Jonathan wonders. Steve spoke to him the way that one
would to – No. He would not venture
‘Steve Harrington is not like you,’ Jonathan mentally rebukes
“An answer this year would be
good, y’know,” Steve retorted, the odd edge still evident in his voice.
“Yeah. Sure, I’ll come in,”
Jonathan speaks before he can stop himself, taking an involuntary step up to
Steve steps back, an ear
splitting grin lighting up his face.
Jonathan cautiously steps into
the colossal home. It is not new to him that the owners of the Harrington
household are wealthy, but somehow, however grand it is, there is still a type
of cozy feel to the house. In some sense, it reminds him of his own home, of
his mother and Will.
Jonathan turns around to face
Steve, only to drop his jaw in shock.
Steve had dropped the white robe
that he was wearing only moments ago to reveal a graphic crop top and shorts.
“Like what you see, Jonny boy?”
Steve snorts, running a hand through his styled hair.
“I’m not really sure how to
answer that,” Jonathan mutters.
“I know you hate me, Jonny, but,
I mean…” Steve gestures up and down with his hands, displaying his toned abs to
the shorter boy.
“I don’t hate you,” Jonathan
replies in a rush, the moment turning completely serious. “I don’t hate you,”
he repeats more calmly this time, his heart racing at a million beats per
“No?” Steve shuts the door and
takes a few steps closer to Jonathan.
Jonathan gulps and shakes his
head, still maintaining eye contact with Steve.
Steve continues to make his way
to Jonathan, who is now completely intimidated, shifting his weight from foot
‘Is he going to hit me?’ Jonathan doubtfully thinks.
Stopping just a few inches before
him, Steve takes the time to examine Jonathan’s face. He isn’t good at reading
people, but the corner of his mouth tilts once he notices that Jonathan is
Steve stands close enough so that
Jonathan could point out all the tiny details on his face – like the mole next
to his mouth, and the glint of admiration in his eyes.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Jonathan
Byers. I would never hurt you.” Steve’s eyebrows furrow as he speaks.
And then he does the unthinkable.
Without waiting for any response,
Steve cups Jonathan’s face in his hands and tilts his head to kiss him.
At first, Jonathan’s eyes fly
wide open, clearly not expecting this. But then he collapses into Steve’s
indomitable frame, letting the stronger of the two hold him up.
Jonathan’s lips are as soft as
velvet, and they lock onto Steve’s plush ones like two pieces of a puzzle.
Steve pushes Jonathan against a
wall for support, letting him run his hands through his hair, disheveling it.
For once, Steve doesn’t care about his appearance, for he’s too busy leaving
the heavy sting of passion and ardor in the air.
Just as the jock moves the camera
aside from around Jonathan’s neck so that he can press his body harder against
the more fragile of the boys, Jonathan regretfully pushes him back in order to
gasp for air.
“I thought you like girls,”
Jonathan pants in confusion.
“But you… do you like boys?”
“The question is, how do I not
like boys, Jonny? Especially when you’re one yourself.”
Jonathan allows himself to smile,
glancing down in modesty. He cannot believe this is happening, that one of the
only people he likes is admitting their feelings to him right at this moment.
“You know your whole face changes
when you smile. Why don’t you take a picture of us with that camera?” Steve
daintily clasps the camera hanging between the boys.
“No, I, um…” Jonathan struggles
to find the words – he’s so overwhelmed by many emotions.
“Oh, c’mon. Do it for me.” Steve
gently lifts the strap from around his friend’s neck, turning it on and around
so that the lens faces them.
Just as Steve is about to click
the button, Jonathan grasps Steve’s face and boldly kisses him.
The flash goes off, and Steve
stares at Jonathan in awe.
“Spend the night,” he decides
confidently. “Go up to my room – up the stairs and second one to the left. I’ll
be right back with beer and popcorn.”
Jonathan nods without hesitation,
taking the camera from Steve and beginning his ascend. He can’t stop smiling
like an idiot, in a haze due to the deluge of happiness.
Needless to say, the rest of the
night was spent with the tinkling sound of laughter, whispering hushed secrets
in the dark, and candid photos of Steve taken by Jonathan.
Out of all the times Jonathan had
felt out of place in his life – being around Steve couldn’t be anything more right.
It’s cold, but not cold enough. It’s dark, but she feels light. She thinks she’s alone; she’s certainly not.
In her hand, she swings a tin bucket. It sloshes, it swirls, she looks in and sighs.
The city buildings look like dominos waiting to collapse and fall in and claim her, but they’re so willing to bend their very essence with the grace of dusted titans and let her climb them to the stars above.
She chooses the streets instead. The buildings quiver.
From the shallow crevasse of shadows, a man with a hat follows and watches. Breath; bated. Heart; pounding. He waits for a sign, any chance to move in and claim the seventh victim in a far too-long line.
The little girl stumbles and he sees one.
She kisses ground; he rushes forward.
“Darlin’, you alright?” A gloved hand outstretched, fingers reaching and wanting. She looks up at him, eyes bleeding gossamer all over the pavement. A bruise begins to blossom deep under her skin as she takes his hand, a smile pouncing across the tight plains of her lips.
“I fine, mister,” she coos, “jus’ on my way.”
“Allow me to guide; much too late for an angel to be walkin’ alone.”
She giggles: “I ain’t no angel, mister.”
Fingers curl inward and tap on his palm like tiny skipping stones on placid waters; he stops for a moment, treading hard, and comes up for air, “Now where you live, girl?”
His head cocks to the side, “Well, where’m I takin’ you?”
“Not where you wanna,” the bucket swings, cutting a swath through her words.
Her sass pools around his feet. Indignant, impatient, he’s had enough. He reaches in his coat for the knife, his trusty companion.
“Hey!” she cries, hoisting her bucket up, “what the German soldier say to his friend when the bombs started to whistle?”
Hand resting on the blade’s hilt, the man stops, puzzled. As he starts to speak, she tosses the bucket in his direction and shouts, “AGH, TONGUE!”
A pink ocean wave of fleshy pads pours into the air, surrounding him. Like piranhas, they descend as a whole, covering his body, and begin to lick him hard, like dozens of hungry phantom cats.
His screams are drowned, muffled by the cacophonous slurping, and within seconds, they’re finished. Jumping back into the bucket, they reveal a dry, withered husk.
The little girl skips forward, reaching between his sinner’s teeth, and plucks out his liar’s tongue. She smacks him on the forehead with it and says, “Town ain’t big enough for the both of us, mister”.
She begins to walk away, and hears a whispered plop behind her. Turning her head, she sees a lone tongue wriggling lazily by the body’s feet.
With a roll of the eyes, she pats her hip: “C’mon Karl.”
Karl flops after her.
The buildings twitch and strain against their foundations, begging for love; she leaves them to crumble.
Ironman Timberman was my 4th attempt at the 70.3
triathlon distance (2nd this year, and 1st legit
“half-Ironman”), which consisted of a 1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike ride, and a
13.1 mile run. This race was a last minute decision, due to my learning
experience at Ironman Lake Placid, and was spearheaded with mixed feelings.
After Lake Placid I spent a few weeks doing absolutely nothing that had to do
with fitness, due to my 30th birthday and wanting a mental break
from training, but ultimately decided that I couldn’t let my fitness go to
waste. Knowing that the race would be my last triathlon of the year meant that
I could leave it all out on the course, and that I did!
(Fair warning, and it’s like my 3rd time mentioning this, make sure you have a solid 5-10 minutes to spare. This post is LONG!!)
I literally have like six or eight unfinished bluepulse drabbles sittin’ on my computer. (Even a second part to the Laundromat au.) Plus, I just realized I’m almost to 100 followers. What a life, haha. I’ll try to do something special for you guys when I reach that point.
So rarely does it ever, but regret burns like a knife to Akali’s gut, horrid and painful and well-deserved. The Kinkou’s refusal to aid the war efforts that opposed Riven and her company allowed such people to revel in their monstrosity, and they continued to turn a blind eye to Noxus gloating over the ashes of their country. Akali was inherently a rather selfish person - her heart did not bleed for those outside her sphere of concern.
But this was a game to them. They come for nothing but land and glory, and they do not care for the shattered bones and tattered lives they deign to leave behind.
“There will come a day, Commander, when you tip the scales,” Akali says, and disgusts seethes beneath her tone, a deadly current pulsing beneath placid waters. She touches the fingers of her right hand to a kama, and the threat is clear.
I remember my teacher once told me not to write about love.
She said it’s all been done before, or too many times, in words, rhymes and rhythm. But she never saw you like I did.
Has anyone but me seen the muted reflection of the lights in Akihabara on the crests of your cheeks?
Has a soul besides my own ever stared into the placid water of Lake Kawaguchi
with your hair tucked beneath their nose?
I know I alone have tasted the medley of sweet strawberry mochi and the bitterness of your skin, as one may only know being fed by your hand in the waning hours of night.
No. No one else has ever kissed you between mouthfuls of sushi and sips of a Suntory highball.
It cannot be that someone also heard your trembling breath as I led you through the narrow crevices of Golden Gai. Nor could they have waded through the cloistered, smoke filled bar where we had a dalliance with warmth.
But even if they had, there’s more between us than the earth and the sun, and no one, not one, knows a word of our unsung hymns.
They are lost murmurs in the doldrums of dawn, tucked into the last trace of night. Only their dull hum remains beneath the flannel and wool, buried amongst the hot, undulating breaths and sighs of sleep.