vvorm
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“Now, look at that,” Stede said, smiling a little. “I knew you had it in you. If you can try to kill your captain in contempt, you can most certainly beg for forgiveness at his feet.”
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There’s a simple balance to them. Jun is in charge, and Minghao is eager to please him. Jun asks, and Minghao answers. Jun tells, and Minghao does.
But sometimes. Sometimes, Jun gets a little cocky. He’ll tell Minghao to do something he doesn't like, or make some snappy comment, and Minghao has to remind him exactly what his place is.
Today is one of those days.
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there's bones in my closet, but you hang stuff anyway by vvorm
Fandoms: SEVENTEEN (Band)
26 Jul 2017
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Three years. Three years is a long time to go without seeing someone you love, although Jun supposes it’s not so bad when you thought the person was dead.
Three years ago, they’d been everything.
Three years ago, Jun had lost everything.
Soft piano pours from the radio. The headlights reflect off of the sign as he passes it. His fingers tighten around the wheel.
Highway 535, exit one mile.
Soon.
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Essek performs multiple extremely scientific, totally normal tests on Ashton. All of them result in boners.
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“Hold on,” Robin interrupts. “Hold on, is this— are you, like. Do you know what masochism is?”
“I know I act like it sometimes, Robin, but I’m not actually fucking twelve,” Steve says.
OR: Eddie has a black hanky in his back pocket.
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“You have better control than me, Guillermo,” Nandor continued evenly. “I rarely bathed as soon as I returned from a victory. I had more pressing needs. You should know that when the bloodlust fades, it is replaced by a different kind of hunger. And I was always ravenous after battle.”
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Post-theatre, Guillermo wants nothing more than to take a hot bath and relax. Nandor, of course, has other ideas. -
and if your right hand causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away by Jack_R
Fandoms: Our Flag Means Death (TV)
11 Apr 2022
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‘Blackbeard said that,’ Izzy says. ‘Fucking Blackbeard told you to tell me to get you fucking pistachios.’
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Six months in, he leans his elbows on the railing and looks at you thoughtfully. “What do you think of Grimshaw?”
You know to be honest with him by now so you say, “He’s a useless twat.”
He hums. A moment’s silence. Then he says, “Izzy, Izzy,” in that slightly comical sing-song he sometimes does when he is in one of his strange moods. “Will you get rid of him for me?”
You will.