I was born in a garden
Surrounded by green and honey
You gave life to me as I emerged into the world
Covered in bloody earth and muddied tears
I was your flower
A rose all for you
I believed you would care for me
Rain for my dry petals
Sunlight to reach towards
Shade to protect me against the worlds raging fires
Oh how wrong I was
Your sharp mouth that kissed me a million times and promised me endless dewy summers
Those thistle lips brought me
Ice crystals to freeze over my delicate crimson body
I trusted you
But instead of breathing love in my lungs you blew in raging blizzards that nearly snapped me in two
My spine becoming wilted vines
My heart punctured with thorns
My bones plucked from the earth
The one who planted my seed and delivered me from your own blood
Nurtured me with nothing but cold chills more bitter than a starless midnight
Clouds too thick to see the weeping moon
You raised me from the soil up only to drive me back to the worms with your heel
But I am here to thank you
And lay my deepest gratitude at your feet
I now see that through snow I was taught
What I never could have learned through a warm breeze
I am grateful
That i was gifted strength
For without the downpour of my tears
I wouldn’t have discovered that I could water myself
If not for those howling winds
My roots would not have the depth of a lions roar
Without the cruel winter
I never would have been able to see
That what at first glance appeared to my wilted soul frozen over like
A frost covered flower
Was just an illusion
And when the snow finally grew too tired to dance in my eyes I saw
That I was never crumbling ice
But a strong
(A/N: ANOTHA ONE this is honestly one of my faves will possibly make a series but a slight chance only since I love the air of mystery around it)
WARNING: FUCKED UP CHARACTERS, DEATH, INAPPROPRIATE SEX LOCATION, (slight?) smut, BLOOD A LOT OF BLOOD, gore(?), mental illness, violence, bullying
Plot: The one where they all feared the wrong monster.
Reggie was not angry.
You see, angry would be synonymous to feelings and Reggie does not have feelings.
Well, not usually.
So, yes, Reggie Mantle was not angry – but by God, did he look like it.
With his seemingly permanently furrowed brow, tense physique, and gloomy – borderline looming, aura he looked like he would murder anyone who would dare as much as breathe in his direction.
It wasn’t that unlikely.
Considering the many serious, almost grave, injuries the opposing players would gain from the many ‘unintentional’ and definitely unnecessary force Reggie seems to give in to his defense and offense on any game causing so much wins since most of the opponents would nearly just part ways when he was holding the ball out of fear. Not to mention, the rumors of many unrecorded fights and mysterious wounds he seems to get on different parts of his body every week.
On instinct, and for the sake of their survival, the students of Riverdale High parted like the Red Sea for the path Reggie decided to take.
Among those, was you, plain, old, normal you.
The you who just wanted to graduate in peace and not cause any mark on any wall in this institution.
Unfortunately, you may have accidentally lit a firework when you caught the attention and, dare you might say it, affections of the none other than untouchable Reggie Mantle.
“Hello, dove,” he muttered, only loud enough for the both of you to hear, as he trapped you in a random wall, just beside your locker. “, aren’t you just beautiful today.”
You blushed, shifting your weight from one foot to another, still not used to his compliments even two years of pursuit and a year of a relationship. “Thank you, Reggie,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss the side of Reggie’s lips as a proper greeting making Reggie’s lips twitch into a smile, a smile which you did not miss. “Walk me to class?”
The whole town, even you’re parents, thought of you as crazy when you decided to give the resident nightmare a chance. The judging stares and hushed whispers – the ones, Reggie had threatened to silence in the most violent ways – were more than enough to give you the impression of their distaste
Not that you cared, this was your relationship, not theirs.
And this was your Reggie, not theirs.
You knew him – the real him.
The Reggie who broke another child’s finger when you were seven because the said bully has kicked down the sandcastle you worked so hard for. The Reggie who threatened to cut a grown man’s filthy tongue, making a very pretty straight bloody line with his small blade across the said tongue to prove that he was far from joking, when he cat-called you when he thought no one was watching. The Reggie who – despite some discomfort considering you were mere strangers then – hugged you and calmed you down after your parents decided to break the news of their divorce to you.
The Reggie who managed to break your walls down and crush your doubts with his bloody and bruised hands through his persistent hunt for your heart. The wilted flowers, random compliments, and ‘just because’ trinkets was enough to melt your heart and, as your mother would like to call it, sell your soul to the devil.
Every town had their cliches and Riverdale was made out of it.
So of course they had to have an incompatible couple: the beauty and the beast, the yin and yang, the angel and the demon.
All of the cringey titles were bestowed upon the both of you and you did your best to ignore it – or at least try not to roll your eyes.
If you looked at the both of you in their eyes: hulking figure and gracious curves, tanned scarred skin and flawless smooth exterior, wildly menacing aura and harmless almost innocent ambiance – you could’ve almost agreed.
But they got it wrong. They got it all so wrong.
Reggie was not the devil, he wasn’t danger – you were.
Reggie was their salvation in disguise.
Because if it wasn’t for Reggie they would’ve had to face an evil that would make their nightmares feel like wistful daydreams. They would then have to realize that sometimes the plainest sheltered girls have the most fucked up minds – fucked up enough for them to mistake a deer’s carcass as an assault from a wolf instead of a knife attack from a pent up and frustrated sixteen year old who just got in between a messy divorce.
Or think of a ginger boy’s corpse as a murder orchestrated by the Southside Serpents instead of a homicide committed by a victim of extremely subtle high school bullying.
“(Y/N), what have you done …” Reggie was panting, startled to see the only person who mattered to him laughing and punching a stiff body of a classmate while a handgun was abandoned two feet away.
“… I told him to stop” you could barely whisper, body shaking so badly from glee, fear, or satisfaction – you weren’t sure. “I begged him, Reggie! But he … they … if it wasn’t for Archie …”
“Go, Reggie!” you screamed, and Reggie saw the one thing that attracted him to you start to leak out from your eyes – your darkness. It was clear as day even with the tears and sobs that mixed with it. You finally cracked.
“If they see you … they will blame you,” you whispered, cradling the side of his face with your cracked nails and bloodied palms, making a sticky red mark on his cheeks that made him insanely more beautiful to your eyes. You were shaking and this time truly saddened because you knew it would be a while, if not forever, before you would get to see his face again.
“Go.” You whispered, halfheartedly pushing him. He swiftly caught your hand and kissed the inside of your wrists, seemingly not minding the goo that dripped down there that stuck to the side of his lips, with a smile.
“You’re not getting rid of me that fast, dove.” He gave the corpse a glance almost too calmly. “Now, let’s go clean up this mess, okay?”
“But I …” you managed to close your hanging mouth. You pointed a shaky figure at the corpse of Jason Blossom, a satisfying red gaping hole in his head.
“I killed him.” You reminded him, wondering if he actually somehow overlooked the carcass in his eyes.
He stepped closer, you stepped back.
“This is not your problem, Reggie. Go, I don’t want you to be –“
Your ongoing ‘stepping close-stepping back’ battle was one by Reggie as he caught your arm and pulled you closer to him, chest by chest sharing the same breathe kind of close.
“I don’t owe this town – or fucking Golden Boy shit, and I love you,” his familiar confession – one you have heard about a hundred times from his mouth still caused your breath to hitch and your eyes to water. “, you know that.”
“I love you too, Reggie … so much,” you gripped his white shirt dirtying it up further and buried your sobs in it. “, but that’s exactly why you need to leave. I can’t drag you in this mess I created, Reg. I refuse to.”
You could barely make up the smirk that grew on Reggie’s face from your confession you could’ve almost fooled yourself to think it was an illusion but the kiss that followed afterwards definitely wasn’t. The breath taking and mind boggling kiss that was more tongue and teeth than what was considered proper – but you and Reggie were way past that. In that moment the last thing on your mind was proper.
So you let your need win.
You let Reggie pull you up, legs automatically wrapping on his hips and hands leaning on his shoulder for support as you snaked your bloodied hands on his perfect hair swallowing his small groan when you pulled at it. You let him trap you in between his body and a random tree that pricked your back through your thin and stained sundress as he grounded his arousal in your dripping core making you release undoubtedly loud moans that echoed throughout the woods.
He easily tore the thin sleeve of your dress, causing one of your breasts to be exposed to the cold breeze for a second before his mouth was warming you up; sucking and marking, teeth biting hard enough to make it hurt but gentle enough to throw a shot of pleasure in your spine.
You let Reggie in, physically and emotionally because if someone were to understand – it was Reggie.
You kept it from him at first, afraid that the man who had your heart would dash the moment he got a peek of your dark and twisted mind. That he only loved who you showed to the world – the perfect, clean cut (Y/N) that would never hurt a fly.
But you were wrong.
Because as much as he loved your pretense of innocence he also loved the darker, broken, and vicious version of you – not despite it but because of it.
And nothing felt more satisfying when he was deep inside of you, the first and last person to do so, feeling every ridge and length as you rocked back and forth in a harmonious pace even after two orgasms, never wanting to forget the feeling as he whispered sweet soothing words in your shoulders while the continuous sensitivity of every part of your body – the twitching and small shots of pain as a clue – screamed in protest. But you couldn’t bother to stop not when you were too busy studying and memorizing his scent; not when his hands and lips were roaming everywhere, leaving no patch untouched and not when he was looking up at your eyes as if you weren’t something to be feared or controlled – as if your broken facade was more beautiful than any creation God created in his green Earth.
You were all dark, no stars – Reggie couldn’t have asked for more.
“… me back to class?”
Reggie couldn’t help but feel elated at the sudden memory of the fateful day that tied your soul together.
A promise of forever – a beginning, marked by the death of another that would cause the secrets and darkness of Riverdale that they have graciously denied and hidden from each other to start leaking out to the light.
He smiled, taking your hands and kissed the back of your palms twice– thrice, never breaking eye contact.
“I’ll go anywhere for you, darling.”
“To hell and back?” you teased because you knew it would earn you an eye-roll and a kiss. He knew that you knew that he would do anything for you but he decided to play with your little game anyway, leaning down and catching your lips with his for a small kiss knowing you were never one for PDA.
Pairings: Jughead x reader, Sabrina x reader (platonic)
Summary: The reader comes to the end of a long day dealing with the effects of Sabrina’s spell. She is determined to guard her secret, but the truth cannot remain hidden forever, especially when it can’t be buried with lies.
Do you know how difficult it is to write a book report when
you can’t lie? Especially when the book is Catcher
in the Rye and you hate Holden Caulfield with a burning passion. On top of
that, my phone has been ringing off the hook. I’m really regretting setting
Sabrina’s ringtone on my phone to I Put a
Spell On You by Screamin’ Jay Hawkins; after today, that song will never
leave my subconscious. I’m about to snap my pen in half when the doorbell
A/N: I’m posting this to make up for the lack of updates on Brawling Love. I feel really bad for not posting I just don’t have access to a working computer at the moment, I’m posting this from my phone. With that being said, I hope ya like this :)
When the doors of the elevator opened to your floor, you zoomed out, locking yourself in your room. The others looked at each other, Natasha and Wanda getting out because that was their floor as well and they wanted to comfort you.
“Let’s just go in the kitchen.” Steve suggests as he steps out of the elevator as well.
Everyone follows him, sitting down on the chairs or leaning against the counter as they waited for any news on Y/N.
“Please just open the door, lets talk.” Wanda knocks loudly on your door.
Tony looks around, his eyebrows knitting as he doesn’t see the person he was looking for.
“Where’s Sam?” he questioned.
“Clint took him to the infirmary when we got here. The bleeding wouldn’t stop.” Steve answered.
“Come on Y/N it wasn’t your fault!” Natasha said.
“Yeah! If anything, it was Tony’s fault. He told you to change positions.” Wanda added.
“I can hear you!” Tony shouts from the kitchen.
“Well it’s true!” Natasha yelled back.
You were on a mission with the rest of the team. You have the power to control plants and you were making some vines grow to be used as a shield for Sam while he took out some people but Tony had you switch your position, stating Sam would be fine, causing you to stop working on the vines.
Well when you stopped, the vines went to their normal length and one of the men shot Sam twice. He was bleeding out fast so you helped him to the quinjet.
You blamed yourself. Here Sam was, bleeding, possibly on the brink of death and it was all your fault. You shouldn’t have listened to Tony. Now someone is hurt because of you.
Natasha and Wanda join the others in the kitchen and Nat gave them a defeated sigh.
“She won’t let us in.” she says.
Bucky frowns. Now, it’s no secret that Bucky likes Y/N or that Y/N feels the same way. Everyone knows they have feelings for each other, Bucky and Y/N know they have feelings for each other but they chose not to do anything about it for now.
“She’s crying her eyes out.” Wanda added and that about does it for Bucky.
He stands up, alerting everyone but brushes their looks aside and walks down the hallway until he reached Y/N’s room.
He knocks twice before pressing his ear to the door. “Y/N? It’s me Bucky.”
“Leave me alone.” her voice comes out muffled.
“Please open the door.” he says.
“Just go.” she calls out. Her voice sounded strained. “I fucked up so now I have to deal with it.”
“But that’s the thing.” he says as he closed his eyes while resting his head on her door. “You don’t have to deal with it alone. I’m right here.”
It’s quiet one Y/N’s side. He figured she cried herself to sleep. Before he could lift his head from the door though, she pulled it open, causing him to stumble in.
She doesn’t make eye contact as she turns away and sits down on her bed, looking down at her lap. Bucky shuts the door behind him and walks over to her bed. He sits next to her, looking around.
He’s been in your room before, mostly because his nightmares and also because you need someone to cuddle with during the winter.
Then his eyes fall on the vase that held flowers. Wilted, dead flowers. His heart broke, knowing they were wilted because of your current state. He then looks at you, seeing you silently crying into your hands.
“Hey..” he mumbled, pulling you into his arms. “It’s okay. Sam’s gonna be okay, he’s fine. Calm down, Doll.” he rocked you back and forth in his arms as he ran his fingers through your hair.
“How do you know that?” she muttered against his chest.
“Want to go see him?” he questioned and you nod. “Come on.” he stands up, pulling you with him.
You wipe away your tears so that you can see and Bucky stares at you with a small smile.
“What?” you question.
“Nothing.” he shakes his head. “You’re just so stunning.”
“How? I’ve been crying.” you chuckle, wiping your nose with the sleeve of your shirt.
“You’re stunning all the time.” he shrugged, leaving a blush evident on your cheeks.
His smile grows at the sight of you and without thinking he dips down, catching your lips in a kiss. His hands cup your face gently while you reach up, tangling your fingers in his hair. It was a much needed kiss. And while the kiss went on, the flowers on your nightstand began to come alive again, beautiful and full of color.
You pulled away breathlessly, resting your forehead on his as a smile made it’s way to your lips.
“About time you grew a pair and kissed me.” you joke and Bucky laughs.
“I’ll kiss you all the time if it means I get to take you out.” he says and you look at him.
“You asking me out, Barnes?” you smirk and he nods. “I’d love to go out with you.”
Bucky smiles even more if possible and kisses you again. “Come on, let’s go see Sam.”
He pulls you out of your room, leaving behind the flowers that may possible never wilt again, and you have no problem with that at all.
A/N: I’ll fix this up when I can get my computer to work buuuut I hope you liked this and I’ll TRY to post Brawling Love soon.
I can see the way the sun sets
crooked in your irises
the laughter of your moon
holds my lips together like
they don’t get the joke
the way your fingers tremble
as they turn the pages of your story
shake roots of the understanding
at the foundation of the oak in my
while I may not have the right words
to bury your demons in the dirt
of kindness or chase your ghosts
with incantations of my smile
my fingertips can be rain to the
wilted fields of your heart
while these arms may not
be able to answer your prayers
to the uncaring nature of the gods
they can be the walls of shelter
the hot blanket around your legs
the dog warming your feet
the unspoken understanding
better than any advice that falls
from the vines in my fields
Loving a memory means always putting hands in the
wrong places. I don’t always need a body standing in
front of me, sometimes I need it next to me. I am
unlearning our language in slow motion. Words don’t
mean the same thing anymore. The dead fish are belly
up, no more safety pinning metaphors to my tongue.
Fumbling for words doesn’t mean nervousness, it
means neither of us care enough to correct the mistakes.
Loving a memory often leaves gaps. Like leaving a side
of the bed empty even though the sheets have been crisp
and cold for months now. Existing as both empty and half
full, depending on the phase of the moon. I cover my hands
in super glue. In duct tape. Try and staple the edges back
together, but I’ve always been better at tearing things apart.
Loving a memory means my heart can’t tell the difference
between something solid and something deteriorating.
My heart doesn’t like to forget names any more than I like
to forget voices. My hair still carries the scent of honeysuckle
and cherries long after spring wilts. I wring my heart out,
lose your name somewhere among all the breaking tendons.
Summary: You and Minghao perform on stage together, and the both of you put on a breathtaking performance for the audience.
Requested by: A shy cloud! ^_^
You closed your eyes as the lights dimmed, and stepped out onto the stage, one foot at a time. The audience’s cheers rang in your ears, pounding against your skull in a raucous thrum. You put a hand up to your chest to feel your heart throbbing against your ribcage, raised your chin, and took in a deep breath - this was it. This was finally it. You tugged your knee-length butterfly dress slightly at the sides, adjusting it, and relaxed your tense shoulders. The performance with Minghao, your one and only long-time idol crush. Huffing out a puff of breath, you opened your eyes and made your way to the centre of the stage, sighing inwardly. All the time spent choreographing, practicing, and rehearsing, days and nights cooped up in a studio, would come to an end today - but you were determined to make this the best he will have ever performed. You looked around, scanning the now sky-blue-lit stage.
I’m coming home, I’m coming home. Tell the world I’m coming home.
Let the rain wash away All the pain of yesterday.
I know my Kingdom awaits, And they’ve forgiven my mistakes.
I’m coming home, I’m coming home. Tell the world I’m coming…
Newt holds the picture in the place where Percival used to bury his head, but it is not enough. He sits in the window sill they used to share, his body small and fragile amongst all the cushions and space that once seemed too small for two - now so barren for one. He remembers the sun through the window and the scratch of the overgrown garden against the window panes. The smell of Percival’s soap, fresh from a shower. The way their legs used to tangle. The weight of his lover’s head against his belly and the tickle of his breath against his hand. The feel of carding his hands through Percival’s hair and the rumble of his grateful noises in his sleep. The way holding his books one handed would make his arm ache, but too reluctant to remove his hand from his love to do anything about it.
He sits there now, in the spot they once loved to share together, and watches storm clouds blow the leaves from their garden. Dead and wilting, like everything in his life lately.
He’s cold, but he can’t find it in himself to grab a blanket. Instead, he holds his crinkled picture against his belly and tries to find it in himself to do anything other than sit there and stare at nothing.
He doesn’t manage it. He falls asleep instead.
And sleep is always worse, he thinks, because Percival is there. In dreams, he’s as alive as they day he left for war. The train comes into the station and people unboard. For a moment, Newt fears he won’t be there. That as in life, he will be dead in dreams, too.
But he isn’t. He never is.
He’s the last person off the train, and it hurts worse for it. Newt runs across the station. He pushes people aside. His voice is a bird’s call, swallowed by the joy of the people around him - welcoming loved ones home.
Percival is looking for him. His smile slowly fading, until finally, Newt is close enough for him to see.
And then his face lights up like the dawn they used to get up early for, if only to share it together, and Newt feels another petal fall from his wilting heart. He runs to him anyways. Clutches at the soft wool of his military jacket, ignoring the sharp jab of the medals that took Percival away from him.
His back is whole beneath his palm, his jacket dry and soft and perfect.
It collects his tears until Percival draws him to arm’s length and wipes them away with the calloused pad of his thumb. Newt is hiccuping, he’s crying so hard, because he knows the dream is almost over.
He knows that he is dead.
“Why the tears, sweetheart?” Graves asks, and Newt only sobs louder when he says, “I’m home.”
“Please don’t go,” Newt whimpers and clutches him tighter. Buries his face in the jacket the man died in and wishes he wouldn’t wake.
But he does, he always does.
He wakes alone in the window sill they used to share, and the only weight on his stomach is a picture and grief for the man it features.
Later, when he’s taking the folded flag from the soldiers at Graves’ funeral, he wonders what is heavier - the symbol in his hands or the picture in his pocket.
days and moments which feel to be
so routine, aren’t at all
when you look back you soon notice so many things, are different
so much suppression
so much buried deep within
like that of a vacant grave yard
one in which ravenous ravens encircle
awaiting to attack
awaiting to feed
especially after visited, when it is time to make a delivery
things out of hand’s reach
things outside of self control
one most cope, and deliver
into the land of lost
and hope the mind forgets
the ultimate coping mechanism
things are triggered
wilted hands and cold hearts
begin digging in that grave yard
the land of loss
dirty bones, and burnt letters soon lay upon your feet
the darkness covers your moon and stars
the hurricane of past visions and cold winds
saturate your total being
the heart becomes pierced
the clouds consume current mind and vision
shackles wrap the hands and feet
you only know to just…be
words aren’t found
the heart shreds
eyes close, tears fall
you await numbness
the ravenous grave yard soon becomes a comfort
as it slowly swallows you whole
Who helped with the ritual? Well, Keyleth, obviously. She tore Orthax from his soul. He saw that. And Pike. Who else would be skilled enough to bring him back, really now. It’s so clear to everyone who was responsible. And then there’s Vex, who has nothing to offer but her wilted little heart, the one that Saundor wanted so terribly. And what good was that to give Percy? He already had that.
The main thing is, is that Percy is alive. What does it matter if her confession wasn’t heard by him? It didn’t matter, not really, not to anyone aside from Vex. She’s selfish, like he is. She’s private, like he is. She’s stubborn, and he is, too, given he’s alive now. Vex is glad that he’s alive, and he that he is safe, and that he is happy. Vex couldn’t hope for more than that.
Vex is even glad he was spared her pathetic display, because what good did that do him?
“Do you…” Tsukishima pauses, shifting next to Yamaguchi on his bed, “like anyone?” Yamaguchi fiddles with Tsukishima’s uniform, the second button, with one hand, tugging at it and winding up the back thread. It’s a little quiet for a while before Tsukishima is ready to accept that maybe Yamaguchi doesn’t want to talk but then the boy answers.
“I do,” he says quietly. Tsukishima aches in his chest, just below the second button Yamaguchi is toying with. It sounds an awful lot like a marriage proposal answer, Tsukishima thinks, with how the boy whispers with a smile on his lips and it comes out slightly breathless.
All they hear in the silence is the buzzing of his desk fan and the rustle of the trees outside. “What are they like?” Tsukishima asks as he signs away his soul to this devil with a halo. Yamaguchi is unperturbed and hums thoughtfully.
“Well,” he draws out the ‘L’. “They’re a boy,” he whispers conspiratorially and part of Tsukishima’s black hole of a heart, wilts. I’m a boy, he thinks with indignation.
“He’s tall.” Yamaguchi murmurs and his fingernail picks at the seam of the jacket. I’m tall, Tsukishima’s mind blurts out. Tsukishima grimaces.
“He’s snarky and mean,” he snickers. Tsukishima’s frown deepens because when has Yamaguchi associated with someone like that?
“He sounds kinda uncouth,” Tsukishima mutters. Yamaguchi seems delighted with the response and giggles.
“I dunno, it’s part of his charm.” Yamaguchi looks up at him with a gleam in his eyes and a grin on his face.
Tsukishima closes his eyes and grunts. He doesn’t really want to hear any of this anymore but Yamaguchi keeps talking. “He’s also blond, plays volleyball, middle blocker,” the boy lists and Yamaguchi’s hand slithers up his chest, abandoning the button for rest on the nape of the his neck, stroking the short blond hair. “He’s also a little dense.”
Golden eyes open and peer Yamaguchi suspiciously. “Really,” Tsukishima asks flatly. His heart however, betrays him and is fast as a rabbit’s. The hand on his neck is warm.
“Mm yeah. He could really work on his communication skills.”
Tsukishima flushes. “I do not,” he says hotly and then mentally berates himself because there goes subtext and now it’s all or nothing.
“You do.” Yamaguchi smiles slyly and arches up towards the other. “Now you gonna kiss me or what.”
☫ - She waseverything, everything to him. Her gorgeous golden eyes that shone brightly within the darkness, Blake - the girl called herself the beast of darkness, the embodiment of shadows and yet, she was his light. For the girl’s pupils illuminated his world, guided him into a universe that was beyond hatred and power. Just this once, he did not want to be her leader, her master - he wanted to be ADAM TAURUS, the man that she loved. Lips upon lips, the pair shared a passionate kiss - naked. They were naked, bare from their covers - their…masks. A long piece of satin black cloth laid beside them - alongside with a porcelain mask with it’s white surface covered in red marks. He rested his forehead upon hers, callous fingertips burying themselves into the ebony locks of Blake Belladonna. His very own subordinate, his partner, his friend - his lover .
A SILENT pledge, a QUIET promise - he would do everything in his power to protect her, he would do all he could to save the girl of his life from danger, even if it meant sacrificing himself. Ah, his mind WANDERED - wandered to the moments that he wished he could share with her, to the memories of the pair since they were just mere faunus children. The man brought his pale lips closer to her rosy ones, touching her skin ever so slightly - how delectable, how soft and fragile. He kissed her firmly and yet with patience, caressing her cheek with his thumb as his other arm wrapped itself around her waist, eventually pulling her closer. She was his, she HAD to be - for he had already given his heart to her since her first smile of such warmness and familiarity.
However, his brows furrowed from such a thought. Would she want to be? Would she want to belong to him and only him? For he was not perfect , he was not a good man - in fact, he was far from that. As doubt circled within the back of his mind, his lustrous eyes lifted to meet her amber hues and there it was again. She was doing it without even trying. Her pair of optics whispered kind words to him, comforting and soothing his dark musings, eventually turning them into sparks of gleaming embers.
“It’s okay .”
They whispered to the beast, the bull - the monster that hid himself behind his own mask, refusing to display emotions. The walls around his cold and dying heart wilted almost immediately, it felt…confusing and at the same time, wonderful. For he knew, that she would accept Adam in his truest form.
It was okay.
It was okay to love her.
- because she loved him too .
Lips upon lips, again and again - they embraced each other till the night no longer engulfed them within it’s dark grasp and the sun was beginning to rise. Lips upon lips, they kissed into the twilight - because between dusk and dawn was where they belonged.
Looking after Magnus wasn’t always bad - the kid didn’t exactly get into that much trouble, so keeping him alive wasn’t as much of a challenge as he thought it’d be at first. However, as easy as it was to keep him from danger, what really sucked was the weather he had to bear (not even mentioning the clothes he had to wear). Blitzen considered himself to be fairly accustomed to cold but some days it felt like he was hanging around in Niflheim.
He felt really bad for Hearth who was far more used to warm, sunny weather. Half of the time he looked like he was on the verge of curling up in a ball and not moving. That’s why Blitz decided to at least help him out a little bit.
I love this blog so much! Would you be able to write something for grantaire being a florist? Maybe with jehan or something? Thank youu!
going to take this a step further and : Nymphs Grantaire and Jehan
shop has a lot of success because they have the most beautiful and
vibrant flowers all year around. No one knows how they do it. When
asked, they just smile playfully and answer “Magic”. No one
has ever figured out they were telling the truth
has ivy twirling around his arms and a magnificent dogwood flower
behind his ear. Jehan has a daisy on the back of their left hand and
a delicate red poppy growing along their neck. People often tell them
how realistic their tattoos look. “Yeaaaaaah. Tattoos. Right.”
emotions impact the flowers, so Grantaire has to take days off when
his spirits are low, otherwise he would make the plants wilt. He has
so much passion, however, that he can make plants grow fast and
make them very strong. Jehan, on the other hand, is more chill, so
they grow plants more consistantly but more slowly
plays the flute to their plants and they sway a little bit, as though
they were dancing
have impossible flowers : black and purple roses, flowers with
beautiful et unnatural gradiants of colours. Plants that don’t die in
winter… Still, no one suspects magic
skins also reflect their emotions. Flowers bloom spontaneously when
they see someone they like, like purple lilacs or red carnations
growing straight on their hearts, before wilting gently and