sanctuary

a homing ground for (now) multifandom things

[kominum]

Please tell me you're going to write more of the corpse and sailors mars story because that broke me a bit, that was amazing thank you for even continuing it😭💜

ahhh thank you for reading and i’m glad you enjoyed it! unfortunately, i don’t have any plans to continue it :( i’m also a glutton for pure angst sometimes, and this definitely was a result of that yikes!!! 

[kominum]

semoto (corpse x fem!reader)

4 times you think tuxedo mask!corpse could be yours + 1 time you learn to stop feeding your own delusions 

pt. 1 + background info can be found here! please read for context. 

basic rundown of classic!sailor moon (anime) lore ‘creatively’ used in this two-part:

sailor moon and tuxedo mask are star-crossed lovers/soulmates that faced tragedy in a previous life. 

sailor mars (aka you/reader) had a crush on tuxedo mask’s non-hero persona, darien/mamoru, for a while 

sailor moon is the moon princess and tuxedo mask is the earth prince.  

sailor moon’s non-hero persona, usagi/serena, bickered a lot with darien/mamoru.

fem!reader // tw: death mentions, bodily injury, unrequited love to the very end, some unresolved tension. 

1. “Whaddup, baby?” 

Without much reason, you and Corpse trade off calling each other whenever a new monster is defeated. You’re figuring out all of this as much as he is, but he doesn’t have much guidance besides some supernatural force within him. He’s not taking instructions from a black cat and white cat like you and the other girls are who can help fill you in on the gaps -- all he knows is that he’s pivotal to maintaining Earth’s existence, and he’s not exactly thrilled about it.

But the calls are never about the fights, never about your secret identities. In fact, you’d be willing to bet half your grocery funds that he still hasn’t made the connection between you and your Sailor Mars persona and part of you wants to keep it that way. Sometimes you’re mentally exhausted and just want to forget about the events for the day or night, which is why you usually end up calling him soon after everyone disperses or vice versa. It’s almost instinctual these days, and you wonder how long it’ll be before you accidentally crack. 

Right now, the rule of thumb seems to be, “Never trust new flashy shops that open with no warning and have too-good-to-be-true grand opening offers.” This time, some luxurious salon opened up by a famous local hairdresser had been the said attraction. All of you weren’t ignorant enough to believe the sham, but the star of the show had taken the chance to say, “Let’s go scope it out!” when really, she wanted that free haircut. You had called her out on it, but she argued that if anything happened, then perfect, you all could take care of it right then and there. Needless to say, you do not want to be attacked by a monstrous version of Edward Scissorhands ever again. Corpse had made a dark, humorous entrance, a style he’s really adapted to because he knows it pisses Sailor Moon off, 

About an hour later, you’re home and bandaging up some cuts and rubbing salve on bruises, phone on speaker and dial tone blaring through the bathroom. You’re addressing the scrape on your knee when he picks up, a low drawl of, “Whaddup, baby?” comes through and your heart stutters.

The girls call you a number of terms of endearment: sweetie, honey, love, dear, babe, queen, but the last person to address you as ‘baby’ with any amount of affection was your ex-boyfriend.

You scoff to hide how flustered you actually are, quietly hissing as you attempt to put some Neosporin on the scrape and catch onto some stray skin. “Are you drunk?” You ask jokingly, knowing full well he wasn’t. 

“Drunk? Nah. Tired? Yeah. But that’s always.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s old news. But uh, what’s up? Been a while since we last talked.”

“We talked like...three days ago. You called me, remember?”

“Feels like forever. I like talking to you.” 

You wonder if it’s irony or plain, cruel fate that this man will probably be the death of you.

2. “Don’t lay a fucking hand on her.”

It’d been a bad day overall. Lack of sleep compiled on by a growing pile of assignments in addition to having to get your tires checked out for an air leak because your car said, “Not today, honey,” -- everything came together in torrential hurricane and the last thing you needed was to be caught fighting another force of evil.

You’re so tired.

Sailor Moon seems to have all the energy in the world as she dodges attacks left and right, but your muscles are screaming in agony. You’re constantly hunched over and panting, but looking for the right openings to weaken the monster. Luckily, the creature has its back towards you when it dashes over to Venus and you muster everything you have to summon a bow and arrow made of fire, pulling back and making sure your arms don’t quiver. 

But at the last second, your lack of oxygen gets the best of you and your flame sniper barely manages to graze the monster’s side and narrowly avoid Jupiter. It’s enough to cause a distraction, but the anger in its glare as it’s directed at you elicits surrender in your heart. There’s nothing left in your bones to help you run or hide, and your knees buckle painfully onto the concrete. Everything else hurts so bad that you’re not bothered by the sediments digging through your skin. Venus is running towards you but she’s not quick enough, and you feel your eyes begin to slip. If this is what death feels like, then so be it. You hope that the girls’ mourning will be short, that they can still complete the ultimate mission, and--

“Don’t lay a fucking hand on her,” an angered, frustrated baritone spits out and you’re torn between laughing or crying. In a separate romantic context, you’d like the idea of wholeheartedly leaving your life in his hands. But in this reality when either of you could die at any moment and the world be consumed in darkness, it’s something you would never wish upon anyone. It’s a different situation than your bonds with the girls. 

The pain is enough to send you in and out of consciousness for the next few minutes. But strong, warm arms sit you up, though they’re slightly trembling and keeping you awake. “Hey, you okay? What happened to you? You’re stronger than this.” 

“G-great way of telling me, fuckthathurts, that I was...shit today,” you joke, but hiss when you try to move your legs and the deep scrapes scream in agony. 

“Take it easy, ‘kay? Or your princess is gonna have my head--”

“Thanks man, but we got it from here,” said princess interjects, hoisting you up with the help of the other girls. “You can go.”

“Speak of the devil,” Corpse chuckles and helps make the transfer less painful, a lot less awkward jostling around. “Look, I saved her--”

“And I said thank you. We’ll see you around,” your stubborn friend dismisses. 

“You’re welcome, baby.”

“Not your baby, piss off!”

3. “I’m always gonna be there for you, no matter what.”

It’s soft yet sonorous, deep yet light. Twilight hours are cast high above you both, separated by walls and buildings connected over wires and unseen forces. Technology is the sharpest, double-edged sword you’ve seen and used on this planet, because Corpse has never felt so close yet so far than in this moment. Your mind deludes you further by indulging in believing he’s right there next to you, strong arms holding you much like he did when you were on the brink of unconsciousness just two weeks ago.

Wishing, hoping, wanting. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.

The one year anniversary of your ex-lover’s death looms over you on another sleepless, caffeine-fueled night. It’s no surprise when his custom ringtone chimes softly throughout your room during these graveyard hours, but it certainly raises your eyebrows when after a minute or two, he asks tentatively, “Are you gonna go visit him?”

There’s no question as to who or where “him” is. You haven’t been since the funeral, if you’re honest, swept up by work, classes, and your new side job. But Corpse doesn’t know that, and you know it’d be the right thing to do. Maybe it’d help settle the storm of anxiety (or guilt?) that swirls in your gut on a daily basis. 

“I think so,” you reply quietly after a moment of silent contemplation, already thinking ahead to what the drive might be like. “He deserves better.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Charming, compassionate, thoughtful, absolutely too good for this world -- the three-letter affirmation nearly slips off your tongue without a second thought. You can’t risk him seeing you, putting two and two together, and potentially forever losing him to his long-lost princess. Selfish delusion creeps through your veins and you fight back the shiver of guilt that runs down your spine. 

“I think I’ll be okay. Might be a visit made best alone, but I really appreciate you even asking.”

“Let me know if you change your mind. You know I’m always gonna be there for you, no matter what. Right?”

Warmth. Strength. Oblivion. 

“I know. Thank you.”

4. “I don’t have anyone else but you.”

“Why are we doing this again?”

“Because we can’t sleep and have nothing better to do.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” you chuckle into your phone, free hand swirling a pot of instant ramen. “I have better things to do at 3 in the morning than watch The Poltergeist with you.” 

“Then go fucking do it,” Corpse laughs teasingly. 

“And leave you high and dry? I don’t have the heart.”

“I mean, you really don’t have to--”

“Seriously, I was awake anyways. Just giving you shit.”

“One of these days, you’re gonna fucking regret it.”

Ramen done and lamp on, you snuggle beneath your blanket and start the traditional countdown to pressing ‘play’ on the movie. Neither of you really had the technology to screen share on this Discord call (your laptop is almost on its last leg and your apartment WiFi can be spotty at times), so it seemed better this way. 

The next roughly 2 hours are filled with laughter, small jump scare yelps, and quiet yelling at the ignorance and twisted logic of horror movie characters. But towards the end of the movie (and arguably the climax), your eyelids start to droop, body succumbing to the warmth of your bed. The screaming and cheesy, orchestrated music are all background noise as your breathing evens out, shifting in and out of consciousness. Ending credits roll on screen before you know it, and the only think that rips you awake is Corpse’s gentle calling of your name. 

“Sorry, fell asleep,” you murmur tiredly and squint at your screen, languidly closing out the window and letting the Discord window take precedence. “Tells you how riveting I found this movie.”

“Should’ve just let you sleep, my bad,” he chuckles. “Thanks for staying up with me.” 

“Yeah of course -- I wanted to, just got a little sleepy. Wanna watch another one?”

“ ‘m actually gonna try to sleep. Don’t wanna bother you too much. You got work tomorrow?”

“Not ‘til noon so it’s okay. You sure?” 

“Yeah...yeah. I’ve only had like...3 hours of sleep lately. Fucking awful.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“You do enough by just letting me call at the fucking crack of dawn, seriously.”

“I’m your only option, let’s be real,” and your voice is a mix of fatigue, humor, and some bitter sardonicism. There’s no malice intended, and you really hope it’s conveyed accurately. 

“...I don’t have anyone else but you,” he all but murmurs. Your heart clenches painfully, anxiety and fear and love surging through your lungs. Those words don’t hold the connotation you desperately wish for, but what matters most is that he knows he’s not alone and you’re not the only one he’s got. You verbalize as such and he only hums back in a façade of agreement before wishing you a good night. 

And sometimes, while you do know that your girls have your back and that you love them to death and would take a bullet for them any day, there are nights where you really do feel the same.

That you have no one else but Corpse. 

5. “He was never yours.”

There’s nothing you hate more than psychological monsters. You’d probably take physical pain over mind games any day because at least, it’d heal faster to some degree, or there would be a more surefire way of minimizing symptoms. But sometimes, there are days when the egotistical chess players of hell come to wreck havoc on the world, and you get lost in their trap. It’s annoying, a pain in the ass, and affects you a lot more than it should at times. 

This particular instance makes you want to quit. It makes you, Sailor fucking Mars, guardian of the planet of fire and passion and perseverance, leave all of this behind right here and now. You’ve never hated yourself more for feeling so weak. 

You’re not sure what to call it -- altered dimension, distorted reality -- but all you know is that you and the princess are kept in separate cages hanging from an endless ceiling, labelled as baits for tuxedo mask/Corpse to come. The enemy lets you both stew in the confines of the metal, watching with glee as your partner attempts to cut through the rails with her tiara and ultimately fail. It seems they’ve thought of everything because you’re not their #1 enemy today. Or maybe you are. You’re not sure anymore, even as they launch into villainous speech. 

“Nothing brings me more joy than watching you lose all your energy to fight, both physically and mentally. I’ve seen all your dreams and wishes. Nothing’s more fickle and double-edged than love, no? We shall see who the prince really belongs to.”

Mention of the prince has you snapping your head to meet the enemy’s eyes, slowing squinting as they catch yours and begin cackling like your demise is racing at the speed of an oncoming train. Your princess looks confused, but dread is heavy mercury filling your veins because you know, you know, your best held secret is coming to fruition. 

“What the fuck are they talking about?” She hisses across the void. 

“I don’t know,” you lie through your teeth, eyes flicking toward every corner of the cage now to find a way out. This isn’t how you wanted it to happen, much less happen at all. 

“Are they talking about Corpse?”

“Is there any other prince they’re referring to?”

“Do you always have to be a smartass with me?”

“Somebody’s got to,” you allow yourself a slight reprieve of laughter. It’d be dumb to try to set fire to this thing, knowing you’d only burn yourself in the process. Your exorcism tags also have no use and you can hear the clock ticking down in your mind. 

“Think it’s pretty fucking rude to keep a couple of girls in cages, not gonna lie,” a baritone voice cuts through. It sends temporary sparks of relieve down your spine. Perhaps you’ll have a fighting chance to get out of here. 

“Welcome, welcome! I’d like to get straight to the point, but maybe we’ll up the stakes a little bit before you answer my question,” they tease cartoonishly and you want to roll your eyes.

“Is this a fucking test--”

Both you and sailor moon yelp as the cages drop into a miraculously (or not) appearing large body of water, but still hanging just above the surface so you have enough air to breathe. You look out and down to see how deep this pit is, and though it might be some elaborate illusion seemingly defying all laws of physics, you see nothing but descending darkness. You don’t even have to hear the question to know what the enemy is going for, to know that they’re trying to hit you where it hurts the most, and you loathe how cliché and goddamn unfair this whole situation has turned out to be. 

“So, dear prince. Pretend that the fate of the world depends on the princess. Before you are just two girls you know and care for, stuck, captured, and on the brink of drowning. You may only save one. Who would it be?”

It’s fucked up. Corpse seems stunned, perplexed by the question. “What the absolute fuck is this? Just let them go if you had an issue with me.”

“Quite frankly, I have an issue with allof you, so this is only fair. Now, what’s your answer?”

Corpse catches your eyes first. Is it from the water that your eyes seem to be brimming with unshed tears? Is it stubbornness or defeat in the way your hands clench around the cage bars?

And this is why, once again, you hate enemies who strictly play mind games. Confirmation that Corpse would never love you the way you do him, knowledge to the princess that she’s the source of your deepest unhappiness despite the bickering friendship, realization to Corpse that the girl he’s treasured so dearly and maybe unknowingly kept as a bit of a placeholder was doomed to love him -- pain on all of you, lashes and scars on what was once believed to be unbreakable bonds, as soon as the villain explains it all with sick glee. 

“Do I have to give you an answer?”

“If you don’t, I’ll really consider drowning them since I honestly wasn’t before.”

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“Ah, just to make things a little more interesting -- I’m aware you and the princess speak regularly outside of all this.”

They what? This was certainly news to you. 

“And?” Corpse asks somewhat defensively. 

Don’t say it. Don’t tell him. Please don’t--

“Say Mars, don’t you enjoy those late night calls with him, too? Though I must say, meeting in a hospital while your ex-boyfriend is having life-altering emergency surgery seems rather morbid in its own respect.”

You don’t have to look at him to know and hear the gears turning in his brain, the villain allowing this brief silence to let everything sink in. There’s a disbelieving whisper of your name, your real name, but he’s cut off from saying anything more. 

“You have 10 seconds.” 

You know the stories. You know the couple’s tragic end in their previous lifetime. You know that as much as the princess denies feeling anything but annoyance towards Corpse, she looks forward to seeing him. There’s a certain softness that he treats her with, different from the platonic affection that he showers you in. You’ve lied to yourself for too long. 

The countdown has no chance to finish when Corpse spits out a name that’s not yours, your eyes squeezing shut to fight back the tears that threaten to flood over. Everything disappears and you land on your butt -- a quick sweep of your surroundings registers two things: Corpse running over to your princess and the villain standing proudly at the chaos they’ve created. It’s instinct that has brings your powers to surface, arms and fingers quickly notching a fiery arrow with pinpoint aim at the imaginary target on their head. “Move!” You yell at the two and they scramble to gather their bearings and avoid your rage. 

They don’t run or cower. The maniacal grin only grows wider and more sinister and you’re this close to screaming expletives. 

“Hurts, doesn’t it, to know that he was never yours?”

It’s the last thing they say before you release the arrow, watching with no remorse as they burn and disintegrate. When the dust disappears and the dimension shifts back to some abandoned building with an exit, you run. 

You run until your lungs burst, until they scream over the aching of your heart, until your costume dissolves and you’re finally buried under the blankets. You turn on ‘Do Not Disturb’ and only allow notifications from a select few important numbers.

And maybe you’ll keep running. Maybe you’ll go off the grid. Maybe you’ll let your voicemail inbox fill up with unheard messages, apologies that you don’t and never will deserve. 

But the love you feel and cherish will never fade. It’ll run alongside you; a bright, burning star, forever bittersweet--

Forever out of reach. 

[kominum]

@thefvckvp replied:  this was absolutely amazing, loved it!!

i’m glad you enjoyed it!!! thank you for reading!

[kominum]

@pastelvixenbeauty replied: That was so good, i love angst and you did such a good job at making me feel sailor mars emotions 💜💜

thank you so much!! i have some loose vague ideas that i might try writing out in the future so this was a bit of a test run -- but also my brain was melting in the second half so i’m happy to hear that the emotions still came through :’) 

[kominum]

rewatching old sailor moon and thought of like... disgruntled tuxedo mask!corpse but with unrequited love because i’m a glutton for angst

wc: ~2.2k 

warnings: death of a minor character, implicit knowledge of sailor moon lore, modern twist, unedited

please send in ideas you might have that i could write short blurbs for! this was honestly fun to write. 

It’s a scratch he can’t itch. It’s what has him waking up in cold sweats, confused and moderately annoyed that his hard-earned sleep has been so rudely interrupted. He hates the cape, he hates the itchy suit, he abhors the top hat – and the only things he doesn’t really hate are his baton and endless supply of darkened roses.

The first time he transformed, he was half-asleep and struggling to understand why he was speeding down the highway and parking two blocks away from some random back alley. His pain was relatively dulled, which was surprising, and his body suddenly possessed a world of fighting skills that felt foreign yet familiar. All he could recognize was a slightly disheveled woman cursing and just trying her best against some odd form of demon spawn, and before he knew it, he’d thrown down a dark purple rose and engaged in combat. Once said woman found an opening, she took off her headband/tiara, performed a throw that would put professional frisbee players to shame, and the monster disintegrated into dust.

“Jesus Christ,” he panted, body hunched over and hands on his knees. “What the fuck was that?”

“More like who the fuck are you?”

“Fuck if I know,” he muttered and dusted himself off.  

“What’s with your get-up anyways?” She failed to hide her snickering. “You’re 3 decades behind.”

“Do I look like I want to fight in a suit? Plus, you’re fighting in some rendition of a schoolgirl uniform.” Her black thigh-high boots were killer, but he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction.

“You should’ve seen what it was before, but I was able to make some changes. Good heads-up for you and—”

“Sailor Moon, are you okay?!”

Oh. So she’s got a talking cat, too. What in fresh hell was going on? Did he take something? But also—“Your name is Sailor Moon?”

“We’re working on the name change,” she grumbled, bending down to let said feline jump up her arm and settle on her shoulder. “Anyways, uh…thanks. I was kind of in a bind, but I’m usually not I swear. Good timing, I guess?”

“If that’s what you wanna call it.” But she was already in the wind, hopping from roof to roof with no inhibitions, and left him completely dumbfounded.

His silly attire dissolved back into his previous clothing as he ambled back towards his car, thought not exactly at his own will. But he shrugged, slid into the car seat, and dialed the only person he could think of who would readily pick up at this ungodly hour of…2:37AM. That was just the start, and he can’t tell if things went downhill from there.

-

He should backtrack.

He met you almost two years ago at a hospital.

You had been waiting anxiously for your boyfriend to come out of surgery after being in a bad car accident, biting your nails, occasionally pacing back and forth, smoothing your hands worriedly against your jeans, and gnawing your bottom lip to death. It was midday, sometime after lunch, and he’d come in for some routine checkup he can’t remember what for now, and sat a few seats away from you in the tiny hospital coffee shop. He’s no therapist or expert, but he highly doubted that any caffeine would alleviate your anxiety. Yet you sat there with two to-go cups and a granola bar wrapper, and something told him to stick around for now.

He’s never been one for a lot of small talk, but you looked to be about his age and no one else was with you. Tragedy tasted most bitter when alone, and some force of the universe told him to at least say something, anything. So he stuffed his hands into his hoodie and shuffled awkwardly to your table, tentatively asking a, “Hey, uh…is everything okay?”

You’d looked up at him with wild eyes on the verge of tears, heart battering against your chest, and the only intelligible thing that left your mouth was a “Huh?”

And he’d casted a gentle grin, eyes laced with a mixture of pity and concern, and asked again his first question. “My boyfriend’s in surgery. He got in a bad accident. There’s um…roughly two hours left, I think.”

“And you thought coffee would make it better?” He jutted his chin towards your large cups.

“Hot chocolate,” you chuckled. “I’m not keen on torturing myself like that, not now at least.”

“Well, I’ve got an appointment soon but I should be done before his surgery’s over…want me to come check up on you?”

Dumbfounded was the best way to describe your expression, and he was so close to retracting his offer before you gave him one of the most thankful smiles he’d seen in many years. “I’d really appreciate that.”

He nodded. “Sounds good then. Give me a sec.”

At the counter, he paid for another cup of hot chocolate and added in a chocolate chip cookie for good measure before bringing it back to you. “I hear chocolate helps.”

“Thank you, again. Go, don’t want to make you late.”

But an hour and a half later in the waiting area outside surgery, the doctor came out with a solemn expression, and you all but collapsed into the plastic chairs, tears leaking like waterfalls from your eyes. Part of him wanted to bail and go because there wasn’t much he could do, but it wouldn’t be right to leave you to drive home now. He wanted to make sure that you were calmed down, all cried out, and breathing properly so you could at least operate a vehicle safely.

The same unknown force had him offering you his number in case you needed anyone to talk to, yet the conversation sat empty for weeks until curiosity and guilt ate at him. He tapped out a message, deleting it, then another one, more deleting, before he settled on a plain, “It’s the guy from the hospital. I know it’s been a while but…how are you?”

Your reply was almost instantaneous, to which he worried if he’d accidentally woken you up at 4:13AM. First, it’s a casual, “hey, thanks for checking up on me! I’m doing okay,” but he knew better. And the other shoe dropped in the form of a simple, “I miss him.”

It’s a quiet, heartwarming friendship. You know nothing specific about him – he’s incredibly vague on any identifying information. Hell, you’d be willing to bet that the name at the hospital was a fake one. Nevertheless, he’s one of your closest friends. You know he mainly works online, has a lot of trouble sleeping, is chronically ill and has a number of medical conditions, his general disposition and feelings on things, but overall, just wonderfully easy to talk to.

Yet something just feels wrong about falling in love with him. It’s a horrid combination of guilt and disbelief. Are you rebounding? Are you subconsciously searching for your dead ex-boyfriend? Are you so desperate for romantic connections that you’ve twisted yourself into believing you love a man that you’ve seen fewer times than the number of fingers you have?

You come to peace with it when his custom ringtone chimes softly on your nightstand in the middle of the night. Rain or shine, stars or none, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him. Nothing has ever woken you up so quickly, not even alarms on interview days. “Hello?”

“Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“Kind of, but it’s fine. What’s up? Wait,” you interrupt yourself and listen carefully to your speaker. “Are you…driving?”

“…yeah.”

“Should I ask from or to where?”

“I…honestly don’t know. Something felt off, felt like I had to get out of my place and just fucking do something. So uh, I drove somewhere and just started driving back home.”

You curl up under your sheets on your side and plug your earbuds into the phone. “Well, did it get rid of whatever you were feeling?”

“I think so? Honestly couldn’t fucking tell you. Still really bizarre to me.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” you murmur. “Well, feel free to call me whenever you feel like that again.”

“I don’t wanna fuck up your sleep schedule though. Feel like it’ll happen more often than I’d like.”

“How about this – if I don’t pick up, it’ll just be my nice way of saying ‘fuck off, too busy sleeping right now’?”

A soft, deep chuckle warms your chest and cheeks. “Sounds good. So how’ve you been?”

“Well, you know…”

It’s the same night that you think you might have a chance at love again. You fall asleep with his voice weaving stories and tales in your ears and wake up to a message that says, “Wow, didn’t know I was so fucking boring that it made you snore so loud.” The hope that creeps through your veins is dangerous and thrums urgently whenever you get a call or message from him.

And as bright as a star, it all comes crashing down in a firey blaze.

You crash into a girl as mysterious and serenely beautiful as the moon with a talking black cat one afternoon. She exudes a gorgeous amount of confidence in her stance as she protects you from a creature that looks like it’s out of a horror video game, and you can only stare in awe. The cat from before yells instructions at you, throwing what looks like a pen with a red cap on it and you blindly follow them. Your subsequent red heels feel incredibly comfortable and you can’t remember the last time you wore a skirt – but there’s no time to ponder as you push the girl you were admiring out of harm’s way and somehow manage to direct fire at them from your fingertips.

The monster burns and screams in agony before getting hit with what looks like a glowing frisbee. Your savior wipes the dust off her outfit before extending a hand out to you, “Welcome to the club, Sailor Mars.”

Say what now?

“There’s gotta be a better name than that,” is the first thing you say as you get pulled up. She throws her head back and lets out a charmingly obnoxious laugh. “We’ll work on changing it. I can tell we’re gonna be good friends.”

“Her name ended up being a rip-off of my name,” the cat quips and receives a scowl from the supposed plagiarizer. “I’m Luna, and this is Sailor Moon, or Lunaria she says.”

“You gotta admit, that’s cutting it a little close,” you agree and Lunaria flips the bird. “How the fuck am I going to change Sailor Mars? Also, can I do anything about this outfit?”

“We can go shopping tomorrow for sure. Luna and I can fill you on everything and – oh, before I forget, there’s a guy—”

“So it looks like you don’t need my help?”

You freeze in your steps, startled by the familiar baritone approaching you two. He was involved in all this?

“I told you, I don’t need your help—”

“Is she new?”

“Yeah, which means, we really don’t need your help. She’s got actual fire power. Literal fire.”

“That’s pretty fucking cool,” he accepts. “Good to meet you.”

You spot a set of veiny fingers that appears in your peripheral and you tentatively turn in his direction, hoping that your hair will obstruct your face as much as possible. “Same,” your throat manages to squeak out as his warm hand engulfs yours in a firm handshake.

“Get out of here, Corpse,” Lunaria chides and lets go of you to push a finger to his chest.

“I’m only here because you fucking needed saving. Now you’ve got another person dragged in.”

“I told you, I’m not some fucking damsel in distress,” she hisses. The mirth in his visible eye only causes the infuriation to grow and swirl more vigorously in her gut.

You watch the exchange from the sidelines as Corpse’s teasing only increases and provokes Lunaria further, disheartened that you’ve never heard him laugh so much in one exchange before. Dread from deep within your veins begins to freeze around your heart, something so set and undeniable that causes your brain to realize that falling in love with him was a mistake. It was the kind of mistake that would strike you with pain for years and the intense foreshadowing has you spinning on your heel and bounding through an alleyway. Your outfit shifts back to what you’d been wearing before, the characteristic weight of your phone in your back pocket seeming heavier than ever.

You call him that night, holding in a deep breath when the dial tone breaks midway. A rustle, a breath, and then, “Hey what’s up?”

Oh god, you scream to yourself as your heart shatters at the bottom of your chest. His voice, again, cannot be misconstrued as anyone else’s – the inflection, the tone, the volume, everything belonged to him.

And the universe told you then and there that he, undoubtedly, belonged to her.

[delicrieux]

PERSEPHONE: A RE-IMAGINED MYTH. 

pairing— hades!corpse husband x persephone!fem!reader   genre— greek gods au!, fluff, angst, friends to lovers, comedy (sorta), everyone is dramatic for no reason warnings— mentions of death and blood, implied sexual content (SFW! very minimal, you won’t even notice I swear) cast— corpse husband as hades, valkyrae as aphrodite, ash nature nymph, sykkuno as apollo’s discipline, y/n as persephone word count—15.2k

—for you, love blooms somewhere in the fields of greece; for him, it had already begun upon your first visit to olympus. it took only three dates to realise neither could go without the other. such a relationship was not explicitly forbidden, though not encouraged, either. alas, the course of true love never did run smooth.  

author’s note—this was inspired by @tvblonde ‘s ask and is also my gift to you for 15k followers. due to greek mythology having a frightening amount of incest, none of that is in here, as it is a re-imagined myth. demeter  is in no way related to zeus and made persephone out of mud and flower petals:) i would also like to take this time and sincerely apologise for all he art/lit refs (of which you need to know zero in order to enjoy this fic im just a nerd) in this fic, and it’s also a reason it’s written like a myth/play/pride and prejudice movie. anyway, sit back, relax, and enjoy! as always, lmk what you think xx

masterlist. ko-fi.

SOMEWHERE IN ANCIENT GREECE, in the vast, swaying red-orange meadow, you set down your woven basket and take a moment to breathe in the pollen mixed fresh air before your eyes flutter shut; take a moment to bask in the sun, in springtime, in the pleasant tune of insects that break the shrill silence. Solitude had never felt quite as wonderful as it does now. Olympus is always too crowded.

Keep reading

[kominum]

whoever said it was okay for Tom to show up in an all black suit for kimmel

is responsible for my snatched soul, I am infuriated and incredibly grateful at the same time

[kominum]

slipstream // t.h.

hello again! thanks for all the love on ‘swept away’ -- it was unexpected, but i’m glad you guys liked it! got the urge to write again. feel free to leave asks about anything (general q’s, blurbs, etc.). thanks again!

genre: very slight angst (caused by grad student stress), slight fluff, uni!au, mechanic!tom 

prompt: you make one too many trips to the car shop, but at least there’s some consistency in a cute mechanic named tom. 

length: ~2.4k

Graduate school is nothing but a whirlwind. There’s either no sleep or too much sleep, no food or too much free food, no disappointed professors or all disappointed professors, and so forth. Your advisor is rightfully hard on you. After all, it’s not like you can slack off for trying to get your PhD, and there’s no way you’ll be allowed a ton of room to bullshit things. But if there’s anything you didn’t expect to have on your plate, it was car troubles.

There hasn’t been anything drastic. You haven’t had an accident or anything (knock on fucking wood right now)  -- it’s just that there’s kind of shitty infrastructure around the city. The roads are bumpy and always under construction, there’s loose gravel on anything that isn’t the highway, and all of this has caused you to go to your local mechanic store two weeks after moving in. Your first visit was uneventful in the sense that you were able to make an appointment, got there on time (albeit did a shitty parking job which you probably got judged for since they asked for your keys to pull into an empty shop spot), and they fixed one of the tires that had, unsurprisingly, a nail in it. The mechanic who had come in to let you know the job was done was a shorter-than-average man who didn’t look any older than 20 years old, his face all sharp lines and shadows yet still possessing child-like features. 

“Ma’am, we fixed your tire, um, there was a nail in it. It should be all good now though, so here’s your receipt.”

“Of course there was a nail,” you laughed, internally cursing your luck. You flashed him your brightest smile and felt extremely thankful that it wasn’t anything more damaging. “I really appreciate it.”

“Of course ma’am, we always try to provide the best service. Is there anything else we can help you with today?” He asked professionally, unconsciously chewing on his bottom lip and clasping his hands together. His dark brown eyes flickered towards the shop area as you hum and think about it. After a couple of seconds, you shook your head and gave him another grin.

“Well, if there’s nothing else, you have a good day and come back and see us if you have anymore issues.”

“If I have to come back again within two weeks, I’ll have to bring you something as an apology,” you chuckled and quickly read his name tag. Tom, you registered, probably short for Thomas. It’s a fitting name for him. How you came to that conclusion, you’re not quite sure yourself. 

“It’s our job, ma’am. I’ll pull your car to the front so you can be on your way,” he said before bounding off back into the shop section. His brown curls were held in place by the safety glasses perched on top of his head and your eyes lingered on him before exiting the waiting area. There was no time in lusting after someone who you would probably never see again, or at least that’s what you had thought at the time. 

Tom stepped out of your car and you found yourself admiring how well the black short-sleeve (which you assumed was to accommodate the summer weather) mechanic outfit suited him. He twirled your keychain around his index finger as he made his way around the front of your car to hand them back to you, his calloused fingers gently grazing the palm of your hand as he placed the metal there. “Don’t come back too soon,” he says in a soft voice with a tilt of his head and you hoped he couldn’t see the blush rushing to your cheek. With nothing but the sounds of passing cars and the wind in your ears, the moment felt oddly apt and it only made your heart pound in your chest.

“And you don’t work too hard,” you quipped back just as gently as you made your way to the driver’s seat. 

“By the way, nice music choice!” He hollered right before you got in and escaped back into the front door, having left you momentarily confused. But as you turned your car on, you realized that you never turned off your Bluetooth on your phone, the range having been close enough to automatically continue playing whatever song you had on before entrusting your car to them. Black Sheep by Metric halfway sung into blasted through your speaker and you couldn’t do anything but bite your bottom lip and laugh in slight embarrassment. It wasn’t until you got back on the road that you released the breath you didn’t know you were holding, and your thoughts that night were consumed by a boyish voice and caramel curls. 

--

Not totally untrue to your word but unfortunately for you, the tire air pressure signal (or whatever the official name is) came back on again after two and a half weeks, leaving you to groan and rest your head on the steering wheel at a traffic light at 9 in the morning. Part of you wants to say it’s just the cold weather that randomly blasted in for a weekend, but you’re worried that it could be another forsaken nail (because again, with the terrible roads and never-ending construction, you’d be surprised if it wasn’t a nail) and so on a busy morning without the foresight to make an appointment, you risk the walk-in wait. 

Luckily, they have a free air check station that you shakily maneuver your car towards, eyes searching for the man that plagued your thoughts just weeks ago. As you set your car into park, you lean back against the headrest, lids falling over your vision as you try to remember everything that needs to be accomplished today. You have two night classes tonight, an assignment to turn in, another assignment you need to work on, a book you should read a chapter or two of before tomorrow, a meeting--

The rap of knuckles against your window makes you flinch and snap your eyes open, fingers fumbling to hit the switch that rolls your window down. And to your pleasant surprise, Tom was the one that was there to take care of you. “And she returns,” he laughs, finding the comfort to cross his arms on the sill of your open car window. “You got the thing for me that you mentioned last time?”

“I didn’t know you were working today,” you say apologetically. “Can we take a rain check? I promise I’ll bring something next time.”

“Chances are I’ll always be here, so I’m holding you to this,” he laughs and at that moment, the sun behind him peeks out from a cloud and basks him in the most wonderful golden glow. “What seems to be the problem, darling?” 

“My, um, tire pressure light came back on. Just worried it’s a nail again,” you try to pass off casually, but somehow Tom can tell it’s eating at you. Clearly you’re a student -- the city is pretty much a college-town and the community highly revolves around the university. It’s not very often that young people move in for job opportunities. 

“I’ll look at the tires and we’ll go from there. Hang tight,” Tom moves back and pats the car door a couple of times before moving towards their air machine/gauge. You roll your window halfway up and turn the volume on the music a little louder, forcing yourself to relax for a few minutes. For the most part, it’s not very often that you’ve been called ‘darling’. The most you ever get are ‘sweetheart’ or ‘honey’, and while you know it’s probably dependent on where you live, the endearment still fills you with a small amount of love and warmth. 

In the time that passes, you see Tom flit back and forth between tires, testing and inflating as needed. There is so much peace in this moment, and you almost want to pout or frown as Tom puts up the equipment and comes back to your window. “The pressure was low on all the tires so I inflated them, probably because of the cold weather. It’ll happen sometimes,” he explains as you roll the window all the way down again. You nod in understanding and try to give him the most appreciative smile you can muster. 

“I really appreciate it -- I seriously need to learn how to do this myself,” you say, slightly chastising yourself. You don’t like the feeling of being this helpless, of having to rely on so many other people for things that you could easily take care of yourself. 

“Darling, that’s what we’re here for. Come back and see us if you have any issues again, okay?” Tom waves off, secretly hoping that you will come in again. He knows that there’s another car waiting behind you, but as selfish as it sounds, he doesn’t want you to leave. 

“And I’ll bring something for you next time, I promise. You have a good rest of your day, Tom.”

“Don’t break that promise!” 

--

You kind of had to break your promise. But it was completely out of your control and totally unplanned because the next time you see Tom is at the grocery store. 

Since you were so used to just seeing Tom in his mechanic uniform, you never bothered to think about recognizing him in regular outerwear. About a month has passed since the last visit, your tires still holding out and going unharmed for the most part. The two of you are currently in the pasta aisle, you loading packs of different pasta shapes into your basket and him deciding on which kind of marinara he wanted. The side profile strikes a familiar chord in you, yet it takes two more glances for you to realize that it certainly is him. You freeze and crouch in front of the shelves under the guise of trying to find the thin spaghetti. Out of habit, you pull the sleeve of your sweater over your hand, ball it into a fist, and keep it in front of your lips to stop you from shaking.

Do you say hi? Do you just wait for him to recognize you? Does he even remember you? Do you look presentable right now? Does your breath smell? Does he truly want to see you right now? Does he--

“Is pasta usually this riveting?” A smooth voice whispers next to you and you almost fall flat on your bottom. The fight-or-flight response is similar to when he had knocked against your car window all those weeks ago, and you were so caught up in your head that you didn’t realize he had seen and approached you. 

“I, uh, found the thin spaghetti!” You nervously yelp, grabbing the top pack of a very apparent stack of them, and you want nothing more than to just melt into the ground. Next to you, Tom laughs as he straightens back up before offering you a hand. It strikes you slightly strange to not see them covered in the black gloves that he wears at the shop, but it definitely doesn’t stop you from accepting his support. He’s got a basket of his own in his other hand, and you flush at the fact that yours has nothing but pasta and a bag of Clementines.

“How’s your car been?” He asks, searching for conversation and overcome with the need to see you for longer. You tuck some hair behind your ear and gather the courage to keep eye contact with him. “It’s been fine, nothing that needs me to come by again. Good for my wallet, not the best for you guys, I guess,” you shakily joke, internally relieved when he snickers. 

“Don’t forget the air checks are free though,” he reminds you. 

“I feel like if I went too often, you guys would start charging me.”

“They can take it off my paycheck. At the end of the day, it’s just air,” and then Tom winks at you. He winks at you and now you feel like a bashful freshman talking to the most handsome senior boy in high school. It’s the most confusing mixture of curiosity, embarrassment, nervousness, and affection, and does nothing but stunt your thought process. You’re going to say something stupid, sooner or later because your brain is just on overdrive now. 

“I couldn’t possibly let that happen,” you chuckle, now avoiding his gaze. “Still got some shopping to do?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a list. You?”

“Same. Please don’t judge though. Pasta is cheap and filling. Perfect for my budget.”

“Then you should let me treat you sometime,” Tom says before he can stop himself. He got ahead of himself and can only stutter out, “I mean--uh--I mean like, if you don’t want to that’s totally fine and I’m sorry for being--uh--so forward but, yeah, um...yeah.” The brunet stuffs his hands into his pockets and chews on his bottom lip, cursing himself for not being able to just wait, but he’d been thinking about you for far too long, hoping every day that you would be back at the car shop. 

Nothing can stop the giddy smile from appearing on your face. It’s partially because of the fact that the man looks so sheepish at this moment, the combination of the charismatic charm from work combined with this shy demeanor that really strikes you as just plain wholesome. You’re glad that it isn’t just you and that the “darling”s said are more than just a casual nickname he says to every lady. There’s not enough time in this world to sit back when there’s an opportunity right in front of you, and you’d be absolutely insane to not take it by the hand.

“Well, yes if you’re offering, but how about we finish our shopping and maybe you can come over to try some of my world-famous Swedish meatballs?” You ask in a cheeky tone, being even more forward than he had been. Tom gladly offers you the crook of his elbow, waiting for you to loop your hand around it. 

And as you dive into this headfirst, you can only hope that he, too, can see the brightness in your eyes, the same excitement you currently detect in his very own gaze at the realization that this could be the start of something truly, truly wonderful.

[kominum]

swept away // t.h.

hello, new writing blog here! i have another writing blog for a different fandom, but i wanted to make a separate one for t.h./p.p. scenarios. since this is new, i’ll be writing for prompts that interest me, but you can send in some as well for blurbs and whatnot! 

genre: some angst, some fluff, pining, uni!au 

prompt: you’re baking cookies in the communal kitchen at 3am and you’re really angry and hungry (adjustment from the prompt where another person is angry and hungry)

length: ~1.8k

This should not become a habit, you think to yourself. In fact, it shouldn’t have happened enough to begin with to even come close to becoming a habit, but after a couple of nights with too much alcohol and hangovers you’d rather never experience again, you’re here. 

Here, in this communal kitchen, at 3 in the fucking morning, baking chocolate chip cookies in the oven. 

Yes, homemade cookies are better. Yes, the tear-apart cookies from the grocery store are low-key trash. Yes, you know that they’re really not that good for you. But no, your professor decided to be an insufferable asshole during a physical chemistry lab session for the fifth fucking time, and you’re going to unwind somehow. You know that if you don’t, someone else will get the bad end of the stick aka someone will unfairly be on the receiving end of your murderous stare and you’d rather not get on anyone’s bad side. There’s a part of you that desires to be liked by everyone, which is probably 80% of the explanation as to why you let this asinine professor walk all over you for four hours a week.

So here you are, messy hair, lids heavy, eye bags dark, curled up in a chair and staring angrily at the oven, just waiting for the cookies to cook and let themselves be devoured by you. In the last few times, no one has been here, and you’re not worried about anyone catching you clad in a fandom hoodie and stained sweatpants. 

As you’re thinking about all the different ways you could “accidentally” spill a harmless but staining chemical on top of your professor’s hair (especially the one that he very first yelled at you about because he truly thought you were stupid enough to not wear gloves, but instead the chemical had stained past the nitrile for fuck’s sake), soft padded steps make themselves known behind you. Naturally, you freeze and peer into the reflection of the oven cover, eyes trying to make out the details of the person behind you. A young man walks in donned in an oversized t-shirt with some scrawled text on it and pink pajama pants who later jumps back when he spots you around the corner. You watch him flinch in the reflection and almost drop his unwrapped bags of microwave popcorn before you turn in your chair and just...stare.

He’s cute. Despite the outfit, he’s ridiculously cute, and you can’t find the energy to muster a smile or even say hi. So essentially, he’s receiving a bitch stare while fumbling with the unpopped popcorn, finally managing to place it correctly in the microwave and glance in any direction but you, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his thigh. Your 3AM, sugar-addicted brain decides that it’ll do the stupid thing and force you to speak.

“Don’t you have a microwave in your own room?” 

Cutie in pink zips around to look at you, completely bewildered, and he clears his throat. “Well..uh..the uh, um...microwave in my room is broken. Housing hasn’t come by to fix it,” he mumbles towards the end, your ears picking up a British accent. You hum in understanding and take a glance back at the timer on the oven, gauging whether or not your cookies needed more time. They’ve got a couple of minutes.

“Housing can take forever sometimes,” you add, trying to sound empathetic. “Both bags of popcorn are for you?”

“No,” he replies, sounding slightly offended. You throw your hands up in innocence, fighting a smile. “My mate and I are having a movie marathon. What about you? I can smell the cookies.”

“Yep, all 12 for myself. One of those days, you know? And it’s perfectly fine to have 2 bags of popcorn to yourself. Lord knows I’ve done it,” you snort, thinking about how just two weeks ago, the two bags of butter popcorn had become your dinner on a night that you needed to really hunker down and study.   

“One of those days? Wanna talk about it?” He asks while listening for the number of pops in the microwave. Harrison would never forgive him if he burned popcorn because he was too busy talking to a girl. 

“Well,” you rub your temples and stand up to take the cookies out of the oven. “Long story short, I have an asshole professor and I see him way too much for my own liking. If he makes another snide sexist comment about women being in science, I’ll be sorely tempted to complain to someone higher up.” Your hand picks up a cookie to check the bottom and nods in approval. “Want one?” You ask over a cookie in your mouth, handing the tray to the boy who’s putting in the second bag of popcorn. 

He shrugs, “Thanks.” Doing the smart thing, he blows a bit on the cookie first before popping half of it into his mouth, eyes closing in satisfaction at the warm chocolate hitting his tongue. “Anyone who argues that warm cookies aren’t the best things sent to Earth, I have half a mind to have a go at ‘em.” 

“I’m with you on that,” you laugh. “Better this than alcohol. Wanna take some more for your friend?”

“Yeah sure. Actually,” he pauses, gazing deeply into the microwave. “You wanna come watch the movies with us? Bring the cookies there too?” His eyes are full of hesitation and he chews nervously on the inside of his lip. Maybe he was too forward, maybe he was too friendly, maybe -- 

“Why not?” You shrug, said too fast and partially out of need for human contact and partially because the popcorn smells too good. It’d be nice to balance out the sweetness with some salt. “I hope they’re good movies.”

“Trust me, we have great taste in movies.”

And that’s how you found yourself following a cute British boy to his room with a tray of cookies and a warm heart. 

-

Things had kicked off since then, the surprised look on Harrison’s face that day still ingrained into your mind. You had also passed out on Tom’s shoulder and woken up with a sore back on the couch, both boys missing but a note on the table for you. Since then, numbers had been exchanged and a group chat formed. Tom has taken to asking you if you want cookie dough every time he goes to the grocery store now, and their room never seems to run out of microwave popcorn. Late night sessions turned into not-so-late rants, sometimes just tiredly knocking on their door and either one of the boys opening it for you. Sleep is important, and not only for the weak.

Yet when being caught up in the wind of things, you couldn’t deny that you felt something for Tom. College was a busy time and yes, you should have fun, and yes, you should shoot your shot or whatever the Internet says these days, but the fear of rejection outweighs the possible acceptance. Things are too good with Tom and you wouldn’t want to lose that. You know that if Tom denied your feelings, you’d immediately run away and lock the door on your heart for who knows how long. You’d abandon all traditions and any paths that could cross with them, foreshadowing that if you ever did see them, the embarrassment would overtake you. At that moment, you would want nothing more than to dig a hole and stay in it for the rest of eternity. 

“You’re being so dramatic,” you mutter to yourself, knees bent as you lay on a throw pillow against the arm on Tom and Harrison’s couch and flip through their Netflix. The microwave had long been fixed, and though your ears can definitely register the sound of corn kernels aggressively hitting the sides of the bag, they evidently didn’t catch Tom coming to see if you’d made a choice on a movie yet. 

“Who’s being dramatic, darling?” He asks in a genuinely curious tone and you almost want to smack yourself in the head. 

“Harrison,” you fib, mind scrambling for a scenario. “He’s watching the popcorn like a hawk.” 

“Oi!” He yells from the corner where the microwave is. “We can’t be having burnt popcorn under this roof, not on my watch.”

You give Tom the look, the kind that says see what I mean? and it only makes Tom laugh, which makes you happy because that’s the sound that dissolves any of your worries for the day. Well, except the one where you might accidentally burst and confess your undying affection for the guy. Other than that, it’s one of the few things that can really calm you down and let you relax. 

As Harrison dumps the popcorn into a bowl, Tom comes to sit next to you and your feet naturally pick themselves up to give him his space. He then pushes them back down so you can spread your legs over his to create a perpendicular model, and you try to ignore how the motion makes your heart flutter or how just his hands on your legs send heat surging through your system. It’s not fair -- no person should have such an effect over another human being. Can this be illegal? Can this not be allowed?

While thoughts are swirling in your brain, Tom can only think about how much he craves the moments like these, the ones where you’re comfortable enough to be in a position like this, the ones where you sometimes crash in his bed and he gets to see what your sleeping face is like. He prides in the fact that you seek him out on the rough days, that you see him as a source of comfort. Tom wants nothing more than to be that and more for you, just for you. It’s sappy, it’s gross, it’s cheesiest of all cheesiness, but he can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed by how enamored he is with you. 

Harrison had caught on long ago on how whipped he was. “Just tell her bruv,” he pushed one time when Tom had gotten a little tipsy in their dorm. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“She rejects me and never wants to see my face again,” Tom had immediately slurred back and his eyebrows had sagged into the saddest kicked-puppy look that Harrison had ever seen for the first time in a while. Of course, he rolled his eyes to let Tom know that he was being unreasonable. Clearly, you were just as smitten, but both of you were as blind as bats. 

With the apprehension that neither will accept the other, both you and Tom have learned to become content with whatever is happening now. But at the end of the day, when good nights have been said and lingering hugs given, you and he both can’t help but wish for just a little more time with each other.

Just, a little more.

[parkerpete-archive]

Zendaya as MJ in Spider-Man: Far From Home (2019) dir. Jon Watts

[fiorenovella]

mafia au ???? please ???