#day21

[whumpmyworld]

You're dead. No, I was evolving, something you will never do.

@whumpgifathon || Day 21: Rumors of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated. Resurrection | Presumed Dead | On The Run

Teen Wolf - 4x12 (Derek Hale)

[levionlyyours]

Braids

☆ Day 21 of Domaystic | Hair brushing | Event by @domaystic

☆ Summary: Levi brushes and braids your hair.

☆ Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Gender-Neutral Reader

☆ Genre/Tags: Modern AU, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Long-Haired Reader

☆ Word Count: 0.6k

☆ Check out the other days!

☆ AO3 Link

You sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed, still warm from your shower. Your unbrushed hair is damp, sticking to your skin, the faint scent of conditioner lingering in the air. You’re halfway through debating whether you want to waste thirty minutes drying your hair or leave it to dry on its own when Levi appears in the doorway, quiet as always.

“You’re just going to leave it like that?” he asks.

You huff a small laugh, lifting a section of your hair and letting it fall. It’s a lot, and you don’t feel like fighting it today. “I was thinking about it.”

Levi doesn’t say anything for a moment, then he steps closer. “Sit still.”

You look up at him. “What?”

“I’ll do it.”

That catches you off guard. Levi? Hair? You almost ask, almost laugh, almost make a joke about him tangling it beyond repair—but he’s already reaching for your brush, so certain. You just nod and turn slightly, offering your back to him.

The first stroke of the brush is almost too careful. You feel the difference immediately. You always rush through brushing your hair, but Levi is being tender and patient with you. His hand steadies your shoulder as he works through the ends.

“Tell me if I pull too hard,” he says.

You smile. He’s being so gentle. “I will.”

He catches a small snag and he pauses, fingers threading through the knot instead of yanking it free. “Sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay,” you reply. He doesn’t have a reason to apologize, but you don’t fight him on it.

His fingers slide through your hair after the brush, almost absentmindedly. He sighs under the silky feel of your hair against his skin. You feel your shoulders loosen a little, your eyes fluttering closed for just a second. This is nice, you think.

Then he brushes your hair out of your face with his fingers and his lips brush your cheek. Your breath catches, but you don’t pull away. He says nothing about it and separates your hair into sections. You realize what he’s doing halfway through.

“You know how to braid?” you ask, a bit in disbelief, feeling his knuckles brush your back. He doesn’t answer right away.

Eventually, he says a simple, “Yeah.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Where’d you learn?”

His hands keep moving, weaving one section over the other, but his voice comes more hushed this time, paired with a near-silent sigh. “My mother,” he says.

Oh. You already know—he’d told you before you even started dating—that she had passed when he was young. But this kind of thing, right in the middle of such a sweet and domestic moment, really hits you in a different way.

“I used to braid her hair,” he adds after a moment. “She taught me.”

You swallow, playing with your fingers in your lap. You can already picture it, sitting by his mother, eagerly rushing to her hair to weave it together. You wish you could have met her. You wish she was still here.

“You must miss her,” you say gently.

His hands pause for a second. “Every day.”

You feel your throat ache just slightly. He resumes braiding, finishing the first, then moving to the second, still in focus. You let him, letting the quiet return. When he’s done, he ties them off neatly, his hands lingering just for a second before pulling away.

“That’s it,” he says.

You reach for your phone and flip the camera, angling it to see. Your face breaks into a smile before you can stop it. The braids are clean and even—honestly better than you could have done.

“They look so good,” you say, turning toward him. “Thank you.”

You rise slightly on your knees to lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. He barely reacts and just makes a small noise of acknowledgement, like he didn’t just spend all that time making sure it came out perfect.

“It’s fine,” he says.

But he’d never admit aloud that he enjoyed it. And somewhere in the back of his mind, already, there’s the faint hope you’ll ask again.

MASTERLIST ♡ JOIN THE TAGLIST ♡ AO3 ♡ WATTPAD ♡ KO-FI

tags: @saccharinefool @bunbun6casp @levkuna @strangeeaglepost @how-interesting-wow @d1leviglazer @y44washere4somereason @ddilfs4life @slaytherinthoughts @levishart @gloomyveil @levislolita

divider by: sweetmelodygraphics

[redsakura101]

Melts Away

Jamie Tartt x Reader

Find My Jamie Tartt Masterlist here! This is a little fic for @domaystic Based on day 21: Hair Brushing After a busy day. Muscles tense and eyes tired. All Jamie wanted was to spend the evening in your arms. Turns out he also loves it when you brush his hair.

Word Count: ~860

Legs strewn across the couch. 

The smell of a heartwarming vanilla fills the air. As a candle burns, placed atop the coffee table. 

The faint murmuring of the TV, a movie that had simply been put on to occupy the silence. 

One that had been watched a hundred times, and would likely be watched a hundred times more. 

After ruminating on trying to choose something new. 

You had simply settled for a good old classic. 

A feel good romantic. 

…Just like most movie nights. 

Lights dimmed, gentle on the eyes. 

The day had been tiresome. Not in a way that was laborious. But in a way that had been tedious. 

And all throughout the day. 

All that Jamie had wanted to do. 

All that he had thought about doing throughout training. 

Was to have you within arm’s reach. 

It was true. 

That as soon as you had stepped out of the bedroom, dressed in pyjamas, Jamie was right by your side, pulling you to the couch, where you had now been sitting cosily for the past few hours. 

His head tucked in your lap, as his arms are wrapped around your waist. 

While he acted as your personal weighted blanket. 

Molded perfectly for you and your comfort. 

Subconsciously at some point your hand had drifted to settle atop his head, mindlessly running your fingers through his hair. 

You could’ve sworn that he was asleep. 

How soundly settled he was atop you. Eyes drifted shut, as his body melded against yours. 

The tension of the day finally leaves his body as he relaxes, as the stress simply melts away. 

Your eyes fixated upon the TV as Sandra Bullock moves you by her performance. 

Hands begin to stop its movements as you become enthralled by the scene. Frozen in place. 

And then the smallest. 

Quietest. 

Tiniest.

Almost imperceptible of noises escapes Jamie. 

A tiny whine leaves his mouth as he exhales. 

Eye peering open. 

“Why’d ya stop eh?” He mumbled softly. 

Gaze flickering down to meet his, you raise a brow. 

“Stop what?” 

He tilts his head, “Stop–ya know?” He gestures to his head. 

Only furthering your confusion. 

“Use your words, Jamie,” You inquired once more. 

Sighing, he replies, eyes furrowed in confusion, “Why’d ya stop brushing your fingers through me’ hair?” 

A small quirk of your lips appears. 

Amusedly you respond, “What, do you like that or something?” 

“Maybe,” he bit his lip. Before admitting, “It was really relaxing, ya know…having ya hands brush through me’ hair…comforting”

Grinning, you lean down to brush your lips against his temple. As he leans closer to you, shifting to catch your lips with his. 

Soft and gentle as your lips glide against one another, before you draw back. Leaning once more against the couch. 

“So could ya? Ya know, keep doing that–” he asks once more, feeling a little vulnerable to express such a simple desire, such a mundane want, before mumbling out, “Only if ya want to. I don’t expect ya to do anything ya don’t want to…”

Swiping your fingers across his cheeks before they settle once more through his thick locks, your hands moving gently. 

Deftly as they card through the soft hair. Brushing out any little knots with a gentle tenderness. 

Care dripping into each action. 

“So long as you promise you’ll do the same for me some day,” You whisper softly. 

He hums in agreement, a chill running down his spine from the sensation. 

“Anything for you love,” he murmurs. 

He sighs once more as his eyes flutter shut. Head nuzzling further into your stomach. 

A low rumble emanates from his chest. Soothed by the feeling of your hands running through his hair. 

A warmth blooms through your chest. 

In between all the madness, all the flashing lights and chaos involved with dating a footballer.

From the onslaught of the media. To the inane questions the press would hound you with. 

It was all worth it. 

Even if those things did give you a headache at times…

These moments made it all worth it. All worth the headaches. As a moment alone with Jamie made the tensions melt from your shoulders, made the ache in your brain dampen and fade. 

These were your favourite moments. 

The quiet peace harbored between you both. 

No false pretence. 

No veneered smiles. 

Just a simple peace. 

A simple love. 

Entirely yours to enjoy. 

As minutes pass of your fingers gently massaging his head, his breathing evens. The steady rise and fall of his chest as his body moves closer and closer to a state of slumber.

A gentle smile upon your lips from the sight. 

A sight reserved for your eyes only in the bubble of your love. 

The softest of mumbles escapes him. 

“Love you” 

Smiling at him, “I love you too,”you whisper softly to your sleeping boyfriend. Your hands stop while you duck to kiss the top of his head. 

While he shifts gently to pull you further into his arms, spooning you as you both settle in. 

As the credit sequence rolls. 

You and Jamie both now soundly asleep.

Neither wanting to be anywhere else but within each other’s arms.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this little piece, just a bit of mundane sweetness with Jamie. I imagine he'd love his hair being brushed through, (honestly tho, who doesn't) also you could literally picture any Sandra bullock romantic film of your choosing (I pictured The Lake House - cause that's a personal fave of mine). Let me know what you thought ✨ Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 Check Out my Jamie Tartt Series; Never Too Late Here! Feel free to check out my overall Masterlist here

Taglist: @the-sassy-one @enchantedreader @ilocuras24 

[sometimesiwrite-lovelytomeetyou]

It's in the little things (that I can remember you by) {fic}

“What were the Air Nomads’ hairstyles? We could try them.” Aang’s hands still immediately.

Written for @domaystic !

I love imagining their little silent moments and family life, as busy as they were. This came about when seeing the Domaystic prompts and I kept imagining Aang brushing Katara's hair as if it was gold itself.

Prompts: 8. Reassurances 18. Relaxing evening 21. Hair brushing

For more on this family: a Jinora focus with Aang and the Air Nomads Legacy + a Bumi (and Sokka) story.

[heartofafiend]

Day 21 Diary

don't give him ammunition x'D

Cleaning out the attic slowly turned into a memory ride the moment Xavier found your old trinkets and childhood photos. 

“Your perfect type is tall… dark hair, glasses—?” You heard a mumble coming from your side. With one look the realization hit you and you threw yourself at him, grabbing the diary and shoving it away like it was on fire. 

“I want to know what your type is.” 

“You’re my type, Xavi,” you squinted at the mirth stirring in his eyes with that smirk you hated to love. 

“But—” you kissed him, stopping whatever teasing he had in store. 

[nyamadermont]

Powerless

Angstpril 2026 #20: Conflict, #21: Bravery, and #22: Voice Breaking

@chaos-company

“I won’t tell you anything, you monster!”

“Very well.”

Everything was proceeding according to plan. In deference to the connection they once had shared, he had given her the opportunity to resolve their conflict, to join him in full. But she had capitulated to the sweet taste of bending, to the power she wielded over the non-benders who could not threaten her.

Through the eye holes of his mask, she burned so strong and fierce, even in her depleted humiliation. Her mis-placed bravery poured up through her defiant words.

He would see her humbled, revealed for the weak woman he had found her to be. Without her bending, she would be nothing.

Deliberately, Amon walked behind Beifong. He was glad of the gloves that kept him from feeling the soft skin of her neck or the depth of the wrinkles on her forhead.

He reached inside her form, stifled her chi, and watched her gape up at the sky.

Rather than let her collapse, he steadied her on her knees as his faithful brought forward the rest of his… incentives.

She gasped, and tried to stand up. But he kept his hand on her shoulder, and extended his powers to keep her in place.

The woman was gagged, but she was able to keep the baby silent.

The youngest one, he didn’t bother with threats. The child was clearly terrified.

Once purified, he seemed to faint.

Beifong shouted some meaningless word.

The next one up in size seemed to have inherited Beifong’s glare, even if they weren’t actually related. While he was a bit unclear on the details, it no longer mattered.

He looked back at Beifong.

So much water was running down her face, he couldn’t tell if she was crying.

“Tell me.”

“Amon, don’t do this!”

The second child collapsed over her brother’s still body.

“Amon!”

The oldest child raised her shoulders and stared back at him calmly, even though Beifong continued to scream behind him, her voice breaking.

The child’s bravery did not outlast her purification.

The last airbender was clearly trying everything he could to stir the air around himself. But it could not break the chains around his wrists and ankles. It could not disturb the hold Amon had over his body.

Amon turned and looked at Beifong one final time.

“Tell me.”

With a lurch, she broke his hold on her, but that only gave her the freedom to crash forward on her face, still screaming incoherently.

The man on his knees strained against Amon’s power, but had only a fraction of the will. Silently, his bending fled, banished from the world.

Amon turned his back on the people who once had called themselves “masters.”

author's note: If you liked this, tell @orangepanic and @btheleaf If you didn't, throw the rotten tomatoes my way. ;)

[logicgunn]

caught in headlights

On AO3

The ceremony is mercifully short. John’s one of many airmen to receive an award from O’Neill, but Rodney knows how much he hates being the centre of attention, and how much he hates being awarded for things he’s not entirely proud of.  

So when John rubs his neck during a conversation with a military bigwig at the afterparty, Rodney does his best to be his most obnoxious self to anyone else who dares to approach. News travels fast—it’s not long before they’re both given a wide berth and can enjoy their finger foods in peace.  

“Thanks, Rodney.”  

“No problem.”  

[polo-drone-001]

🔥GOLDECEMBER — Day 21: SPY The Emir Sees All

They thought the Golden Court was all spotlight, trophies, and loud victories. They forgot the part where the Emir watches everything.

The spy is caught before the gates even finish closing, hood torn back, hands bound, knees hitting the polished floor like the palace itself demanded it. And when Ezan arrives, the room doesn't get louder.

It gets quieter.

He steps into the gold-and-black chamber like a verdict in motion, shirtless, fresh from training, skin still gleaming with heat. He doesn't need to raise his voice. He doesn't need to touch a weapon. He just leans in, slow, protein shake in hand like it's the only threat he'll ever need.

The mirror behind the spy does the real damage: Ezan's stance, his shoulders, the way his shadow swallows the chair. The guards don't move. The torches crackle. The spy realises the intimidation isn't the room, it's the man.

Outside, the tribunal is worse.

The court gathers under open sky, gold banners snapping in the wind. The bros cheer like it's match day, but the advisors stay silent, watching Ezan on his throne. Full golden kit. Golden whistle resting at his throat. King posture. Champion aura.

The spy kneels. Trembling. Ezan doesn't even look angry, just mildly entertained.

Then he lifts one boot and rests it on the spy's shoulder like it's a casual footstool. Not cruelty. Not chaos. Just a public reminder:

This is his court. Everyone here is lucky he's smiling.

Later, the palace lights dim and the real work begins.

Ezan trades the throne for a sleek black-gold suit and the roar of the crowd for the hum of a holo-table. Intel footage scrolls in blue-gold bands across his face. Those golden eyes catch every detail; that brow cocks like he's already solved the entire conspiracy and is just waiting for the world to catch up.

Behind him, the captured spy is dragged away, no screams, no dramatics. Only the sound of boots on stone and the soft click of doors that lock like final punctuation.

And after the storm?

Ezan stands by a window in his private quarters, shirtless again, silk-gold joggers low on his hips, water in hand. Down in the courtyard, guards escort the spy out beneath the lamplight. The cape on the wall hangs like a trophy, proof that even power can be worn and removed at will.

He says nothing. He doesn't have to.

The Emir sees all. And the court learns fast.

If you thought GOLDECEMBER was only glamour and gains… welcome to the other side of the Golden Court. 👁️✨ More themes incoming, more lore, more power plays, more golden chaos. Reblog to pledge allegiance.

@polo-drone-001 @franco-gold94 @polo-drone-125 @polo-drone-166