Latest Posts by pandora-n1ghts - Page 5
Words cannot explain how perfect this man is
I love you, my darling. Why can’t you see it?
pairing. mitsuya x gender neutral! reader
cw. none, fluff, sweet, hurt/comfort, reader kinda goes through a panic attack. lil suggestive at end, so 16+ are free to interact!
summary. you never feel enough for him. (mitsuya disagrees because he thinks the both of you are like puzzle pieces that have been missing for too long, have stayed too far from each other for too long. he likes how you fit in to his life, snug as a glove).
wc. 1.7k
notes. something i wrote for @kodzucafe’s “a safe space” collab! i had fun writing, solace beloved! and i really did put myself in reader’s shoes and wrote down what i wanted to hear while i was going through a breakdown, which is funny to me bc i originally planned for at least 500 words of fluff, yet here we are. i could not shut up for the life of me and it just kept going on and on. but to anyone who’s been feeling down and undeserving lately, you don’t know how precious you are, do you? me and mitsuya are coming for your hearts with this one. hope you enjoy!
tagging. @festive - this precious bby beta read this mess! @rindove - i hope you enjoy avon bc i wrote this w/ one of our unfortunate flaws in mind and i think you’d get it bestie <3
It’s a little dark out.
The sun peeks just beyond the horizon, lighting up the sky in dark orange hues that make the clouds stand out in their ripples and waves.
The last strands of light hit Mitsuya perfectly, painting him in this fuzzy orange-red tint that makes him glow, highlighting his finer features like his cheekbones, the slim slope of his nose, the almost sleepy tilt of his droopy eyes, and the soft, whispy lines of his eyelashes that kiss the gentle curve of his cheeks.
You have to rub your eyes to make sure the halo around his head isn’t real.
Mitsuya’s sketching something in his designer notebook, crumpled pages of discarded designs litter his desk, the cup of tea you made a few hours ago long forgotten and cold. “Don’t move too much, can’t draw you that way.” Mitsuya mumbles, looking up from time to time as his pencil darts all over the page.
You pause in the position you’re lounging in, stopping yourself from crossing your legs. A book rests face-down on your lap, and you settle for leaving your legs outstretched.
Everything in this moment is beautiful and domestic, Mitsuya’s studio paints a pretty picture as the both of you bask in the remaining hour of sunlight, as the both of you revel in each other’s presence.
Well, at least on Mitsuya’s part, he looks peaceful, but you on the other hand are anything but relaxed or content.
(Because insecurities linger in your head like a pesky tumor.)
Mitsuya’s so pretty, you think. From his kind eyes to his silver-black hair and his caring, nurturing habits. It almost makes you think that you don’t deserve him. Surely someone more attractive, interesting and stable can keep him happy and in love.
Something that you don’t have—you’re always lacking in some way, never complete.
And it’s so apparent at this moment. When he’s working, for something he dearly loves, and you’re over here sulking and thinking and procrastinating, deadlines and work sneaking up on you.
(God, why can’t you ever finish things. Why do they always pile up and multiply, leaving you as the pathetic failure that you are.)
Your mind runs and turns, doing backflips and gymnastics. It leaves you hanging when you need it most for simple, simple instructions, and it always pauses, stuck in an infinite loop that never ends and never moves on. It’s like your brain doesn’t comprehend skipping over the bump in the road to continue on to more important matters and it’s just so fucking—
“Breathe for me, baby.”
Ugly heaving sounds are filling the room, and it takes you a second to realize that it’s coming from you.
It takes you a second more to realize that you can’t breathe.
Mitsuya is by your side rubbing tiny circles into the hunch of your back, trying to straighten it out, trying to stop it from compressing into itself, trying to get you to breathe. Calm down. It’s not that serious. Just breathe. Can you not even do something as simple as that?
When your breathing doesn’t slow down and evolves into gasping sobs, fat droplets of salty tears sliding down your swelling cheeks, he hugs you, tears soaking unfortunately into the shoulder of his sweater. It’s silent as Mitsuya strokes your back, the calm, rhythmic thump thump thumps of his heart guiding yours into matching his.
You take deep breaths to try and calm yourself down, for the most part it worked—however little hiccups still remained. “Do you feel better now?” A stroke of your back and a hum. “You wanna tell me why you’re crying, love?” Mitsuya pulls back with a small smile, wiping your tears away with his thumb.
You take a moment to organize your thoughts.
The feeling of incompetence, the slow build up of your work, the procrastination you set yourself up to all the time, the insecurities of not being good enough for Mitsuya, who never rushes you and waits, still good to you, always good to you, even now.
But the feeling of not being enough is what rushes the floodgates of your tears again.
“I feel useless and like I don’t deserve you.” That’s what ends up leaving your lips in a small whisper, bouts of hiccups echoing in the small space between you, but he still feels so far away.
Mitsuya’s smile starts to fade.
“I’m forgetful, and so stupid sometimes, and you have to repeat yourself for me all the time, and I never do anything right—I never do you right.” You’re huffing by the time you’re done, breathing that all out in one go.
“Is that it?” You take a second to think over everything that’s been plaguing your mind for the past few hours you’ve been cooped up in here with him, you nod your head. “Good, now it’s my turn.”
Mitsuya’s grip on you tightens just a little, never enough to hurt you—never, he wouldn’t dare dream of it either—but just enough to let you know that he’s serious, and that he won’t allow you to brush anything off because he means all of it.
“You’re not stupid, baby. You just need a bit more time to process things, and that’s okay. Because I’d gladly give you all of my time, so take your time when you talk. I wanna hear everything your pretty head has to say.” He kisses your forehead, then a peck on the lips to seal the deal.
“I don’t mind that you’re forgetful. Doesn’t matter if I sound like a broken record sometimes because I’d rather you be peaceful and eased, even if some things slip through the cracks of your beautiful mind.” He murmurs above your head, chin resting on the lovely bundle of nerves and cells, your hair soft to the touch on his jaw.
“And don’t say you feel incompetent or enough for me because you’re all I’ve imagined wanting and more, perfect and mine, and don’t you even think that you’re not pretty.” Mitsuya pulls back again, walking over to his desk to grab his sketchbook.
He takes a moment looking over the sketch with fond eyes that swivel around, before pausing and walking back to you.
“Can someone not beautiful and stunning—can someone that’s not you, you—get me to make a design like this?” Mitsuya turns the book around, and his eyes shine when he says, “This is all you. I made this with you in mind.”
Rough strokes of a body donning a sleek, baggy coat, beige pants, and a shiny pair of black shoes lie on the page. Sewed roses and little decorative pins stick out of the coat, a pink bow tied at the collar, a pretty beret resting comfortably at the head, and dangly silver earrings with rose quartz stones that sit prettily next to a pair of jaws similar to your own.
In fact, everything in the outfit are colors that Mitsuya’s told you would look good on you, would make your appearance pop, if you wore them. Expensive and cozy and stylish, this outfit is divine. It’s right up your alley.
“So tell me again that you’re not beautiful. Tell me again that I deserve someone better because I don’t. I already have the best, wouldn't want anyone else.” Mitsuya softly strokes your cheek, the love in his eyes so bright, so caring—almost as if he was handling fragile glass that could shatter at any moment—you break out into tears a third time, burying your head in the concave of his chest, arms wrapping around you like a warm, fuzzy blanket.
(You’ve never been so loved before. Your heart almost hurts with how much Mitsuya gives you.)
“It’s messy in here, feel stuffy just looking at everything. Maybe we should call it a day and clean up, and when we’re done, we can cook dinner. With some candles and nice music in the back. And we can eat while watching those ghibli movies you love.” Mitsuya’s soft rumble of a voice purrs in his chest, right where you rest your head, the beat of his heart, the smell of your shared detergent and freshener mixed with his crisp cologne is something that finally, once and for all, calms you down.
You’re home, after all—Mitsuya is your home.
Mitsuya loves you so much that he feels a little sick sometimes.
When you’re away, he’s distraught that you’re not with him, and even in the same room, within the same space, he wants you closer, close enough that you fill the empty space beside him, hoping it’s never empty again. He likes how you slot into his side like a missing puzzle piece, your face snug in his neck, your body molding into his, and his arms hooking perfectly into your waist.
He also likes how he fills in missing pieces of yourself, so much that it’s perfect. You’re perfect for him, he doesn’t understand why you can’t see it. He doesn’t understand how you don’t see the way he smiles whenever you’re in sight, how hugging you heals his tired, aching bones from days of hard work, how you don’t feel his heart beating so loud sometimes or how it slows down into content happiness, how you don’t feel the sparks of electricity when you kiss, when you touch.
You and him fall into each other easily, hand in hand, side by side, heart to heart, and like two hands grabbing for each other until they’re finally intertwined.
why can’t you see that?
He doesn’t mind that you’re forgetful or a little air-headed sometimes, like you always worry about, because he reminds you anyways, all the time. You don’t ever need to worry about anything again, now that he’s in your life—and he intends to stay.
He’ll fight tooth and nail if he has to, he’ll keep fighting even when you give up, if he has to.
So how can he not love you? When all of these tiny things about you make his heart fill with so much love he feels it’ll explode?
How can he not, when you complete him? Seeping into the crevices of his flaws and weaknesses like a half-full glass finally being filled.
(But it’s fine. He’ll remind you again and again through each caress of your body that he commits to memory. He’ll tell you over and over again as he kisses your bare skin, mumbling and grunting his praises, worshiping you like a follower to a god, following after you like a bee to sweet nectar. He’ll do all that if he has to because you are worth it.)
cw//‼️spoilers from Loki the Series‼️curse words ahead‼️ grammatical errors (English is not my first language, I apologize)‼️
Just finished watching Loki episode 1. Yeeyy.. honestly, I am exhausted. Just from the first few minutes, I was already reading up because of all the clips I've watched. I knew for a fact that something angsty was gonna come blowing sand at in my eyes.
And I was right.
Seeing Loki just so, oh God how do I describe this? Uh, confused? Torn? Idk honestly, but that expression alone made me cry. When he kept asking what kind of place was TVA, I felt a little heartache. And when he saw how his mother died–FUCK. I couldn't stop myself from sobbing my heart out. He was in pain. And it fucking hurts through the screen.
I just wanna know; what's so important about the titles as a 'hero' and as a 'villain'. What made people think, that if you save someone then you're automatically a hero. I just don't understand really. I wanna know how these titles were created and what makes these two words so different. In fact, in my opinion they're not that different at all.
Remember the saying: "A villain is just a victim whose story hasn't been told."? I wholeheartedly believe that. I can't find myself to immediately dislike someone who is labelled as a 'villain'. And I also can't find myself to like someone labelled as a 'hero'. At least, not until their stories have been told. Everyone has their stories. Whether they're unfinished, scattered, hidden, ending or just starting.