Chenshire
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under the moonlight, even blood runs silver by Chenshire
Fandoms: Naruto (Anime & Manga), Mononoke-hime | Princess Mononoke
09 Apr 2025
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"Oh?" Madara snorts, cruel mockery curving his lips into a smirk. "How cute, Hashirama, your wolves adopted a little bunny."
Watery red eyes lock onto Madara. It’s a particularly captivating shade, blood diluted in water, translucent and almost pink, like bixbite crystals. The boy’s face twists as he growls at Madara, baring his teeth. Growls, like a little wolf instead of a child barely taller than Hashirama’s waist. Madara bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes iron to keep from laughing. From laughing, or from growling back.
"Tobirama," Hashirama chides, and the brat falls silent but keeps staring at Madara, small gemstone eyes cutting through him.
(There are fine lines between human and divinity, forest and village, love and hate. Madara wants to cross them all.)
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Nagato is reflected in Tendo’s eyes. Yahiko’s eyes. His own eyes. Lilac spirals blooming in their sockets. Flowers of the same species. The same muted, nebulous hue that blankets Ame.
If God had a face, it would look like Yahiko’s.
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Hands are touching Kakashi’s face, solid and human and unfamiliar. Static and tension. It's instinct to move. Protect. He learned a long time ago that only enemies get close enough to touch. Muscle memory pushes Kakashi towards a sudden response. Kill or be killed. In the space of a heartbeat, there’s a kunai at Iruka’s throat, the blade gleaming, deadly sharp, mere inches from his skin. Kakashi gasps.
Kakashi knows what to do with pain better than he knows what to do with tenderness.
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the paradox of soap bubble realities by Chenshire
Fandoms: League of Legends, Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021)
11 Dec 2024
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"All of my dreams," he touches the mole just beneath Viktor’s right eye, one he could find even without sight, "everything I’ve ever wanted," magic, electric-blue, shaping itself in the same hands he now holds, "was to find you."
In all timelines, in all possibilities, only you can show me this.
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“Hi.” He doesn’t wait for the window to come down fully before leaning against the door, one elbow resting easily on the car’s roof. His scent, sweat and aftershave and something sweeter underneath, blackberries and honeysuckles, wraps around Junmyeon like mist under the sun. “Beautiful car.”
Junmyeon’s driving a classic cream-hydrangea Jaguar. He knows it’s a beautiful car. He also knows that Sehun's eyes are not actually on the car when he says it.
The sky is periwinkle. Junmyeon might be a little in love.
Recent bookmarks
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Hannibal smells her first. Nearly buried beneath the pungency of the cheap colognes mounted on a nearby display case is something totally incongruous: the sticky-sweet dough scent of the cinnamon pretzels sold down on the mall’s first level. He parts the suits with both hands, hangers squeaking on the bar, and looks down at the young girl squatting on the floor in the middle of the rack.
Or, Will loses his daughter at the mall. Hannibal returns her to him.
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Hannibal starts to show up at Will's house at the crack of dawn to make him breakfast, killing two birds with one stone: cooking is one of his many passions, and, honestly, Will Graham is climbing up the list.
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- English
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Bookmarked by Chenshire
01 May 2026
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Bookmarker's Notes
pretty, pretty, pretty.
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"Thank you," Will says.
"My pleasure," Hannibal says, toweling his hands clean and beckoning for Will to take the first bite.
He does, murmuring his satisfaction around a full mouth. The kidneys are still a little bloody inside, leaving dark streaks that sluice across his lower lip. He sets the toast down to dab at his mouth with a napkin, and then the bites that follow are more measured, concentrated.
Hannibal loosens the knot of his apron and sits down. "There's a little Madeira in it," he says. "You may keep the bottle, if you find yourself so inclined."
"If I start liking everything you like, I'll find myself bankrupt within a week."
"I am known to spare few expenses for pleasure."
Will reaches for a second piece, and when he bites into it his eyes flutter shut, as though he's been stolen briefly into another world.
Hannibal takes this opportunity to reach across the table and pocket the used napkin. Some pleasures, he reflects, cost literally nothing at all.
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you keep flipping the coin and it comes down heads by gericault
Fandoms: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
29 Nov 2021
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Suddenly, and as clearly as if he read it in the histories in the Benning library, Ron envisions this strong, sad-faced man bleeding into grey French earth, and then gathered up, dead, by the enemy, bound for a mass grave. He wants to seize the sergeant’s hand and drag him away from Herbert Sobel’s company, make him impossible promises, swear on God that although he may die he will never be led foolishly and his life will not go to waste. Ron stands very still. He is a stranger to himself. He can’t remember ever wanting anything so much, except death.
Bookmarked by Chenshire
26 Apr 2026
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Bookmarker's Notes
the most beautiful one.
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Fifty percent of soldiers killed in the Great War, Ron read on some grey page at Benning, had no known grave. Guns did the work: 105s, the grandfathers of the Brecourt battery; heavy howitzers; mortars throwing two-hundred-pound shells; siege cannons on rails. Into air and pitted earth, men vanished.
He did not join the army to be a corpse: he joined up to be nothing. Mist and soil, a gold star and a photo with a ribbon on the frame, no-man like the dead of no-man’s land. He has no cover from the edge of the woods to the edge of the village and seeks none as he runs, and the Krauts with their fierce 88 are taking aim on him, and this is his chance, and there will be no trace left of him at all.
The grave opens up and he jumps.
He jumps into the color of flame and white smoke, goes blind as he passes through into life and when his sight clears, what the new world shows him is First Sergeant Carwood Lipton.
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The morning of the assassination, Patti Jankowski got up, took a long shower and towel dried her hair before braiding it into two long ropes that hung over her shoulders. She put on jeans, a t-shirt that showed Mickey Mouse saluting the American Flag, a light tan windbreaker and her comfortable blue SAS sneakers. In her shoulder bag she put a Smith and Wesson .22 caliber revolver, and an umbrella. The forecast was for a 62% chance of rain.
Series
- Part 1 of Aftermath
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- English
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- 24,616
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Bookmarked by Chenshire
08 Mar 2026
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holly god, this one is absolutely beautiful, masterpiece of masterpieces. the characters are so well portrad, so human, human, human. 'm so in love.
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"I'm sorry," Brad whispers. For what? For everything, for America letting you down, over and over again, for letting you walk away ten years ago, for this, for what I might do and what I never did. "Nate."
"Me too," Nate answers, voice soft and bruised like the skin under his eyes. Brad feels Nate's good hand come up, fingers covering Brad's, and Brad allows himself to press his lips to the top of Nate's spine.
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the long slide from kingdom to kingdom by gyzym for fiveyearmission
Fandoms: Captain America (Movies)
21 Jun 2014
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They want you to love the whole damn world but you won't,
you want it all narrowed down to one fleshy man in the bath,
who knows what to do with his body, with his hands.-Richard Siken, Driving, Not Washing.
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- English
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Bookmarked by Chenshire
13 Feb 2026
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Bookmarker's Notes
beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, oh so beautiful.
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The stars are bright over whatever part of America this is — Steve should know, probably, will pay better attention come the morning — and the thing is, he still means it. People thank him at diners and rest stops, Sam’s dropped his whole life to ride along with him and make sure he’s all right, and Steve’s still that flush-cheeked kid huddling against Bucky’s warmth at the edge of the alley; Steve still thought about it, on the helicarrier. Steve thought about forgetting the chip, about letting the missiles fire, because not one of the people they’d kill would matter as much to him as Bucky.
It was just a thought, a small shame in the heat of a terrible moment. Steve knows better than to drive himself crazy about it. But thick on his tongue, it sits: Hey Buck, you remember that I’m a pig-headed loud-mouthed bastard when I wanna be? What about that time I cut your hair with Mrs. Thompson’s scissors, and you met my eyes like you knew I was imagining slicing the throats of every guy who’d ever touched you? C’mon, Bucky, go ahead and hit me again if that’ll help — you’ve gotta remember that I deserve it, or that you do, for all that’s been between us all this time.
“Sorry,” Steve says thickly: to Bucky; to Sam; to the country; to the stars. Sam snores. America sleeps on. The stars glow steadily, undisturbed by his maudlin confession, just one of thousands thrown their way tonight, and Steve closes his eyes.