#ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ

[stxrkiss]

“ 𝐆𝐎 𝐀𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐑𝐘, 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵 ”

そんな無垢な目で見つめるな... 汚したく なるだろう?

# 𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝓑𝓻𝓾𝓬𝓮 𝓦𝓪𝔂𝓷𝓮 𝑥 ���𝑒𝑚 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 ☆

# 𝑺𝒀𝑵𝑶𝑷𝑺𝑰𝑺 : 𝘏𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥'𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘏𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘉𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘦? 𝘏𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦. 𝘖𝘩 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦...

# 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘳, 𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘺𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘴, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱𝘴, 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘳. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳/𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘋𝘕𝘐.

# 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑬𝑺 : 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦.

Bruce remembers the first time he met you.

You were five years old. A tiny thing, too small, too delicate, all bright eyes and soft hands, clinging to his leg like a lifeline.

Your father—one of his most trusted business partners—had laughed, shaking his head.

“She’s taken a liking to you,” he had said, ruffling your hair.

And then, with all the confidence of a child, you had beamed up at Bruce and declared,

“I’m gonna marry you one day!”

The room had erupted in laughter. Your father had chuckled, his business partners had teased him. But Bruce—

Bruce had only smiled.

It was harmless. Just childish innocence.

Or at least, that’s what he had told himself.

You grew up fast.

Too fast.

One moment, you were that little girl clutching his hand at charity galas, giggling when he lifted you into his arms. The next, you were nineteen, standing in his home like you belonged there, a young woman too beautiful for her own good. all soft curves and knowing smiles.

Bruce didn’t know when it started—when his affection for you twisted into something ugly.

All he knows is that one day, he looked at you—really looked at you—and something inside him snapped.

Because you were beautiful.

And it was wrong.

So, so wrong.

And Bruce—he was not a good man.

He tried to be. God, he tried.

Bruce tried to ignore it. He told himself it was natural—a fatherly protectiveness over the daughter of his closest friend.

But a father wouldn’t think about you the way he did.

A father wouldn’t ache like this.

A father wouldn’t watch you when you weren’t looking.

Wouldn’t stare when your nightgown slipped off your shoulder.

Wouldn’t feel his throat tighten when you called him “Mr. Wayne”, your voice so sweet, so innocent, so cruel.

You had no idea what you were doing to him.

And that was the worst part.

You make it impossible.

Because you’re thoughtless. Careless.

You touch him too much. Press yourself against him in hugs that last too long, your fingers curling around his arm, your breath warm on his neck.

He told himself it was innocent. That the way he watched you wasn’t wrong. That the thoughts in his head were just passing moments of weakness—nothing more.

It gets worse when you start talking to him about boys.

You sit on the couch in his study, curled up in one of his expensive leather chairs, talking about your boyfriend problems while he nurses a glass of whiskey, fingers tightening around the crystal.

“Ugh, I don’t know,” you sigh. “Liam’s being so... needy.”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

You don’t notice the way his jaw clenches. The way his fingers tighten. The way his thoughts turn ugly.

You just keep talking.

“He wants to have sex, but I don’t think I’m ready.” You stretch your arms above your head, your crop top rising just enough to show a sliver of your stomach. “I mean, I don’t want my first time to be... disappointing, y’know?”

Bruce stares at you.

His blood boils.

Your first time.

With some boy.

Some child who doesn’t know a damn thing about you.

He hates it.

The thought of your soft little body under some clumsy boy, of you making those sweet little sounds for someone who doesn’t deserve them—someone who doesn’t know you like he does—it makes something inside him snap.

He wants to tell you the truth.

That boys don’t know how to take care of a girl like you. That they’ll use you. That you need a man—someone who can be gentle, who knows how to take care of you, how to teach you.

He wants to say all of it.

But instead, he just takes a slow sip of whiskey and says,

“Be careful who you trust.”

You don’t see the way his eyes darken.

You don’t hear the warning in his voice.

And the worst part?

You ask him for advice.

“Mr. Wayne,” you say sweetly, resting your chin on your palm, “why do men always want one thing?”

Bruce’s jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists under the table.

You don’t understand what you’re playing with.

You don’t see the way his eyes darken when you talk about them. The boys who touch you. The ones who don’t deserve to even look at you.

You don’t understand the filthy thoughts he has when he imagines you with them.

You don’t understand that he wants to ruin you.

Bruce stares at you, at your bare skin, at the way your lips part as if waiting for him to take.

And God help him.

He does.

His hands clench against the couch. He leans in, close enough to breathe you in.

Close enough to claim.

Close enough to ruin you.

He doesn’t remember when he started following you.

Not just in the manor. Not just in his home.

Outside. In the city.

You don’t notice.

Or maybe you do.

Maybe you like knowing he’s watching.

Watching as you go on dates with boys your age—pathetic, fumbling boys who don’t know how to take care of you the way a man like him would.

You always seem disappointed after those dates.

And Bruce tells himself it’s because you know.

You know they aren’t enough.

That they’ll never be enough.

That no one will ever love you the way he does.

But then, one night, he looked at you—really looked at you—and something inside him snapped.

Because you weren’t a child anymore.

You were soft curves and bright smiles and whispers of silk.

And it was wrong.

So, so wrong.

He tries to ignore it.

To pretend that nothing has changed. That you’re still just the daughter of his friend—a girl he has known since childhood.

But you make it impossible.

Because you’re cruel.

You don’t even realize it, but you are.

The way you hug him just a little too long. The way you press against him, your body warm, your scent too sweet, too intoxicating. The way you laugh—tilting your head back, exposing the soft skin of your throat.

The way you call him “Mr. Wayne” in that sweet, teasing voice—like you know exactly what it does to him.

But you don’t.

You don’t understand how dangerous it is to tempt a man like him.

But you will.

Soon.

He thinks about it too much.

The way you look at him. The way you look for him at every party, every event. The way you light up when he pays attention to you.

He shouldn’t.

You’re too young. Too innocent.

He should be ashamed of the way his fingers tighten around his glass when he sees you in those short dresses, the way his breath hitches when you cross your legs, letting the hem ride up—just enough.

And he knows, deep down, that you aren’t doing it on purpose.

That you trust him.

That you have no idea how sick he is.

That you have no idea how long he’s been watching you, how long he’s been thinking about you in ways he shouldn’t.

That you have no idea how badly he wants to ruin you.

It happens late one night.

You’re staying at the manor while your father is away, wandering around in nothing but a silk nightgown that barely reaches your thighs.

And Bruce is watching you.

He shouldn’t be.

But God help him, he can’t look away.

You’re sitting on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, scrolling through your phone, completely unaware of the monster lurking in the shadows.

Then, without looking up, you murmur,

“You’re staring, Mr. Wayne.”

His blood runs hot.

You’re doing it again. Pushing him. Testing him.

You don’t even know what you’re playing with.

“What are you doing up?” His voice is calm. Controlled. But there’s an edge to it, a tension that wasn’t there before.

You stretch, your nightgown riding up, exposing too much skin.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. Then, you turn to him, eyes dark, playful. Inviting. “But maybe you could help with that.”

Silence.

A long, dangerous silence.

Then, Bruce is in front of you, his hands gripping the couch on either side of your body, caging you in.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says, voice low, deadly.

But you just smile.

And Bruce?

Bruce finally snaps.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not soft.

He grips your wrist, too tight, dragging you forward until you gasp, your balance thrown off.

You fall against him, your body flush against his, and he hates himself for how good it feels.

For how warm you are. For how easily you fit against him.

His breath is hot against your ear, his hands shaking as they hover over your skin.

He shouldn’t.

He can’t.

But he wants to.

So, so badly.

“You think this is a game?” His voice is hoarse, strained.

Your lips part, confusion flickering across your face.

And for the first time, you see it.

The way he looks at you.

Like a starving man staring at his last meal.

Like a man at war with himself, a man who has spent years trying to fight something that was always meant to consume him.

You blink up at him, lips slightly parted.

His breath shudders. His grip tightens.

Then, he’s kissing you.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s desperate. A collision of heat and teeth and pent-up want that’s been festering inside him for too long.

You gasp against his lips, and he drinks it in, pressing you deeper into the couch, caging you with his body.

And when he finally pulls back, his pupils blown wide, his breath ragged—

And Bruce—Bruce knows he’s going to hell for this.

But maybe he was always meant to burn.

And maybe you were always meant to burn with him.

© stxrkiss ☆ don't copy, translate or use my works here or any other websites.

[thdamned]

with @theeprotector .

Anaïs Nin, from a letter to Joaquin Nin, featured in Reunited: The Correspondence of Anais and Joaquin Nin, 1933-1940

[lachatalovematcha]

🍮🎀⭐️☆∻∹⋰⋰꒰ఎ( :̲̅:̲̅:[̲̅:♡:]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅)໒꒱☆∻∹⋰⋰🍀🍊⭐️の夜に❪₊๋-࣭🎀❫★｡･::♪･ﾟ’開く花は🌈🍎(๑╹ω╹๑)🌈🍎ＳＵＮＡＯ ＮＩ🎀⭐🐱すべて　愛さ☆∻∹⋰（⁠◡⁠ ⁠ω⁠ ⁠◡⁠）☆∻∹⋰🎈⭐️🌈(🌟ᴗ🌟)ＨＡＰＰＹあきれるくらい🌈🥕🎀ＣＯＬＯＲ ＭＥ☘️☀️🎀*:･ﾟ❤⊹✺ * ⊹🍦🎀

[yeritos]

━╋。 ╽ㅤㅤ ㅤ░ུ⠀👼🏼

ㅤ ㅤ ⚘( ၴႅၴ 🎀⠀ ⠀ ͟ ͟ ͟❀ ͟ ⠀ ꫶ ’

[hhmnya]

AN INDIRECT KISS ㅤ 𓈒 𓈒 ㅤ 🦷

【 take five anthology 】 fem ! rㅤ ◦ ㅤ 658wc fluff heeseung pov ㅤ──ㅤ w not proofread.

from anna. repost :3

heeseung watches as you bow, apologizing to the director once again for not being able to complete the scene properly. he feels bad; obviously you were feeling the pressure, your perfectly-styled hair now a mess due to the aggressive bowing.

the stylist is definitely going to scold you later.

he tilts his head—you look better with messy hair, you don’t suit the put-together style of the character you’re playing. obviously you look good in anything, you’re an attractive woman, but heeseung finds himself much more mesmerized when you’re in an unkempt state.

he’s pulled out of his thoughts when you walk over to him, a frown on your face. heeseung wants to ruin everyone who makes you upset—this thought is quickly pushed out of his forefront. he should definitely not be thinking about you like that.

“how do you do this?” you mumble, staring at the ground.

“do what?”

“this,” you half-heartedly gestures towards the cameras, “the bad takes. the bad days.”

he hums, “i don’t have bad days.”

that’s a lie; he’s had days as bad as the next person, but for some reason he wants to impress you. heeseung wants you to think that he’s the amazing, professional actor you seem to think that he is.

he lets out a quiet laugh when you roll your eyes, an annoyed groan leaving your mouth, “i’m serious.”

“okay, i’m sorry.” heeseung shifts, picking up his cup of coffee next to him, “here. caffeine helps sometimes.” he holds the cup out, staring at you expectantly, his eyes meeting your shocked ones.

“did you drink out of it?” heeseung blinks in surprise at your question—it definitely isn’t something that he thought you would be concerned about. he’s seen you take drinks out of water bottles from some of the other actors on set; people you weren’t even that close to compared to heeseung. then again, the two of you weren’t best friends, you hardly spoke outside of filming.

“i did. is that okay?”

you hurriedly nod, likely noticing the subtle look of confusion on heeseung’s face, “no–i mean, it’s fine. just, you know..”

you gesture vaguely once more, making heeseung wonder if that’s habit of yours. either that or you’re nervous right now—you look nervous. you aren’t meeting his eyes and you keeps glancing at heeseung, checking his expression.

he paints his face to be as neutral as possible, shrugging his shoulders, “no, i don’t know. what’s up?”

heeseung has some idea of what you’re worried about, if your nervous fidgeting is any clue to your feelings. you’re playing with your necklace—a habit that heeseung’s picked up on during the two months of filming that you’ve done together—eyes not meeting his.

“like,” you slumps your shoulders, biting your lip, “an indirect kiss. you know.”

heeseung’s eyebrow shoot up briefly before his expression changes to one of pure smugness, “oh?”

“okay, don’t make it weird.” you scold, suddenly snatching the coffee up out of his hand. you take a drink, making a show out of it, dramatically pushing it back into heeseung’s possession once you’re finished. “see. it’s not a big deal.”

“i didn’t say it was. you’re the one who brought it up.”

he can practically feel the heating radiating off of you, he’s half-worried you’re going to sweat off your stage makeup. that aside, he can’t help but think that your real flustered state is ten times better than when you’re acting. you’re an amazing actress, but he doesn’t think you could ever encapsulate this particular moment.

“i didn’t mean to. i just remembered what people call it.” you mumble, looking back down at you feet.

heeseung hums, nodding his head in understanding. he wants to tease you so badly, to ask why you thought about it in the first place and why you had decided to bring it up, but he holds himself back.

knocking his foot against yours, he responds, “sure, we’ll go with that for now.”

[callmevenus]

⭐️🎀*:･ﾟ❤⊹叫ぶよ いつまでも*:･ﾟ❤⊹ＳＴＥＬＬＡＲ*:･ﾟ❤⊹綺麗な花流れ星願いを込めれば*:･ﾟ❤⊹愛していいのかい⭐️🎀

[flutterdashes]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𝄢ㅤ ㅤ🚞ㅤ ㅤ 해 ㅤㅤ ㅤ𝜗𝜚

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ˚˚ ㅤㅤ ᨒ ㅤㅤ 📺 ㅤㅤ ── ㅤㅤ 𝚍𝚞𝚕͟𝚌͟𝚎͟𝚜

[thdamned]

　‘ bem, eu te recomendaria o estrangulamento. cartas só servem para diminuir a raiva momentaneamente, não adiantariam de muita coisa para um estresse constante. ’ apesar de esbanjar uma faceta mais séria ao apresentar sua réplica, a pequena curva no canto dos lábios pintados de batom vermelho era o suficiente para que os sinais declarassem que estava brincando. ‘ imagino que seja um sentimento normal para pessoas que vivem grandes coisas, como várias vidas dentro de pequenos períodos. ’ a noção de tempo que tinha era amarga e pessoal, tratando-o como um inimigo que era combatido friamente, apenas com ameaças mentais e martírios profundos sobre os anos que havia perdido. entendia perfeitamente como lydia se sentia, no fim das contas, pois eram crianças da mesma ninhada, em que seis anos foram responsáveis por mudar completamente a vida como originalmente seria, uma enfermidade temporal que nunca poderia ser resolvida. já haviam sido pessoas diferentes antes, durante e depois da guerra; allerton pensava que aquele sentimento, embora pouco falado sobre, fazia bastante sentido. 　se estava sendo um momento tão distópico para ela, imaginava que para uma thornhill original, a sensação deveria ser duplamente avalassadora. acostumando-se ao novo ritmo da música do vinil que a mais jovem havia escolhido, daphne continuava um segundo gole discreto no copo que segurava, que já havia adquirido bastante calor onde os dedos finos seguravam com mais firmeza que o necessário, uma âncora ao qual tentava se atracar. ‘ nunca tinha voltado aqui? ’ não sabia dizer se estava surpresa ou não com aquela revelação, mas ainda arqueou as sobrancelhas. sentia que não precisava perguntar o porquê. ‘ é estranho estar de volta. tudo mudou, e ainda assim tudo é exatamente igual. parece que tenho dezesseis anos de novo. ’ concordou, não querendo apropriar-se de uma dor que era parente à própria palpitação que sentia no peito, mas ainda era totalmente intrínseca e pessoal à lydia thornhill. ‘ mas não vai ser por muito tempo. seu incômodo não vai durar mais que algumas horas, quando pudermos resolver o problema. e o incômodo que volta vai ser a vida real. ’ a última parte murmurou mais para si, com o suspiro engasgado com o terceiro gole do líquido acobreado, o som da própria voz apagado quando em contato com o vidro.

um pequeno sorriso surgiu nos seus lábios ao ouvir daphne dizer que richard não sabia de nada. ainda assim, por uma razão que nem lydia compreendia, ela sentiu a vontade de defendê-lo. "eu sei porque ele se preocupa. mas de vez em quando eu quero estrangular ele. ou então mandar uma carta fortemente escrita." lydia tinha o sentimento que nenhum de seus irmãos o via como uma adulta, ou uma pessoa completamente formada. talvez esse fosse o destino de todas as crianças mais novas, ou então algo exacerbado pelos anos de cama, as doenças, os sustos. por vezes, tudo o que lydia queria era gritar que ela não era mais aquela criancinha assustada e frágil. mas então um medo ainda pior a enchia: talvez ela ainda fosse. "jovem... de vez em quando eu sinto que eu tenho mil anos e cinco ao mesmo tempo. muito jovem mas muito, muito velha."

lydia levantou a agulha do disco com um súbito, deixando o silêncio se extender por alguns instantes, como um corredor que sempre parece maior durante a noite. apenas quando o momento começou a beirar o desconfortável foi que lydia substitui o disco com o primeiro em sua frente, e a voz de peggy lee, baixa e suave, começou a ressoar entre as duas. "sabe, quando eu estava dirigindo até aqui, vendo as colinas e os campos de urzais, eu comecei a sentir tanta saudades que meu peito doía. mas quando eu entrei na casa..." ela deu de ombros, tomando o último gole de seu copo. "quando eu entrei na casa eu lembrei porque eu não vim aqui em nenhum momento desses quinze anos." muitas memórias, algumas boas, algumas ruins, e muitos vultos de pessoas que deveriam estar lá mas não estavam. a senhora fahey, minnie, seu pai... a lydia de seis anos, frágil mas tão cheia de vida. daphne estava certa. os poréns talvez fossem a pior parte.

[youuthh]

📹 ﹏ ㅤ24.ㅤㅤ@ 처음 느껴본ㅤ{ … }ㅤ euphoriaㅤㅤ🎧

[crush-itis]

ྀི. ̞. ১ ✿ ㅤ𓈒 crush-itis

ㅤㅤ . ‿‿ ‿‿ ୨ ୧ ‿‿ ‿‿ .

ㅤ. 𓂂 Stardew Valley ⊹

bachelors x gn!farmer ꒱ 🎀 a date with them

ㅤㅤ. ‿‿ ‿‿ ୨ ୧ ‿‿ ‿‿ .

♥︎： My first post on Stardew Valley x reader! Romantic, mostly sfw + light suggestive themes ♡〜（ゝ。∂）

♥︎： The night is still young, and the moon had already taken it’s throne in the starry skies. While the villagers begin clicking their front doors locked, you secretly slip into Alex’s house as he told you to. He loves (salmon) dinners, especially for dates. His grandparents are already tucked in bed—snoozing—so you two have enough time to eat, converse, laugh, and hold each other. He lit candles on the dinner table, prepared a bouquet of flowers of your favourite kind, and cooked everything. Then perhaps if the two of you are finished eating, he’d suggest a few more moments of your time… taken to his bedroom. It’s a simple, provincial date, but he’ll keep this memorable day to himself.

♥︎： By the beachside where his house is near, he prepared a humble picnic for the two of you. A red, gingham blanket sits, sprawled on the warm sand, and a basket full of your favourite snacks, foods, and his are stored. He brought wine glasses (if you drink), and a couple novels of his favourite he’d think you’d like. He loves reading, so if you don’t mind, he’d blabber all about his favourite classic romantic literature, and if you happen to like reading as well, he’d possibly fall for you more. But besides that, he’d also insist on feeding you grapes or something.

♥︎： It’s late evening, and your hands are in your pockets (or bag), making sure if you have your movie tickets. Harvey bought both of your snacks, and a few of your popcorn accidentally spilt out of the checkered paper bag. You two sit next to each other in the theatres, plopping snacks into your mouth. As you watched the ads play, Harvey gently let your head rest on his shoulder, and a tentative hand slipped onto your thigh. It was hard to react since you were both out in public. Then, he just had to let his hand brush towards your inner thigh. It lingered, until he finally let go, and draped a warm arm on the back of your seat. It was quite awkward, but kind of romantic.

♥︎： You two go out in Zuzu City once again, but for a karaoke night. He’s terrible at singing, but you can’t help but fall harder for him because of how silly, and cute he is. You two share laughs while singing songs, and even pretend like the both of you are in a podcast. Sam will order a few drinks, and snacks then take a break after to soothe both your hoarse voices. The night grew, and you glanced at your phone to check the time. Suddenly, Sam abruptly pulled you into a kiss, trying to get your attention from the time. You didn’t expect that, but you soon melted into his touch, not even realizing how much time had already passed.

♥︎： You, and Sebastian also visit Zuzu City to go in the arcade, laughing about as you two step inside the dim lit, colourful building. Neon colours flashed on the games, and trendy music beamed in the hidden speakers. When your attention was quickly steered towards the claw machines with stuffed animals inside, Sebastian would help win you a few plushies of your favourite. After having your hands now full with big, fuzzy friends, you two then played the big arcade games. Everything inside was full of distractions, like the colourful lights, the loud soundtracks of the arcades, childrens’ chattering… and yet, Sebastian’s eyes were completely glued to you. He smiled softly, breathing a joke into your ear before you two continued playing with the bright red controller

♥︎： The sun was setting, and a picture of orange, pink, and yellow danced in the sky, the colours clashing together into a warm, alive painting. Shane let out a chuckle as you two plopped yourselves onto a nearby bench, licking your ice creams you both bought from the ice cream truck. You pointed out these clouds that look like puppies or kittens, and he’d watch, pretending to see whatever you’re seeing. He’d exchange a few glances at you, and your ice cream, asking if he could have a taste. With you still licking your own, you nodded, but to your surprise, he leaned in, and kissed you. He tried the creamy treat on your tastebuds with your saliva infused. It was a heady treat, and he liked that particular flavour.

ㅤㅤ. ‿‿ ‿‿ ୨ ୧ ‿‿ ‿‿ .

ׅ ׅ 𝒯hank 𝒴ou !!

[dollirios]

ㅤᅠ

𖩤𖩤 𝗆⍺𝗀𝑖𝖼 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗉 厄 ਓ

ㅤᅠ⏜⁔ㅤㅤㅤ𓉳ㅤㅤㅤ𝑟𝗈𝗌𝖾ᅠᅟ𝗀⍺𝑟𝖽𝖾𝗇ᅟᅠᅠ𓏸𓂂

ᅟᅟ ⽼ㅤㅤ ㅤ𓋜ㅤ ㅤㅤ@usernameㅤ ㅤㅤ♥︎

ㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ𝚅𝙾𝙻.ㅤ𝟶𝟶𝟷ㅤ ㅤ𔓕 ㅤㅤ𝓯⍺𝗌𝗁ⲓ𝗈nㅤ &︭ㅤ 𝖻⍺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗍

ㅤㅤ ⁞ ͜͡ ⁞ ͜͡ ⁞ㅤ ㅤㅤ..ㅤ ㅤㅤ🍥ㅤ ㅤㅤ明天ㅤ ㅤㅤ୨ৎ

ㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ

ᅟᅟ ︵⌒ㅤㅤㅤ❀ ㅤ ㅤ꣑꣒ ㅤ ㅤȷ⍺𝗋𝖽𝑖𝗇ㅤ ㅤ さいㅤ

ㅤㅤ 𝖽𝖾ㅤㅤㅤ 𓈓ㅤㅤ ㅤ🦢ㅤ ㅤㅤ 𝗁⍺𝖽⍺𝗌ㅤㅤㅤ𔘓

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ

[thdamned]

　às vezes, quando se lembrava da infância, com os poucos incentivos de memória que ainda tinha de thornhill daphne sentia uma pontada de culpa por não tê-la amparado mais quando podia. havia tentado, é claro; tinha um instinto cuidadoso intrínseco, e sempre tentou ser uma figura que passasse uma sensação de cuidado para as outras crianças, exprimindo um cuidado que havia desenvolvido quando percebeu que não bastaria ser uma menininha chorona; havia de ser uma moça prestativa aos mais necessitados. quando os menores eram assustados por cassandra, mesmo que ela não fizesse por mal, daphne tentara insistentemente ajudá-la por um tempo, até que um acidente envolvendo as crises contínuas de marwood fizeram com que se afastasse, pelo bem ou pelo mal. havia errado com ela, não tinha? poderia ter sido um pouco mais gentil, talvez atenciosa, mas o sentimento que ficava, apesar das lembranças falhas era a sensação do medo grudada ao paladar, entendendo que jamais poderia entender o que aquela menina falava ou passava… das crises, lembrava-se pouco; cassandra falava de santos? não se recordava, mas àquela altura do campeonato, sabia que também não valia a pena perguntar, além da natural deselegância de tomar aquilo como assunto. aparentemente, a mulher havia superado essa fase de sua existência. 　‘ então está marcado; visitaremos o seu atêlie quando possível. ’ o sorriso tingido em seus lábios era polido e simples, satisfeita com o rumo pacato, até então, que aquela conversa estava trilhando. ‘ ah, entendo. infelizmente, não tenho um profundo conhecimento das artes, mas o surrealismo é bastante interessante. ’ a palavra escolhida não distava da verdade, mas daphne também atribuiria confuso à uma de suas descrições oficiais. ‘ acho que o que foge ao natural é bem interessante. como você se inspira? digo, acabou de falar das suas emoções, mas o que mais serve como inspiração pra você? ’

"Fui, uma vez", Cassandra assentiu com a cabeça, um sorriso discreto nos lábios. Ela conseguia se lembrar distintamente da ocasião, mesmo que houvesse ocorrido há tantos anos; era difícil se esquecer de como seu coração ficara apertado durante todo o recital, os olhos cheios de lágrimas enquanto via a criança que um dia conheceu rodopiar pelo palco com uma elegância etérea. Havia ido embora antes do fim, incapaz de suportar aquele sentimento por mais um segundo que fosse, e então chorou contra o próprio travesseiro a noite toda, sem entender o porquê. Mas Daphne não precisava saber daquilo. "Gostei bastante, foi muito bonito", foi o que conseguiu dizer, mas foi capaz de perceber o brilho triste nos olhos da outra enquanto ela agradecia. Ficou curiosa sobre o que seria aquilo, mas não iria investigar. Abriu um sorriso mais genuíno com o desejo de Daphne de ter um quadro seu. "Seria uma honra. Quando voltarmos a Londres, você pode ir ao meu ateliê e ver de qual você gosta mais." Cassandra sabia que sua obra poderia ser inquietante e, no caso de alguns quadros em específico, até mesmo perturbadora. Para a sua sorte, ela havia agradado aos críticos de arte e ao restante do cenário artístico londrino. Mal sabiam eles que, em sua arte, estava a verdade de tudo o que ela era obrigada a esconder para sobreviver.

"Já pintei algumas paisagens, sim, mas não é o meu foco. A minha arte acaba por pender ao surrealista e, às vezes, ao abstrato. Gosto de dizer que minhas emoções comandam o que eu pinto, e não a minha razão." Talvez justamente por isso ela acabasse por criar obras tão confusas e tumultuadas; ou talvez porque, quando não comandada por suas emoções, sua arte era comandada pelas vozes que ainda a acompanhavam.

[lachatalovematcha]

🌈🎀🍮.｡.:☆(-Д-).｡.:☆ＳＵＧＡＲ☀️🎀抱えて震わせてそりゃもっ☘️🍎ともっともっとＨＥＡＲＴ♡ ＤＯＬＬ🎈🖍️🎀大人大人大人はじめよう⭐🍅🥕⭒˚.⋆ . ݁₊泣かないぞＨＡＰＰＹ⭒˚.⋆ . ݁₊🌈🌭🎀

[celestialcalls]

⠀︵ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ♱ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ⊹ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ🕸ㅤㅤㅤㅤ:p

ㅤㅤ ㅤ¡¡¡ Its raining tacos !!!

[nini-i]

cinnɑmon   &ㅤ  vɑnillɑ ❥ ⠳⠝⠔ 🐞〃 ˝

🪲ㅤ ㅤ 庭  ㅤㅤ 'ㅤㅤ  apple──cider.

[baenuit]

ㅤ

@enfloris ㅤ ♡ㅤ ─────ㅤ tóquio,ㅤ japão.

ㅤ

"  𝗐𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗌  "ㅤ   １１:０３𝖺𝗆ㅤ   ▶︎   ㅤ𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒.

𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 ㅤ─ㅤ 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌ㅤㅤːㅤㅤ𝖺𝗄𝖺𝗌𝖺𝗐𝖺ㅤㅤ✿︎

𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇ㅤㅤ  ⩌⩌ㅤㅤ  ﹫ 静けさㅤㅤ  𝗌𝖾𝗂𝗂𝗄𝗂.

ㅤ

𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗈ㅤ ㇣ㅤ 'ㅤ 𝙴́𝙶𝙸𝙳𝙴.

tua presença leva-me para o lugar onde o conforto reside, o amargado se aquebranta, e a paz faz seu parecer em meu âmago.

ㅤ

10 de dezembro ( 2001 年 ) e por diante, encontrar-te em meio as estações faz-se consueto; elementos de ti, dulçor que emerge em meio a teus falares, poético.

ㅤ

꒰     美術。 ꒱ㅤㅤ⛶ㅤㅤ𝗻𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲ㅤ  🌱ㅤ  𝗋𝖾𝖼.ㅤㅤ

𝖺𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗈'ㅤ   (ㅤ 栄光 ㅤ)ㅤ   𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗁𝖺̃𝗌.ㅤ   ♡︎

日,  雨:ㅤㅤ  𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌.ㅤㅤ ⸺  𝟪°ㅤㅤ  𝖼𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾́.

ㅤ

𝖺𝗅𝗏𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗋ㅤ𝖾𝗆ㅤ"ㅤ𝗇𝗈𝗏𝗈𝗌──𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗌.ㅤ"

destarte, fez-se nascer diante dos olhos novas cores, formas e sentidos, mediante ao radioso brilho que emana do teu─ser.

ㅤ

-> ㅤmoodㅤ ＿＿ ㅤBIOS⠀·⠀modificação livre.