#READ THESE POEMS I BEG OF YOU GOD

[gingermintpepper]

Mother Love - Demeter and Persephone in poetry

Alright, so, let's finally talk about Mother Love.

I've spent the past couple of weeks compiling most of the poems from my physical copy of Mother Love into a publicly accessible google doc because there is a quite frankly embarrassing lack of archiving of this particular anthology of Dove's work and I am genuinely and greatly saddened that it is not a work more commonly brought up when discussing Demeter/Hades/Persephone retellings and reinterpretations for modern audiences.

In order to speak about what Mother Love is, I first need to address what it is not. It's not a coming of age story which portrays Persephone as a caged bird under a too-smothering Demeter. It's not a love story where Hades is some valiant hero who rescues an innocent maiden and through his love empowers her to be her truest self. It does not demonise Demeter, who has forever lost her daughter, it does not demonise Hades, who took that daughter away.

Instead, Mother Love is, perhaps, the truest interpretation of the themes of the Homeric Hymn to Demeter that I've seen, down to the structure of the anthology mimicking the hymn's narrative structure. It is the story of a mother who loses her daughter, of the grief that ensues as she worries for her, of her being pitied and given empty words instead of help finding her, of her trying to soothe herself by filling the void with new children that are not her own. It is the story of a daughter who loses her way, who went seeking flowers and was unwittingly caught in the machinations of those in higher positions of power than her, of the kingdom she is promised and refuses, of the changes she goes through in this new, strange world without her consent and how those changes will define her the rest of her life. It is the story of a lonely king overrun with ennui who wants companionship but never asks, of he who tries in vain to tempt with wealth and land and must ultimately yield to the love of a mother. Not even the lord of the dread Underworld can escape that all-consuming mother's love and this was a theme found all over greek mythology and their literature, and it is also the theme that has been unfortunately and miserably lost as we've told and retold the tale of Hades and Persephone time and time again.

Please, please read this work, and if you enjoy it, do consider picking up an actual copy of the anthology. There is so much to be gained from speaking of the Demeter/Hades/Persephone myth as one of nuance and devoid of the unnecessary moralisations and accusations that we habitually foist onto cultural figures and heroes in an attempt to validate our opinions and interpretations to our peers. In my compilation, I did leave out three poems: Breakfast of Champions, Blue Days, Nature's Itinerary, mainly because I did not think they were relevant -- but I'm always open to requests for those poems to be added to the doc if anybody gets curious. Below I've also attached a few of my favourite short poems from this anthology so people can get an idea for the content that is included in the doc.

@gotstabbedbyapen who requested a way to read these poems but could not find them, I sincerely hope you enjoy them <3

[slut4sugu]

I’ve been obsessed with Spencer Reid lately, sooo here are some head cannons abt my favorite boy genius <3 (szn 9-12 spence)

calls you old school pet names: love, darling, sweetheart, rarely calls you baby but when he does he’s either teasing you or begging you to kiss him more. his puppy eyes are lethal I swear to god (the things I would do to that man omfg.)

isn’t big on pda but loves handholding/locking pinkies: though he had to ease into it once he started being around you more as you two started dating he began to crave your touch more in anyway he could get it. Without being teased by Morgan or Emily ofc.

sends you a new poem about his love for you everyday: whether it’s whispering it softly to you as you wake up or texting it to you when he knows you’re awake.

has a thing for hair pulling: you discover this when you and Spence had your first makeout session, It started our sweet and got more intense over the passing seconds, his big soft hands coming to grip your waist as he pulled you closer to him. You let a out a soft moan before finding your hand in his messy hair, tugging ever so slightly unknowing of the almost whimper that your boyfriend would let out. “I’m sorry love, I-it just-“ silencing his worries with a kiss you reassured him. “Spence that was hot, so don’t apologize mkay?”

Remembers everything about you: it’s almost annoying how he knows when your upset, when your happy, when your horny. However when his head gets in between your plush thighs your previous annoyance slowly fades away.

Reads to you before bed: even if it’s a book he’s read 15 times by now, even if he knows the content without even looking, at it he loves the peaceful feeling of your head resting against his chest. occasionally presses kisses to the top of it as he read to you about some old poet or artist. You could never remember the contents just the sweet sound of Spencer’s voice that would always pull you to sleep within 8 minutes.

Everytime you two are clearing a house/dealing with rather unstable unsub he’s always infront of you: he knows good and well you can protect yourself but he just feels safer knowing that if there is something awry you won’t be anywhere near the threat.

is the type to spend half an hour on cultivating the perfect bouquet for you: as we all know spencer doesn’t just see things on a surface level, it comes with his job to pry and look beneath it. So when getting his sweet sunshine flowers he focuses on the meaning of each one, then recalls the ones you would rant to him about on your second date. He then throws in some candies and a sweet card too just because <33

[contentloadinggg]

Game of Distraction - Hozier Drabble

The way I’d give him the creamiest, soul sucking, heaven sent, sloppy, wet, back arching, begging for mercy, praying for God to take him, soul enlightening, spiritual experience head the earth has ever seen. THAT SLUTTY SWEATER TOO. GOD.

Anyways, Drabble more or less inspired by this pic. I can’t tell if this is making me more or less sane.

Summary: Andrew can’t play chess with you in his sweater. (Genderneutral! Reader) (~400 words)

Warnings: Surprisingly none, just a bit of making out towards the end and suggestive talk. No beta reading, I wrote this in 20 minutes.

This is a work of fiction and not a reflection of who Hozier is

Fic under the cut🤎

“Checkmate.”

You declared, dramatically knocking over Andrew’s castle in this very heated game of chess. The man groans in response, dropping his head on to the table.

“This isn’t fair!”

He calls into the wood of the tabletop. He pushes his long curls away from his face when he decides to lift his head back up. Meeting your eyes and seeing your amusement, he scowls.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Why is it not fair, Andy?”

The man looks at you with exasperation.

“Like you don’t know.”

He replies, stiffly. You smile, learning forwards by placing your elbows on the table.

“No, I don’t. Tell me.”

Andrew sighs deeply. His eyes are getting distracted by your bare collarbones. Oh yes, he’s definitely thinking about why it’s not fair.

“Because, you’re cheating.”

His vagueness is purposeful. He doesn’t want to admit that the sight of you wearing his sweater has got him all hot beneath the collar. All oversized on you, dropping low on your shoulders. You’re gorgeous, of course. But since when is he the one to fold so easily?

“Cheating? How?”

It’s a goad. You know exactly why. Andrew stays quiet.

For one,

Two,

Three seconds.

And he’s up.

Out of his seat. Andrew is on you faster than you can replace the breath he knocks out of you. He’s practically biting rather than kissing you. Teeth scraping over your bottom lip.

You’re swift to return it. The tip of your tongue running over his bared teeth. One might call it violent. His beard gently scratches at your skin and his fingers gripping your legs. But if that’s true, It’s a crime of passion.

Andrew lifts you up onto the table. It rocks on its legs with your shared movements. The chess pieces scattering across the board and floor. The wooden pieces on the hard ground are loud, but not loud enough to make you even think about picking them up.

Bites trail down the length of your throat. Teeth pulling at your tendons, but careful not to break skin. Andrew’s only goal is to lift the blood to show a bright pink color against your skin.

Reaching the collar of the sweater. Andrew breathes out shakily. As if just recalling why this started in the first place. You tug lightly on his hair. Urging him to continue.

The man looks back up at you. A familiarly wild look in his eye.

“Let’s get this sweater off you, yeah?”

He asks, running his hands beneath it over your bare skin. Voice rough.

“What? Tired of me ‘cheating’?”

“Don’t push it.”

I revisited some old poems and that’s what inspired this lol. Just wanted to post something while I struggle with my Alex fic.

-Thad💚

[anyshapebutsquare]

my gram passed away a week ago. she went within a few days of starting hospice. i saw her on tuesday and i knew the end was near. she couldn't open her eyes but she would occasionally give me a 'yep' or a 'uh huh' in her cute little voice. she was 96, and i'm thankful that i got to have so much time with her. i'm going to miss her so much. while i was there, i told her how i always admired her. she had 24/7 aids and i kind of wished she'd left the room while i was there so i could've talked to her privately. she really is everything i'd like to be. she was very direct, goofy, kind, sincere, honest, generous, funny, and always seemed to be positive. she traveled the world with my pop before he passed, and when he passed she didn't want to go anywhere without him. she told me probably 15 years ago shortly after he died, that she was ready to go. she often said she was ready whenever god wanted to take her, honestly. i am pretty at peace with it because i know she was ready and accepting. apparently she told my mom she was looking forward to seeing her father again, which i think is beautiful. she claimed she struggled a lot with anxiety, and i'm sure she did, but she hid it so well. i can't even explain how amazingly quirky she was. she was blind the last 30 years from macular degeneration, yet she took the bus to philly's 69th street station alone, just to talk to what she thought were 'interesting' people on the bus. my dad and aunt had to beg her to stop in her 80s because it just wasn't safe for her. she loved trivia, games, seinfeld, piano music, and rabbits. she had many pet rabbits throughout her life, but the one she had right now was extra special. my aunt took care of it most of the time once my gram couldn't do it anymore, but would bring it over to her a lot. his name was mr. softee. my gram would talk to him on the phone, and he would zoom around his cage in excitement at the sound of her voice. it was such a uniquely cute relationship. he was very calm with her in person. a couple months ago she asked me to bring stanley to visit her, i was worried because he can be overly excited in new environments, but he did great and she loved it. every holiday there was always a 'gram question' which was just some silly thing she came up with that would stump you and make you chuckle. i think i may reactivate my instagram because i think i put some of the questions on there, but one i do remember is 'what even is a pumpernickle?!'

i need to decide if i want to say anything at her memorial. i thought about reading a poem, but maybe i should write something. i hate public speaking, but if i have it written down it might not be so bad? she was definitely my closest relative and very influential to me growing up.

[vibingandsimping]

What kinks do you think Dammon would have?

I received this ask JUST after reading a Dammon fic. Get out of my head, Jesus christ.

I adore Dammon, truly. Sadly, he doesn’t strike me as a hardcore guy. He definitely has a fair share of kinks, though.

Worship

He adores your body. Honestly, anything about you. He whispers it to you as he trails his lips down your chest. Along your sternum as you begin to writhe. Each kiss is followed by some sort of compliment. “Your skin is so lush.”, “I love to hear you.”, “I would do this all day, god.” Really anything to get you off. His hands will work your flesh until you begin to whimper. Dammon works with enthusiasm til you’re practically begging. No need, though. Once you’re ready he’ll happy turn to one of his other kinks. On the other hand… He flusters so much if you do it in return. His brain shuts off but the raging tent in his trousers is proof enough. His skin a deep bronze as he draws ragged breaths. He enjoys it both ways. He could never ask for it, though. It’d have to be something you initiate.

Oral Fixation

Between your thighs is his heaven. He’ll spend all of eternity worshipping your sensitive flesh, if you’d permit. God, if you gave him permission to do it whenever he pleased? Practically every morning and night you’d go to sleep and wake to him. Tongue working like a feral animal as he uses skilled technique. Hands flying to his hair as it drapes over his shoulders. He forgone his hair-clip in his laze. Truthfully, all he thought and sought was the wondrous cries and ambrosia that you leaked. If he could write a song or poem- he would. You grow used to climaxing by his tongue alone at least once every time you visit. God forbid you two live together.

Mating Press

Not sure if this is a kink but… it’s the way he can reach so deeply within you. He tells you he doesn’t particularly have a breeding kink (he’s a liar). No, he just settled down in his life and can’t spare the thought of raising a child. He’d love to grow a family when his blacksmithing is solid and there’s no threat of danger. Despite that, he does welcome a little thrill. Your legs thrown over his shoulders as he drills into you. Even if you can’t biologically have kids- he’ll relish in the position. Yes, when you two are ready… he’s going to put you in this every time. Until you two have the kid you wish. Til there’s a bundle of joy to take care of and run around the house. Better get used to the burn in your thighs, baby. It’s going to be so hard to say no when he gives you those puppy-eyes of his.

Prolonged Foreplay

He is torturous. Dammon will sit and whisper his wants into your ear for days. Fleeting moments of you visiting his smithery for new tools and armor. Grabbing your arm as your companions depart to tell you his depraved thoughts. How he misses you so dearly. When you two finally grab a drink at a tavern as everyone chats. His eyes take you in hungrily and he plays so innocently when you pointedly stare at him. Finally alone, his nails tickle your skin as does his lips. Locked in the passion of your make-out and groping. Groaning into your skin as you touch a particularly sensual spot on his body. You can feel him pressing into the inside of your knee. When you suggest taking things further he simply shakes his head. He’s adamant on making sure you’re ready. Even if you whine and say you are. He gets off on the desperation between you two.

Tail Restraint

This goes both ways. If you have a tail of any sort he’ll gladly let you use it on him. Takes a little reassurance but he trusts you so much. How could you ever hurt him? You wrap your tail around his ankles or wrists as your hand wraps around his cock. His jaw lowers in a choked moan as you begin to slowly guide your hand. His erection, leaking and aching, being slowly jerked off as his body twists in your hold. It’s a delicious sight. If you want him to use his tail on you… again he’s very willing with some reassurance. (Also with the solid establishment of a safe-word. He’s so paranoid he’ll push your boundaries.) The leathery texture of the skin coils around your wrists. Laying on your arms as he pins and restrains them underneath your back. He slips to his knees and begins to work his hands on your sex. He’s slow, painfully so, in working the seed of desire in you. Finally, when your sex begins to weep for him does he use his tongue. The feeling is gratifying and leaves you nearly forgetting the lack of movement in your arms and hands.

[evanslvr]

𝙫𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙙 𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 < 𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑑𝑜𝑛 >

• 𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙛𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙞𝙯𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 •

• 𝙑𝙀𝙍𝙔 𝙀𝙓𝙋𝙇𝙄𝘾𝙄𝙏 𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝘼𝙃𝙀𝘼𝘿•

𝙖/𝙣: 𝙞𝙢 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙡𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙞 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙑𝙀𝙍𝙔 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙩

(𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙗𝙧𝙖𝙧𝙮 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙗𝙧𝙖𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙞𝙯𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪)

wc: 912

•••

𝑝𝑟𝑒-𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡𝘩 𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒:

I couldn't stop staring at her, she was so beautiful and goddess like. The way she would play with her hair and the way she would smile was so hypnotic. I would love to see her on her knees, looking up at me with those pretty eyes, or to have her laying on my bed as I fucked her, showing her no mercy. I would kill just to hear her moan out my name and beg for me to slow down.

***

"Tate, Tate please! It's too much!" She whimpers, as i thrusted harshly into her tight pussy. I wrap my hand around her neck and squeeze hardly, making her whimper even louder. "I'm almost there baby," I growl in her ear, "you're gonna make me cum soon." She moans loudly and arches her head back into the pillow, still pleading for me to slow down my pace. I wasn't going to, I wanted her to feel every inch of me inside of her.

I grab her wrists and pin them over her head, holding her in place. I could hear the slapping sounds of our bodies meeting and the wet squelching noises that came from between us. I leaned forward and kissed her softly, letting my tongue slide into her mouth as I slowly pulled out. I pushed back in, fucking her harder and faster until we were both breathing heavily.

"Please..." She begs, gasping for air. "I can't take it anymore!" I pull out completely and slam back into her again, this time much more forcefully. She screams and bucks against me as I bury myself deep inside of her, hitting all the right spots. "Oh, baby, you're so fucking tight.."I pant, feeling my cock pulsing with pleasure.

Her body trembles and shakes, and I can tell she's close to another orgasm. I push her onto her back and lean over her, kissing her deeply before I suck on her neck. She gasps and shivers, pressing her chest against mine. Her hands run through my messy hair, and I can feel her nails digging deeply into my scalp.

"Don't stop...don't stop...please don't stop," she cries, I grab her legs and spread them a little wide, giving me full access to her pussy. I bite her shoulder and hold her down, continuing to thrust into her with all my strength. "Fuck yes! Oh fuck!" She screams, her voice cracking. I watch as her whole body tenses up, and then she lets out a long wail of ecstasy.

I start to feel light headed as well, but I keep going. I want to give her the most intense orgasm possible, and I know I can do it. "Come on baby, come for me," I whisper in her ear, rubbing my thumb along her clit. She groans and starts to buck her hips up against me, pushing me deeper inside of her. I reach up and cup her breasts, squeezing them roughly as I continue to thrust. "Yes! Yes! Oh God, YES!" She screams, arching her back and throwing her head back. Her body goes rigid and she starts to shake violently, clenching around me as she cums.

I let go of her arms and grab her thighs, holding her steady. Loud moans escaped my mouth and that's when I quickly pulled out and released onto her stomach, nearly coating it . She gasps for breath and lays still, catching her breath.

***

"Tate?" I instantly jump out of my thoughts once I heard a voice. I look in the direction of the voice and surprisingly it was Y/n. "O-oh..h-hey..Y/n."

"What are you doing here?" I ask, turning towards her. "I uhm...I just wanted to see if i could borrow the poem you're reading. You know. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage." She says, blushing slightly.

I nod, handing the book over to her. "Thanks, Tate." She says, smiling subtly. I smile back at her and then look away. "Also, Tate, uh.." She starts. "You know that science project we have?" I nodded, "Well, I don't really have a partner so I was wondering if you would wanna be my partner? It's okay if you don't want to."

I was shocked and flustered. Out of all the people she knows why would she choose me? "Uhm, really? Are-are you sure?" I stammer. She nods, biting her

lip. "Yeah, I am." She takes a deep breath and looks at me, straight into my eyes. "Oh..well..maybe we could do it at your house?" I said, hoping she'll say yes. I really don't want her to meet my mother. "Yeah, sure that'll be fine. See you later, Tate.." She says, walking away.

I stare after her, wondering what just happened. I was so confused, nobody really wanted to hang out with me so it was surprising to have her ask me that. Plus, it was weird, knowing that I just fantasized about her. I can't believe I did that. I was so embarrassed when I realized what I was thinking.

God, I'm such a weirdo.

••••

A/n: I need professional help. I apologize deeply for my sins.

[crabonfire]

mercs with reader who has poetic rizz 🫶

characters: all mercs

warnings: corny poetry / letters

note: I'm writing this because I write very badly written poetry myself and I just wanted to share 👍👍👍 this is very random haha

reader is shy abt their writing and gets embarrassed showing or talking abt it (that's how I react when I show people my corny poetry agahwhsg) all the poems have dumb names

♡Scout♡

• he doesn't understand what the fuck any of it means but it sure sounds smart and sophisticated.

• he would be messing around in your notebook and finding very well written lines of romantic and depressing poetry, finds it actually very attractive?? he has a thing for "smart people" stuff.

• he found a love poem you made, went along the lines of:

The day we ultimately leave this plane of existence, If in a time of judgement, I'd get to have live again. I'd search every corner of this vast, timeless universe just to see you again.

• and when he saw the note at the end that said "for my love" He felt like combusting on the spot.

• when he brings it up he's like "You wrote this for me?" And if you get all shy and stuff he's honestly gonna kiss you so hard. If your nervous about your writing he's the best hypeman 🫶🫶

• brags about it to the others but never shows them any poems you have, wants to keep them to himself <33 definitely has written copies of your poems in his room.

♡Pyro♡

• hubba hubba

• bro is honestly so honored my god

• he'd be snooping around in your room because he was looking for you and find pieces of paper on your desk, filled with romantic letters. Some have been scribbled over, probably some you didn't like. One reads,

Even in the sheer and agonising cold, I can still feel the fire in my fingertips when I'm with you.

You're my source of warmth in the winter, my light at the end of the tunnel, my everything.

I'd go through a hundred battles if I knew you'd be the one I protect.

• and when he reads, "for my firefly."

• you got em blushing under the mask fr,, bro is kicking his feet in the air, punching the wall, shaking the paper like a crazed fangirl...dawggg

• when he finds you, he will literally shake you around like a pinata, shoving the paper in your face and practically asking "is this about me"

• when you smile and nod in response, you get a squeal out of him, hugging you tightly and giggling uncontrollably as he...purrs??? on you?? rizz so poetic you turned bro into a cat...wtf

• will show engie and beg you if he can see more poetry. Will attempt to do it for you because he wants to impress you 🫶

♡Soldier♡

• you were writing on your notebook for a while in the common room while everybody was up to their own thing, and he was quite curious on what you were doing.

He asked but you were too embarrassed to say what it was, he caught on and took a peek from the side, making you look away and frown, a blush forming at your face.

You're like no man I've ever met, a stern and determined figure that manages to surpass expectation.

What I'd do to kiss you, I'd cross the lands far wide just for a chance to gaze upon your beautiful face.

You have such a fire in your eyes when you set your mind to something. Those baby blues have me in a chokehold, I wonder what fire will arise when you look at me.

I'd do anything, anything at all if it meant I'd be the one to start that flame.

• "...WHO IS THIS FOR?"

You pause for a bit and sigh, "You."

He takes a second, reading everything back again he feels his face start to heat up tremendously. His knees feel weak, head is dizzy, and he has the stupidest smile on his face.

• he grabs you by the shoulders, making you stand up as he aggressively kisses you, pulling back he says "EXCELLENT WORK. I AM HONORED TO BE WRITTEN ABOUT SO BEAUTIFULLY. THANK YOU CADET!"

• he walks away with the biggest fucking grin ever he might start fucking skipping.

You're just left there with a red face, stunned and confused on what to do.

♡Demo♡

• he likes to talk to you a lot, so this would probably pop up in a convo. you talk about arts, and you mention the fact you do poetry in your spare time.

He jokingly asks if you made any about him, fully expecting you to snort and shake your head. But when you go silent, looking away for a second he immediately feels like he's going to burst. You've written poetry about him?

He begs you for a good 15 minutes until you agree to show him, bringing it up even after you've changed the topic of conversation.

• He watches you pull out your notebook with excitement, he's already grinning even before you show him. You huff, handing him the book with a page that says "corny poem for demo I'm never showing him" and he laughs at that.

The poem goes,

My dear, words can not express the sheer adoration I have for you.

I was never fond of drinks myself, but if alcohol ever tasted like you, I'd have become a crazed drunkard whose only relief was alcohol.

Your lips are so soft. When they kiss my skin, it feels as though I have just been blessed by the heavens above.

• bro has his jaw dropped to the floor, face tinted a dark red as he literally has to blink to see if this was about HIM?

• he's laughing, shaking his head and covering his face in embarrassment.

"I cannae believe this. This...this is for me?"

You simply nod.

"Dear lord, yer an angel ya know that?" He leans in and kisses you, then kisses you some more all over your face, making you giggle, pulling you into his lap and having a full on make out session.

He'll kiss your neck and leave marks, whispering sweet compliments, repetitions of "thank you's," and "I love you's" over and over. If he fell head over heels for you, then now he's fell for real and dropping into a pit of neverending love for you <3

♡Heavy♡

• I'd say he found them on accident, he insisted on helping you clean your room when you got too tired to do it, and as he was reorganising your desk he found your notebook laid open, and curiously, he read the specific page.

The title was "hahsjfjfjdkskzncn"

The way your arms wrap around my waist makes it feel like it's just the two of us against this cruel world.

But even with my upsetting mindset, you manage to find a way to strip me of those thoughts, and every day, the colour in this world gets a little brighter.

I love your laugh, and when you do it, the angels sing to the gods. My heart always longs to be within your presence because it feels like I'm floating whenever I'm with you.

• he blushes, and blushes even more when he sees the note at the end written "for misha (I'll probably never show him this it's corny asl)" and he doesn't smile, he doesn't even show any form of expression, but his face is so red he could pass as a tomato.

He doesn't bring it up right away, but when he finishes cleaning your room, he talks to you about it with a flustered expression, voice low and quiet with cheeks dusted a rosy pink.

"I like the poem. It is quite lovely, thank you."

You just sorta sit there kind of embarrassed of your poem and nodding aggressively.

• he thinks of that poem a lot, and if he finds out you've made more for him he's actually gonna burst.

♡Engie♡

• finds out similarly with how Heavy and Pyro did!! He fell asleep in your room while you two were cuddling, and it happened to be a ceasefire day so yall had nothing to do. He's a real heavy sleeper so while you were showering he was still snoring loudly.

but then a couple minutes later after you did, he woke up.

• he rubbed his eyes and decided to get cups of coffee for the both of you. he placed the cups on your desk and noticed your notebook was open. Not so subtly, he started to read what was written.

"I love texans" was the title, he smirked at that.

The moon and the stars don't even compare to you, and the heat of the sun can't even be on the same level as how warm you make me feel.

I can't take it when you're away. It's like a part of my heart starts to shatter at your absence. The days feel like weeks, the longer you're away. I miss you even when you're just in the other room, I miss your voice even when we just started to talk.

Your words are so sweet to me, and it seems I've developed a sweet tooth just for you.

• 🙁🙁🙁🙁🙁😞😞😞😭😭😭😭

• bro felt like sobbing to be honest, smiling like a goof and screaming internally.

he will join you in the shower,trailing his fingers over your body and leaving feathery kisses over your back. you'd giggle, asking him what gotten him in such a mood. all he'll do is hum, washing your body as he continues kiss you in all sorts of places.

• like Scout, he finds it a weirdly attractive trait, like the romantic essence of it yk??

• the entire day he'll just be so much softer than usual, melting like a puddle around you when he randomly recalls the poem. Will definitely bring it up later, complimenting you and asking you about it.

( OK I ran out of ideas for romantic poems so I'm not writing them anymore SORRYYYYYYYY)

♡Medic♡

• You were high in anaesthesia after an operation, where he was fixing you up after a big battle. You two talked the night away, and you mentioned your hobbies when he was asking you, you blurt out your writing hobby and he seems very interested!

So in your fuzzy state, you pull your notebook outta yer ass and let him flip through the pages himself.

• he's quite surprised, very impressed at your writing abilities. Some of the poetry is sad, and he can truly resonate with some. Then, he sees one that catches his eyes, it's labelled "doctors!! ahhh!!"

he has a amused grin on his face, "is zhis one about me?" You chuckle, nodding aggressively like a drunk child.

• when he reads it, thay amused expression turns to one of embarrassment. It feels as though you've lifted him off of his feet, he knows it's rather corny, but it's so damn romantic he can't take it.

"woah!! your face is all red man, sorry for making you so flustered I just got that poetic rizz AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA-"

he shakes his head literally having no idea what that means and a weary smile forms on his face, not expecting the poem to be so specific.

But he reads it again, and again. Each repetition he melts even more at your endearing words about him. He can't help but feel overjoyed, his eyes soften when he meets your gaze.

He leans into the patient chair to give you a kiss on the forehead, gazing into your eyes and whispering, "Ich liebe dich, mein schatz. Danke, this is beautiful." He kisses you once more, on your nose this time making you giggle.

(I love doctors!! ahhh!!)

♡Sniper♡

• I don't think he'd be the type to uh, snoop around for your stuff, or even do anything remotely close without asking for it, so in terms of poetry he'd find you doing it like soldier did.

• you two were sitting under a tree near his van, a nice date in the woods for you both to get out of the chaos and just be alone.

• he rested his head on your shoulder, as you wrote intensely on your notebook. It was quiet, but it was a peaceful one.

"Hey, what'cha writin' there?"

You hum in reply, "Nothing."

"Really? Cause you've been writing for a bit now."

You just smile, continuing to write.

• After a bit you finish writing, and he takes a peek, "my star"

he smiled, it was about him. Well, he assumed.

Slowly, he read the lines of poetry that were just finished. You were reading it back, too. As he did, he couldn't help the heat that rose to his cheeks, and a downturned smile appeared on his face as he looked away, covering his face with his hat.

You noticed, looking at him and blushing as well.

"Oh. Did you.. read it?"

He paused, putting the hat back on his hat but still looking away. "Yea."

It was silent again, until he asked;

"...Is it about me?"

You smiled, "Well of course. Who else would it be about?"

His cheeks reddened even more, and then he went back to lean on your shoulder with a shy smile. One that you mirrored, tucking loose hair away from the sides of your face.

"It's cute."

"Thank you, its about you so of course it is."

He screamed internally at that. He just chuckled.

• Here you are, fully grown adult mercenaries, acting like little kids who are going on their first date. Those corny sentences you wrote will be stuck in his mind for weeks, months maybe...he's so in love with you man.

♡Spy♡

• he found out the same as soldier did, in the common room after everybody ate, you were sitting at a desk with a cup of coffee, writing something on your notebook. Truth be told, you had finished it, you were just contemplating if you wanted to show it to spy or not, you knew he'd love it, but a part of you knew it was also super corny.

"What are you writing, my dear?"

You screamed, shocked at his presence, slapping your hands on your notebook in an attempt to hide it.

"HUH?? WRITINF?? OH YEAHHHH just some uh, stuff. Yeah." You laugh nervously, a comically large bead of sweat streams from your face.

• he simply smirks, taking the book out of your hands and seeing what you're so embarrassed about. All you could do was sit, flushed face and eyebrows furrowed.

" 'poem, maybe I'll show him, i don't know.' This is for me, hm?"

You nod, covering your face with your hands and curling into a ball.

• he reads it, his expression is unclear, but he's intensely memorising the words you've written about him. It's so...romantic. He feels his cheeks heat up, and all he does is smile, eyes lidded full of admiration for what you've written.

"This is beautiful. I didn't know you were such a poet, why didn't you tell me?"

"..its embarrassing. It's not even that good, too. I just... do it when I'm bored."

He shakes his head, "Ma petite chou-fleur, you are a true artist. I am honoured to be written in such a way by such a lovely person such as yourself. You should not underestimate yourself, this is...wonderful."

He smiled at your adorable reaction. He kneels and takes your hand, giving it a kiss. "To know such kind hands think of me in such a way makes my head spin...for once, you've truly captivated me."

"And if it's alright, I would love to read more of your work. Poetry is truly difficult, yet you've managed to write so emotionally."

You can't believe what he says, but you can tell he's being genuine by his soft smile, one you rarely see. With your face still as red as a tomato, you nod, mirroring the smile he has.

• You two spend your time together in the common rooms talking about poetry, he's constantly complimenting you, and any person who walks by to see what your up to, he immediately starts to talk about your poetry, even going as far as to show it to them, telling them how good it is.

he's definitely asking for some pieces of your poetry, keeping it in a folder to read whenever he misses you.

done!!!

hide yo girls, the rizzler is here 💯💯💯🔥🔥🔥‼️‼️‼️

[i-am-a-l0st-gh0st]

School au! It's valentine's day, and the reader has prepared a letter with a plushie that was a limited edition plush merchandise from lyneys favorite content creator magician. They wanted to cowardly confess through a letter, as they were worried of that destroying their best-friend relationship, even writing at the end of the letter "if this makes you uncomfortable or you'd wish to never speak of it again please just ignore this letter.".

Yet... When the time to give it came, they saw lyney had received quite a few gifts, but what broke the reader was when someone tried to suddenly kiss lyney. They got angry, furious even, the frustration taking each thought from their mind. They left the classroom and went outside, not wanting to look at this any further. Even if the girl was just being pushy - the sight itself hurt em. They decided it was a stupid idea to confess at all - knowing how many people liked lyney... He most likely wasn't going to pick the reader - at least that's what they thought. They sat outside near the school court, forgetting in their frustration that the place they were sitting it was see-able from their classroom. They crumbled the letter and sat there, head hanging low, as they skipped the class.

I should be over all the butterflies- Lyney x Gn!reader

Im still into you t/w- kissing summary- as shown above

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Taglist form!

The sun shone brightly as you walked to school, bag in hand filled with things for Lyney. It was Valentine's Day, the day you were going to confess to your best friend. You may not have looked nervous but you felt it, your stomach was filled with butterflies and your palms were getting clammy. Maybe this is a bad idea?

As you stepped onto the school grounds you could see many people confessing their love, some being requited while others not. You hadn’t seen Lyney yet but hopefully, he didn’t have a crowd of people like others did.

Lyney was quite a popular boy, you were merely a shadow. Or that's what people called you. You followed him around like a lost puppy, wondering when he would get bored. He never did. Well, at least he said he never did. You started to worry about what would happen if this went wrong… Would he ever see you the same way? Or would he just see you as rubbish?

Inside the classroom, people were gathered around one spot. And you knew that spot as Lyney’s. Many girls, boys and other people were surrounding him trying to get his attention by giving him the most extravagant gifts. There were chocolates, and love poems and cards. All crappy valentines Day stuff. You were the only one who knew him well enough.

You didn’t bother trying to push into the crowd, you would only get tread on. You stood from afar watching him try and turn down the people politely. He was never one to make people upset or angry. Once he’d accidentally made you cry because he scared you by jumping out of a corner. The amount of times he apologised, and he still apologises today.

A girl in the sea of people leaned closer towards Lyney begging to be kissed. When he didn’t respond she kissed him herself. You didn’t stick around long after that, the tears in your eyes blocked your vision anyway. God, you knew it was stupid… Lyney would definelty pick one of the many people laid out for him. It hurt to think about. you’d loved him for so long. You scrunched up the note on the gift and threw it on the ground.

Not even 5 minutes later someone grabbed that bit of paper off the ground.

“Mon amour, what are you doing out here?” You knew that voice anywhere. “And what is this bit of paper with my name on it?”

Before you would react he opened the letter reading your love confession. You could see a tinge of red forming on his cheeks.

“You love me?” His face was almost bright red now

“I thought it was kinda obvious?”

“You kept it well hidden y/n.”

You felt him get closer, the heat of his body warming you. His hand softly grazed you cheek sending a slight shiver through your body. “May I kiss you?”

The butterflies were back and were not staying still anytime soon. Your words couldn’t quite form properly all you could do was nod. His lips softly pressed against yours, while he placed his hand on your right cheek pulling you in closer not letting you go. Lyney’s hands were soft making you feel more at comfort. The way he kissed was nothing like you saw in romance movies. He was so gentle with you, you didn’t mind that at all.

His hands moved to your waist pulling you in. The kiss felt like an eternity but was over just like that.

“Woah…” You couldn’t form the right words to tell him you loved it.

Taglist

@pandragonsoul @atsukawolfcat @keeyisbored

[patchiko]

hey your writing is so realistic and detailed i love it! do u have any hcs for jason x poet reader?

thank you anon i gotchu

Comic!Jason Todd x POET reader! (SFW)

IDK IF U WANTED COMIC JAY OR AK JAY SO BDISHSIS I WROTE COMIC JAY BUT U COULD RQ AK’S ^_^

he’s not normal, so the way he lets you know he reads poetry is reciting more popular poets works and then slowly getting more obscure.

but in like a nerd way.

as if its not nerdy enough.

he’ll say his line and looks at you with a shit eating grin.

(he looks stupid & insane)

be a nerd back and he’ll give celebratory hair ruffles or a pat on the back.

dont be a nerd and look at him funny and he goes from 😄to 😀.

“Noted.”

and changes topic

IF YOU WRITE ABOUT THIS MAN. HE WILL TEASE YOU LIKE IT HASNT MADE HIM LOSE ACTUAL HOURS OF SLEEP.

He lays awake at night, reading the poem from his mind; clutching his chest, hasn’t blinked in god knows how long.

Trying to understand even the most straightforward of stanzas

Like its unfathomable to him, that someone could interpret him in such a way.

He teases you, but he’d be lying if he was to say he never subconsciously drew a little heart on a paper napkin while thinking about the things you’ve wrote about him.

like it doesn’t make him text you on the spot

he begs you to write literally anything

like

“write something about a illiterate unicorn”

girl??

stands over you while you write. hes so annoying.

he touches the paper. LIKE— he uses his finger to trace out the words you write. idk why. he just does.

likes to touch you while your writing, not sexually. but in a he finds this attractive cause hes a fuckkin nerddd way.

it makes him feel like a bad bitch. he definitely recites something you’ve written about him or just something cool you’ve written to some random guy before he kills them.

nerd

RQ CLOSED (only for anon if they want ak!jay x poet hcs)

[splishsplashyouropinionistrash]

hello hello my loves, it's been a while since I've done a fic rec list and I'm feeling *inspired*

my qualifications are that i'm a loser and have read over a thousand fics so far in 2023

Was Sorta Hopin' That You'd Stay by jaydreamz (8/8)

Minyard Josten rivalry but they actually hate each other. They have a prank war. It's beautiful.

Eighteen Wheels And Three Beating Hearts by Autumnalpalmetto, IKnowWhoYouAre_Damianos (21/21)

Small town AU, Neil is a trucker with a son and Andrew runs a diner. So many found family feels, was giggling like a child the whole time. Connor owns my heart.

Die Free Or Die A Failure by Mickey_99 (54/54)

This one. This one!!! It's so good. Like, so good. It's a Raven!Neil fic, where Neil escapes the Nest and joins Kevin at PSU. It's super dark at times, but so lovely? The found family in this one is just *chefs kiss*

I Guess This Is Where I Say Goodbye by Artificiosus (2/2)

Listen y'all. I bawled like a baby reading this one. Full on ugly sobbing. It was amazing. It's MCD, so be careful. Neil gets in a car crash and calls Andrew, but Andrew doesn't pick up. The whole fic is Neil's voicemail and Andrew's reaction. It's so beautiful and so so sad.

Here And Where You Are by pentagrammed (1/1)

This one!!! It's almost sort-of MCD? But not actually. Read it, I'm begging. There's not much I can say about it without spoilers, so just... read it.

Dating & Other Disasters by lolainslackss, moonix (12/12)

Okok but this one. It's fake dating, the Foxes all go to a fine arts school. Neil is an actor and Andrew is a writer. It's so good !!! Andrew's poem lives rent-free in my head.

Murder Boyfriends by justadreamfox (3/3)

Heathers AU!!! It's beautiful, I'm in love with it. Go forth and read.

Better Than A Night Light by Ominous (1/1)

Literally 7k of fluff. Neil watches one of those alien horror movies and gets scared by it (but Drew is there to help, ofc)

Small Angry Gardeners by SensationalSunburst (8 part series)

Neil and Andrew's adventures in homeowning, gardening, meeting neighbors, owning animals, and other domestic bullshit. So fluffy, so sweet, so fun. Simply adore.

Heimkehr Means Homecoming by This_Witch_Writes (2 part series)

Cass is good! Andrew gets a mom! Family !!!! Literally so good, I cried a lot.

What Does 'Viral' Mean? by darkbluebox (1/1)

Kevin is a sports commentator after retirement, and Neil joins him for a game. So much bickering. Fucking hilarious

In Reel And Rout by maydaykevin (10/10)

Fantasy pirates AU. Vaguely Pirates of the Caribbean? So good though, oh my god. Andrew has water powers and shit. Neil is a pirate captain. I'm in love.

The Exy Team Is Nuts: A Survival Guide For The Uninitiated by Cute Negativity Cloud (Ofelia) (1/1)

The Foxes from the perspective of the other sports team. They have a whiteboard with rules for how to deal with them without being murdered/beaten up/insulted to death. It's fucking hilarious

Kill My Mind (Raise My Body Back To Life) by r3mus (1/1)

Ghostface!Andriel. They're murder boyfriends who kill bad people. It was such a fun read tbh

Queer Eye For The Demi Guy by neilwrites (13/13)

Neil goes on Queer Eye. The Monsters + Allison are the fab 5. it's wonderful, I love it.

Baby I'll Bleed You Dry by priorwalter (2 part series)

The Twilight AU this fandom desperately needed. In which Andrew is Edward, Neil is Bella, and many jokes are made. I spend a solid half an hour cackling

The Gaslights Burn Brightly by This_Witch_Writes (8/8)

Okok so Andrew and Neil were childhood friends, but Neil disappears one day and everyone convinces Andrew that he never existed at all. Eight years later, they meet again at PSU. It was so. Amazing. I love this author sm

A Dad By Any Other Name by SensationalSunburst (2/2)

Coach Wymack being a dad for 5k. That's it. That's the fic. (5+1 Wymack being a dad)

Called It Home by jingerhead (1/1)

Neil is spiderman. Spoilers for No Way Home. Guys it's so good !!

What We Ask by constellationqueen (40/40)

Neil gets hurt. Andrew helps him. SUUUUPER dark guys, like. Super dark. MCD too, so watch out. Really sad but so so beautiful, I sobbed so violently my sibling thought someone had died

The Suit Universe by marie_pothos (17 part series)

Ohhhhhh my god THIS ONE!!! My all time fave series. It's a popstar AU, but Neil is basically Taylor Swift. It's all based off of Taylor Swift songs. Absolute must read, even if you don't like TS that much. It's so beautiful, and funny, and so so sweet, and just- I could go on forever about this one.

Shake My Tomb by exactly13percent_OLD (hymbeaux) (10/10)

Butcher!Neil (sorta). kevin goes to Neil for protection from Riko, so neil goes to PSU. So beautifully written, I just re-read it today. It's so good guys.

Take To The Wing by iceEckos12 (20/20)

Neil signs the contract during his Christmas at Evermore. Surprisingly fluffy for a Nest fic, and there are some absolutely wonderful OCs. I would die for Joshua.

Something In Return by reaching_my_summit (10/10)

Neil and Andrew go to Disney World. That's the whole fic. Tooth-rotting fluff, it's amazing

Funky Happenings With The Fox Family by dobbypussypopper (27/27)

THE Fox group chat fic. It's fucking hilarious, I laughed so hard I started crying.

The Marks We Make by Fortheloveofexy (11/11)

Soulmate AU. Guys, this fic. It's one of my favorites. I reread it all the time. It's so good, and so sweet, and just UGH. I adore it so much.

Falling. by Idnis (16/16)

Art School AU where Andrew is a photographer and Neil is a painter. It's so poetic and beautiful, I'm begging you to read it.

Too Gay To Function by gluupor (1/1)

Mean Girls fusion. Andrew is Regina George. Enough said.

And there you go! This is a very very small fraction of the fics I've read this year, so obviously I have more if anyone's interested.

Go forth and read !

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

A Fragment of My Soul

“Come on, Antoine! Cooperate! Help me with this!” The older woman raised her eyes at the sky, as if to ask God to grant her the patience that she was so sorely lacking. “No, Colette, no. I told you already, I am not convinced by all of…this.” Colette, ever stubborn, brought her hands on her hips, puffing her chest up. “And I told you that it will work! Trust me, sister: they have been dancing around the whole issue for MONTHS now! At this pace, they will never declare to one another! They just need a little push from us! Their Cupids in the flesh!” Colette’s golden eyes twinkled with benevolent mischief at those last words. Antoine gave her younger sister a long look, before turning to peak out of the window that faced the courtyard of the small house: emerald green fronds welcomed her inquisitive eyes, pomegranate trees and an entire orange and lemon orchard with their branches reaching toward the sky, bountiful with ripe fruits that just waited to be picked. There, almost hidden away from the view, she could see an easel and canvas standing beneath the pomegranate tree and just behind it, a solitary painter working on his artwork, his dark leonine hair tied with a black ribbon. She needn’t her eagle vision to know who that was.

Antoine draw a sigh as a profound crease appeared between her brows. “It’s too risky, Colette. We have no means to know if what you are concocting will go well. What if…what if she’ll break his heart? What if you are wrong, and she doesn’t reciprocate his feelings in the same manner he does? You have seen him: he is completely lost for her, worse than he has ever been for…for that salope that almost killed him. If she were to reject him or toy with his feelings-” She flexed her hand instinctively, allowing the hidden blade to slither out from under her wrist.

Colette’s eyes widened at that sudden display of aggressiveness, and gently grabbed her sister’s arm, making her retract the blade.

“Peace, Antoine! I beg of you! Dorlé would never hurt Mathias! She has a kind heart and a gentle soul.”

“So did Emmanuelle, and we were all fooled by her angel’s face and sweet duplicitous words,” Antoine growled through bare teeth. Mentioning that name alone made her want to spit in the ground. Even after so many years, Antoine’s rage still burned as hot as a vulcano, never relenting, only growing in strength.

Colette sighed, her eyes turning sad and took a peak out of the window, until she saw her brother as well.

“I can understand your reticence in showing trust to anyone that would get closer to Mathias, Antoine. I truly do. But let me ask you this: do you trust me? Do you trust my judgment?”

Antoine’s shoulders slumped.

“Of course, pollita. You know I trust you,” she whispered, wrapping an arm around Colette’s shoulders, in a sweet hug.

“Then trust me when I tell you that Dorothea is not Emmanuelle. Her feelings for Matis are sincere and of the most profound nature; she made me intend as much when I tried to ask her. And if this isn’t enough to convince you, I found an entire folder of poems that she had written, and while I am not one to snoop-“

Colette giggled at the face her sister’s made: they both knew she was lying and was never able to keep her nose out of others’ business.

“-Well, I do snoop around, but it’s ALWAYS for a good cause! Such as in this case! Antoine, I read those poems, and trust me when I tell you that even you would have versed a tear, and have no further doubt of the sincerity of her feelings for him! Dorlé wrote poems upon poems for Matis, and never showed them to anyone! What cause would she have to write them, if not because her soul is pining for him to love her in return?”

Antoine stood silent for a moment, her eyebrow raised as she pondered: if what Colette was saying was true - and she never had reason to believe her sister a liar, especially when Mathias was concerned- then that strange English woman that had come from another time altogether might truly be harboring sincere feelings for her brother.

Feelings that, she knew, Mathias needed like the soil needed water to in spring to bear fruit in summer, after his heart had been broken by Emmanuelle.

“Trust me, Antoine: Dorlé is utterly besotted with Mathias. She is just… an absolute disaster in showing him how she feels!”

Antoine could barely contain a muffled giggle, the one that only her sister’s harsh honesty could bring out of her.

“If that's the case, then, they are perfect for each other,” she conceded, thinking about how much Mathias himself, while proficient with his words when matters of the Brotherhood were concerned, was utterly clueless when it came to the words his own heart whispered to him.

When she turned to look at Colette, she saw her sister still staring at her, expectantly.

“Very well, gordita, we will do it your way.”Antoine raised her hands in defeat, letting out a throaty laughter. “What do you propose?”

Colette return the laughter, her face plastered with the intriguing smile she always had whenever she was up to some mischief.

“You know that Mathias has been working on a painting, recently?”

“Of course I do. I haven’t been able to access your part of the garden ever since he has started painting under your pomegranate tree.”

Colette nodded with understanding, before speaking.

“And do you know the subject?”

“No, Colette, I don’t. You know how private he is about his own creations. I never asked him to share anything he didn’t want to, and I’m surely not starting now.”

“Well, I just so happen to have snooped aroun-“

“COLETTE!”

“It’s for a good cause!”

Antoine sighed, raising her eyes to the sky and shaking her head.

“Lord give me patience with this one. Very well. What of the painting?”

“We need for Dorlé to see it. She needs to see it! If she sees it and Mathias finds her there, they will finally talk to each other about their feelings! I know it.”

Antoine’s lips thinned in a contrite frown.

“You want to put them in a corner.”

“You can call it this way. I prefer “they will finally face what everybody that is not blind can see!”"

The Master Assassin crossed her arms, shaking her head.

“It’s a gamble, Colette.”

“No, Toinette,” she smiled again. “It’s a leap of faith. And we’ll need Xavier to be our scapegoat,”

Antoine produced a sound halfway between a snort and a chuckle, but Colette knew, from the look she gave her, that she had finally managed to convince her sister.

“As if I needed any more incentive. Lead the way, baby sister: let’s make this happen.”

Mathias raised his face to the sky, his dark inquisitive eyes scouring through each soft cloud that swam against the darkening empyrean vault of that summer sunset.

From where he stood - hidden away in a small corner of the back courtyard, just underneath Colette’s favourite pomegranate tree- he could see the green valley and peaks that surrounded Granada, and, if he tended his ears a little more, he could hear the playful sound of the nearby brook as it bubbled down toward the valley, its cascading rhythm a lullaby for the soul.

Mathias closed his eyes, allowing himself to take a deep relaxed breath, feeling the fresh wind of the upcoming evening brush his dark locks and tickling the skins of his arms like the most gentle of caresses.

So rarely he allowed himself to roll up his sleeves, whenever he was out in the open; so rarely he allowed himself to bare the skin of his arms, a mangled spectacle of scar tissue that extended from his hands to his neck, encompassing the entirety of his back and stomach.

With an almost defeated chuckle, as he cleaned his brushes in a water-filled glass, he could almost hear Antoine scolding him for hiding them and then, as she usually would, starting a tirade about how those scars were the reason Colette was still alive, and that he deserved to be celebrated for what they represented, rather than being made to hide away as if he were some form of grotesque monster.

Mathias knew better than to argue with Antoine over that, remaining in silence until his twin sister was done with her tirade. But eventually, he would always resort to cloak his whole body from the rest of the world, much like he did with his heart. He couldn’t bear to have others to look at him with pity.

He stopped his thoughts in their track, his lips thinning in a sour grimace as the truth show itself to his face: he could bear the world’s piety upon him, if he had to.

It was the thoughts of her eyes looking at him in horror that made him want to cloak himself.

With a quick nervous gesture, he washed the brush one by one, trying to erase those doubts from his tormented mind. The familiar routine helped him calm down, if only for a few seconds, as he dried the brushes against a thick rag he had hanging from his breeches, completely unbothered by the stains of colours that were decorating his garments.

They were a small price to pay for what those pigments were contributing in creating.

e looked at the canvas in front of him, quickly examining once more, and held his breath as he looked straight into the eyes of the young woman portrayed on the canvas: such peculiar shade of blue that loved to play with the light, sometimes tending to the silver, like the reflection of the moon in a pond, sometimes tending to the warmer hue of the periwinkles that grew in the meadow around their home.

But there was more than that: mirth hidden in the small crease underneath the lower lid, wonderment in the shine of the light against the blue…the most profound of love in the entirety of her gaze.

With a long sigh, he wished he had the courage to ask her to sit still in front of him for just a moment, so that he could drink from her eyes and see within them all that his soul yearned for.

But he couldn’t.

And would never bare his feelings for her.

Not ever.

She was a woman of genteel disposition, it was evident in the way she moved, in the way she addressed others.

He had nothing to offer to her, but the love from his broken damaged heart.

And despite the verity of his feelings for her, he knew they were not enough.

He was not enough.

“MATHIAS!”

A loud, brash voice - Antoine’s - called for him, all the way from across the courtyard. He took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping: her tone of voice didn’t promise anything good. But he was somewhat grateful for his sister to have stopped his mind from spiraling. Nothing like Antoine’s own anger to distract him from his self-pitying. He raised his eyes, only to meet his twin’s, who was standing at the window of her room at the second floor.

“WHAT?” he shouted back.

“XAVIER HAS DONE ONE OF HIS MISCHIEF AGAIN AND I NEED YOU UPSTAIRS!”

It took all of Mathias’ willpower not to huff in exasperation.

“WHAT FOR, TOINETTE? AM I XAVIER’S GOVERNESS, REQUIRED TO LOOK AFTER HIM AS IF HE WERE A CHILD? I FAIL TO SEE HOW I CAN HELP.”

“IT’S FOR HIS OWN GOOD THAT I’M CALLING YOU HERE. LESS CHANCES OF ME SKEWING THIS PENDEJO AS HE PROPERLY DESERVES. DON’T MAKE ME COME DOWNSTAIRS AND TAKE YOU BY THE SCRUFF OF YOUR NECK. COME INSIDE. NOW.”

He rolled his eyes, snorting.

So much for peace and quiet.

If only Xavier didn’t have the penchant on getting on Antoine’s nerves doing precisely what she always asked him NOT to do.

He turned to look one last time at the painting in front of him, and smiled again with the sweetness that that particular work of his always brought out of him.

“What would I give to see this look on your face, instead of this canvas…” he thought, wishing to be able to find the courage to say those words out loud.

Then, squaring his shoulders as if to take courage, he took the dirt path that would take him back to the house, even if his heart was still anchored to the canvas and easel underneath the pomegranate tree.

“OH NON, NON, NON! PUTAIN DE BORDEL DE MERDE!”

Dorothea’s eyes widened like two saucer plates when she heard the string of profanities leaving Colette’s mouth, as she raised her eyes from the small cloth she was embroidering.

“C-Colette? Are you alright? In Heaven’s name, what is going on?”

The dark haired woman was onto her before she had the chance to even stand, offering a taste of a dark, dense mixture.

“Taste it, Dorlé!”

Doing as she was told to, Dorothea took a tiny sample of that mixture, as the sweet taste touched her tongue.

“It-it is delicious, Colette!”

“It is A DISASTER!” she babbled, taking away the spoon before Dorothea had the chance to taste it again. “I knew Xavier would mess this up! I KNEW IT!”

When Dorothea saw Colette throwing her arms up in the sky in an exasperated gesture, she furrowed her eyebrows, concerned.

Leaving the embroidery work on the soft wicker chair where she was sitting, she reached her, taking the taller woman by the shoulders- something easier said than done, considering how much taller Colette was compared to herself.

“Colette, deep breath. Deep breath, my darling,” she whispered, guiding the friend in the same was she usually guided herself. “What happened that sent you in a spell? Whatever concoction you gave me, it was as delicious as always?”

Colette took another deep breathe, shaking her head in silent disagreement.

“Dorothea, ma louloutte,” she started, her voice almost condescending.”I appreciate your reassurance, but not even your sweet words can actually hide the fact that the sauce was a complete disaster! Xavier has messed up because when I asked him SPECIFICALLY to bring me pomegranates from my own favourite tree and he didn’t. He lazied off -as always-“ she added, snorting with impatience. “And brought me the first pomegranates he found. Just wait until I have my hands on him…”

Dorothea let out a nervous chuckle.

“You could…tell the difference between pomegranates?”

Colette’s lips stretched in a proud smirk.

“Of course I can, Dorlé! It’s my job knowing and being able to discern the difference! The same way your ear can discern a note that doesn’t flow with the rhythm of the song, so my taste buds know when something is wrong with the dish!”

Dorothea smiled back, nodding in understanding.

“I can see what you mean. But what will you do now?”

Colette’s smile widened, her eyes now twinkling mischievously.

“Now, my darling Dorlé, I need your help to rectify this mistake, because otherwise my sauce will be inedible and I cannot stand for it! Mathias asked for his favourite dish tonight, and I cannot cook it WITHOUT the sauce from my pomegranate tree!”

Dorothea blinked and she felt her cheek flushing at Mathias’ name.

“I-that would be an immense shame indeed.” she fumbled between a whisper and another, as she always did whenever she thought about the gallant man. Mathias never asked for anything for himself, not even when it came to something as simple as food. But, every once in a while, when the mood stroke him, he would quietly request to his sister if she could cook for him his favourite savory dish, and Colette would never refuse.

Noticing that Colette was staring at her, with a knowing expression on her face, Dorothea blushed even more and tried to clear her throat.

“We cannot allow for this to happen, Colette.”

“Ahhh, the words I wanted to hear from you, ma cocotte! And that is why I need you - who I know would never fail now that you know what’s at stake - to bring me those godforsaken pomegranates!” But before Dorothea had the chance to even agree with her, Colette had already put a whisker basket in her hands and was gently pushing her toward the door in the back of the kitchen.

“Hurry, ma chére! Or tonight we won’t eat!”

Dorothea gave her a soft look and a smile, before she turned on her heels and trotted down the grassy meadow that brought to the back of the courtyard, barefoot as she always was ever since the summer had arrived in the Kingdom of Spain.

She smiled with herself, as she went through what just happened, a smile that only Colette always managed to get out of her, with her vibrant personality.

She actually admired how punctilious the young cook always was whenever she cooked.

Dorothea couldn’t feel any difference in quality in the sauce that Colette had her sample compared to what she usually cooked for them, but the young woman always sworn that the fruit her favourite pomegranate tree bore was the only one that would give the results she was looking for.

Dorothea hadn’t see fit to debate with that, for her knowledge in that regard was naught.

She has learned, in the couple of years spent with the De Beaumont, NEVER to discuss nor contradict Colette in matter of food. The young cook was imperative in the way she moved around the kitchen - an Empress in her own right - and Dorothea was always happy to play the obliging vassal to her every whim.

She was the best of friends, most loyal of them all, and they have grown as close to each other as if they had been born sisters from the same mother and father.

Chirping her low tune, a lullaby that Byron often sang to her when in Dover, she took a turn toward the corner of the garden that Colette had suggested.

Dorothea noticed that the hamper was not as heavy as it had been when they first arrived in Granada.

Before meeting the De Beaumonts - before falling down that fracture of time that had brought her to a different era altogether- Dorothea never had any reason to do menial work: her lady mother didn’t deemed it proper of a woman of her station, and her father never allowed her to, telling her to leave all the tasks to the staff of the house.

And now instead, it was an integral part of her every day routine.

Waking up early, when the sun was just about to cross the horizon, to wash the garments in the clean waters of the river; caring for the horses that belonged to Mathias and Antoine; picking the vegetables from the garden that Mathias tended, when his obligation with the Brotherhood weren’t imperative.

She looked at one of her palms, and saw the callouses that never went away, no matter how strong she scrubbed them with pumice or how long she soaked her hands in warm water and rose oil. Her hands had become rougher, not as soft as when she was still in 1868.

She thought about how her Lady mother would probably recoil at that sight, so improper, so unbecoming of her.

Her limbs as well had grown stronger, toned, and she has become more agile than she ever had any reason to be.

Tending to the chores in the morning, spending her afternoons riding with Mathias and Xavier in the glorious Andalusian countryside contributed to it, and Colette’s own nutritious cuisine helped as well and, she reckoned, not being constrict by her crinolines all day and being free to run around as much as she wanted had also a reason to it.

A simple life, far different from the one her parents had prospected for her: a life spent one gala to the other each evening of her young womanhood, twirling in the arms of strangers who were after her title and money; eventually married to one of the strangers her family deemed worthy of her, someone that would bring honour to the Order as well as wealth that would render them all richer; then, at last, Mistress of the House and mother to frolicking children that would, one day, follow in her footsteps and belong to the Order as well.

A much simpler life indeed, but one she had grown to love for all the joys it brought her, despite the everyday difficulties that it presented.

Dorothea smiled, with a tinge of melancholy: thinking about her previous life made her wonder how Phillip and Charles were faring…before she caught herself and remembered that they didn’t exist yet. It was such a strange feeling whenever she stopped to think about it, thinking of them as only distant in place, rather than separated by Father Time itself.

With trembling fingers and a chasm of pain opening in her breast, she touched the locket around her neck and brought it to her lips, giving it a long kiss, as she always did whenever she felt that treacherous sadness wrench her heart in a grip cold as ice against the skin.

It was the only memento she had that her family ever existed.

Despite having had two whole years to adjust to it, she knew she would never come to terms that all those smiling faces did not yet exist anywhere in the world.

Her mother and father and Byron would be born in more than 20 years from now.

Her cousins in almost 50 years.

Would she meet them again? And what about herself? Would she be born again?

What would happen in 1868, if by Gods will, she was still alive by then? Would two Dorotheas exist at the same time?

And who would be the real Dorothea? The one that had fallen in the past? Or the one that was yet to be born?

What would happen if she were to go back to London and meet herself?

Each time she tried to unravel all of that -all the ramification of her being dragged back in time- she felt a headache drilling in her brain and a rusted nail twisting without mercy into her heart.

“Stop it, Dorothea,” she thought, wiping away a small tears that was threatening to fall from her eyes. “Just stop it. Focus on the present. Focus on what you have now,”

And so she did, stopping in her track for a moment to catch a deep breath and cleanse her thoughts. And when she allowed her mind to ground itself to the present, she found her way through the dark moors of her mind, through the brambles that still scratched mercilessly against her skin, guided by the splendor of the full moon that set her life alight each night: Mathias’ sweet smile and his nose crinkling whenever he was bemused; his deep laughter whenever Colette jested with him… his dark profound eyes that always seemed to read into her soul whenever he glanced at her, as if he could truly see her heart.

Her lips parted, suddenly feeling without breath as his face appeared in front of her eyes with blazing clarity, clearer than anything else, as warmth spread from her stomach until it reached her cheeks, rendering them as red as ripe apples, as it always happened whenever the man’s gentle visage found his was to her mind.

His voice, melodious even while simply talking, resonated clear in her mind, and she couldn’t help a small shy chuckle from leaving her throat when she remembered the peculiar way he pronounced the “s”.

So immensely endearing.

So incredibly dear to her heart.

She would recognize his voice among thousands.

“Oh, Mathias...Sweet Mathias…my Mathias…” she whispered under her furtive breath, secretly, as she always did when she allowed herself to utter his name out loud with all the feelings she had to keep concealed each time she spoke to him.

Night after night ever since she realized that she had fallen for him, she had played with him - for him - every single romantic tune she knew in her repertoire, hoping that something -anything- would somewhat tip him in learning of her feelings for him, small sign that would reveal to her if he felt the same way she felt for him.

She knew he held her in the greatest of esteem, always courteous, sometimes almost deferential in the way he approached her.

But she knew that was the way he treated every person he respected and cared for.

Such was his nature.

But, she thought with herself, furrowing her brows, she always wondered if there was something more?

Could there be..something more, something just for her?

As she reached Colette’s pomegranate tree, her shoulders slumped a little.

There could not be a way of knowing, if not asking himself directly.

And that required an initiative and a courage that she wasn’t sure she possessed.

She had found a family again in the De Beaumont, who had opened their arms for her, welcoming her as if she had always belonged with them sharing with her without boundary, when they had so little to spare for themselves.

They had given her a family again, after her own was lost to her forever.

She could never risk destroying that harmony they had created altogether in the past two years for something as selfish as her own feelings, if she were to come forward to Mathias and reveal to him all that she felt.

She could not bear to be the one responsible to destroy it, just to follow the whims of her heart.

Oftentimes, when she found herself in the company of Antoine and Colette at night, she had often heard the stern woman discussing their history as a family, and something in their past that had left Mathias with the strongest desire to be celibate for the rest of his life.

She never went into details about what happened exactly, and she knew that the reason was her presence, so Dorothea always knew better than to ask any question. She always listened to them, as quietly as a bird hiding in its nest, never daring to intrude, but each time she felt her heart sitting on her stomach a little heavier than before.

“What is going on with me today?” she mumbled beneath her breath.

Her own mood was always somber - that was just the way she naturally was- but today she felt particularly prone to mulling things over in a way that was almost disconcerting.

Taking another deep breath, she allowed her lungs to fill with the intoxicating aroma of the orange and lemon trees, the frangipani in bloom whose flowers Colette often used to create oils for all of them to use. She knew because she recognized the very same perfume on Mathias’ shirt, whenever she went down the river to wash it.

She plucked one of the flowers hanging from the lowest branches, and after taking in that sweet scent, she nestled it behind her ear, a soft smile finally touching her lips. She finally turned around the old orange tree that was growing there - the welcoming sign that she reached Colette’s pomegranate tree, but when the small corner of garden came into view, she stopped in her tracks.

An easel and a canvas stood right beneath the pomegranate tree, sitting alone like two old ladies enjoying the pleasant air of the evening.

Mathias’ own work, no doubt, she thought with a sweet smile.

She looked around with curiosity, expecting to find him somewhere in the proximity: it wasn’t like him at all to abandon his work like that. “Mathias?” she called, just to make sure she was completely alone. And no answer came back to her. She focused her attention once more on the canvas: from where she stood, she couldn’t truly make out what the subject was, and curious like a cat, she tiptoed closer to get a better view of it.

Dorothea’s eyes widened as waves upon waves of mixing emotions-confusion, bewilderment, incredulity- all rippled through her whole body. It took all her control not to let the basket slip from her suddenly unsteady hands.

She wanted to take the canvas to observe it better, because she couldn’t believe what she was looking at, but she dared not: even to her untrained eye, she could see that the paint was still fresh.

Leaning toward it, Dorothea felt her heart racing in her chest. It was yet to be finished: the background merely sketched; the woman’s garments only a vague shape in different shades of pallid pink; even the pose was not definitive, although, from the way the subject was leaning, it suggested that she was caught in the middle of a performance, a fiddle in her hands. However, the subject was not crossed, despite the apparent interruption: the dimples caused by her wide smile were welcoming the observer to sit close by and listen to her playing her tune. Dorothea could almost hear the tune itself in her ears.

Her gaze now wandering again all over the canvas, she couldn’t stop admiring the details of the face: a round visage painted with delicate, meticulous strokes framed by golden white ringlet, each freckle- small as a dot- carefully painted all over her nose and cheek. But it was the woman’s eyes that gave her pause: clear as the water of a pond touched by the sun rays, with the softest expression painted within them as she looked straight in the eyes of the observer, an undisclosed tender request written in that gaze that she recognized all too well.

She felt for a moment as if someone had seen right through her.

“Dorlé? What are you doing here?”

The low gentle voice behind her made her jump in her spot. She turned just to meet Mathias’ dark eyes, now boring straight into hers, a deep crease appearing on his forehead, as he moved a wayward lock of hair away from his brow. Dorothea could have sworn he was almost scared to see her there. But why? “I am sorry, Mathias, I was-“ she babbled, tripping on her own words. “ I swear I did not touch the painting! I was just looking at it! I know I was not supposed to look at it, and I apologized for letting myself do something like this! I-Colette asked me to fetch some pomegranates from her tree for tonight’s dinner and-“ But she couldn’t bear to finish the sentence, as her attention again diverted toward the canvas. She took a tiny step toward it, to make sure that her eyes were not betraying her. And they were not. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “Mathias, how-“ she murmured, turning to look toward the man standing just besides her, his shy eyes not daring to meet hers. “This is-” “You.”

His voice was barely a whisper when he raised his worn face, as a tense smile stretched underneath his dark moustache.

His heart was trembling, strong as timpani in his chest.

She wasn’t supposed to see the portrait until it was completely done.

Truth to be told, no one was supposed to see that painting. Ever.

There was nothing indecorous about it, nothing that would elicit a reaction of disdain or be reason of suspicion of impropriety on the artist’s part: no one would deign the portrait as anything less than the most respectful homage to the subject in front of him.

But Mathias so rarely paraded to others what he immortalized on canvas: through his paintings, he bared his soul in ways that couldn’t find purchase through words, and none but himself would be able to understand the yearning in each stroke of his brushes.

And now that the woman for whom his soul has been singing since the instant he had met her was looking upon one of his most intimate creation, he couldn’t do anything but stand terrified that she would read right through him.

As he looked upon her, he felt that his already broken heart quiver in his chest. It was not strong enough to withstand any possible rejection from her. Not from her.

Feeling the unrest grow more and more unbearable with each passing moment, he felt more than ever the need to unroll his sleeves and put his gloves back on, to hide the sight of his scars from her.

He knew she had already seen some of them, somewhat.

After two years of sharing the same house, it would have been impossible to avoid it completely, no matter how much he tried to.

But she had never witness the true extent of those scars, the way they run on his arms, branching through his back, enveloping his chest all the way up until his neck.

Not until that moment, where they were exposed for her eyes -those eyes he loved most in the world- to see. The weight on his chest was becoming too much to bear with each passing second, the lump in his throat impossible to swallow.

“Pardonnez-moi, Dorlé, I need to be alone,” he mumbled under his breath, turning to walk away as he started to unroll his sleeves.

Before he could move any further, Dorothea grabbed him by the arm, quick as a wink, with the gentlest yet firmest touch she could muster.

“Don’t, Mathias. Please.”

Her gaze run to his wide back, to the ink-black leonine curls that hang from his ponytail and barely covered his neck. She felt her heart swelling thrice its size for all she felt for him: she thought she would not be able to breathe anymore.

“Do not run away from me. Do not…” she swallowed hard, chest heaving. “Do not hide away from me. Please, Mathis…I beg of you.”

Her voice was pleading, a soft prayer.

Mathias’ breath caught in the lump in his throat when he felt her hands against the skin of his arm, a touch like a blazing fire for all it caused within his soul.

He stopped in his track, docile as a lamb, as he always was when she requested anything from him. She could ask him to bare his life for her, and he would do it without even thinking twice about it.

His chest tightened at the thought, as he comprehended how the immensity of the love he felt for her ran through from his heart to all his being.

He couldn’t stop a small sour smile from touching his lips: had Antoine known of his thoughts, she would be so immensely crossed with him, for he had learned nothing from Emmanuelle.

But how could he?

How could he love Dorothea less than she deserved because of what happened to him? Because of something another caused?

How could he let his past dictate his present like this, and ruin those feelings that actually made him feel alive again?

How could he deny what was in his heart, broken as it was, just because he had the misfortune of not meeting her first?

Dorothea. Dora. Dottie. Dorlé.

His Dorlé, he thought with quivering lip, if only he found the courage to breathe into existence what his eyes couldn’t conceal anymore any longer.

His out-of-time love, who had fallen into his life so suddenly and yet had fitted immediately as if she had belonged there with them.

With him.

The very tune of life that made his soul sing again.

He wanted to turn. To look at her and drink from that face he loved in the same way the moon loved the sun at each eclipse, in those few desperate moments where they shared the sky together, entangled in an embrace for one refulgent minute.

But he couldn’t find the courage.

Despite his absolute terror for fire, he thought it would be easier to run in a house put ablaze than turning to look at the woman he loved, for fear to see pity -or worse, disgust- in her eyes.

He took another deep breath, trying to calm himself.

Dorothea felt those breaths and her hands trembled, her whole being quivering when he still wouldn’t turn to face her.

She lost courage, but just for one moment, before she felt her natural determination surging from the deepest parts of her heart, tingling in her fingers like pure fire.

She hadn’t survived in 1790s France just out of dumb luck: she knew that she had to steel herself, if she was to ever find a way to get through that time that was so close to hers, and yet so vastly different.

She was her mother and father’s daughter: they had defied her own grandfathers’ will, Count Bielke and Robert Starrick, to marry each other and create the foundation of their family in England.

“Mother’s mirror, Father’s Pride”.

That’s how Byron would often refer to her, whenever she was in doubt.

She would not give up.

Not when her own heart was at stake. And stubborn she was, and so completely lost for him, she felt she couldn’t reason rationally any longer.

She finally found the courage in herself to do what needed to be done.

Gently, almost hesitantly as he was still turned away from her, she moved her own hand from his wrist to his own hand, brushing his palm with delicate touch before interlacing their fingers together.

All she could focus on was how warm his touch was. How gentle those hands always were whenever he pressed the keys of the piano, or patted the horses when he thanked them for carrying them around in the afternoon or when he took her hand and he led her in a round of minuet.

She looked at the scars on the forearms as well, following the course of their pattern with sad eyes.

How much did he suffer from them?

She remember getting burned once, as a child, while playing too close to the fireplace in Dover, and it had only been a small patch on her wrist where some cinder had landed; but it had been enough to make her feel unbearable pain and made her still want to cry whenever she thought about it.

She could scarcely imagine that pain multiplied tenfold and on so much of his body.

She could scarcely imagine withstanding against it, dueling with death’s grasp tight as a coil, and despite all odds, ending up victorious.

Dorothea smiled, understanding in full the pride Antoine always felt for Mathias whenever she talked about those scars.

Before she could let her own timidity stop her, she finally leaned against his back fully, gently pushing herself against his lean frame, and wrapped her arms around his waist, enveloping him in the sweetest embrace she could muster, with all the strength her body allowed.

Such strong heart, he had. Such strong, gentle heart that nothing -not even pain, not even death- could render of stone or insensible. And how she loved that heart with all that she was.

She laid her cheek against his shirt, completely flushed against him, determined as she was in not even letting the air they breathed to stand between them, just so that she could hear the strong thumping of that heart against her own skin.

Mathias’s lips parted, as he almost gasped for breath at that touch, feeling his soul tremble in his chest like one of the chords of Dorothea’s violin.

“How can you hide away your hands from me? Those hands that can create such beauty, even when there is none to be found?” she murmured, feeling a tear running down her cheek. “Those hands that are capable of giving so much comfort to those who are in pain, even when you have no comfort nor piety to spare for yourself?”

He had no words to give, no answer for her questions. His whole mind was abuzz, unable as he was to focus on anything but her closeness, his eyes trained on their fingers interlaced together. A violinist hands enveloping the grotesque hands of a gargoyle, he thought bitterly. He tried to regulate his breathing, to be as still as water in a pond on a tranquil day, almost terrified that, if he were to move, she would let go of him. Then, he heard her voice resonating all the way through his chest, as if reverberating from his own very soul.

“Mathias…how can you feel so much shame in front of me? I could never think any less of you for what you bear on your skin. How could I? You, who are the one most dear to me in the entire world?You have given to me from the heart from the first moment we met, without asking any question, without asking for anything in return. Even when the only explanation I had to give for what happened to me was impossible to comprehend and absurd at the very best, you believed me and helped me finding a sense amidst my own confusion. You made sure I was never to feel loneliness nor want, not even for one moment.”

She whispered, hiding her burning face against his shirt. “Can’t you understand what you mean to me? Can’t you understand how you make my heart sing? Can’t you understand that all my sorrows end with you? Can’t you feel how much I love you?”

It was done. Despite all her senses whispering to her to stay silent, she couldn’t any longer. Not when everything that made her soul was shouting at her his name over and over again.

Mathias wished he had a better control of his breathing or the butterflies he felt in his stomach at her words. Instead, he could only blink, to keep the tears of absolute bliss from falling from his eyes.

He felt as if paralyzed: How- HOW- could it be? How could fate finally have turned to his favour, and granted him the one desire he had found himself wanting more and more with each passing day spent beside her?

Dorothea let out a melancholic at the silence still lingering between them. Maybe she was wrong in opening her heart like that: she didn’t want to ruin the friendship between them, even if it meant loving him without being loved in return. She had never fallen in love before, so what did she really know about love, if not what she had read in her books? What did she know about love, if not about Isolde and Tristan? About Lancelot and Guineviere, whose love trascended time and space? She slightly released her grasp, ready to let him go: but Mathias' hands wrapped around her own, firm like she never experienced before despite his usual cautioun, silenty stopping her from leaving his side.

Mathias took a deep breath and calling upon all the courage he could find within himself, turned around, to finally face the woman that had just opened her heart to him.

Quivering under his dark moustache, his lips stretched in a soft, sweet smile that painted his face with a softness he so rarely showed to others.

His dark eyes shone with tears - tears of joy - that he could barely repress, as he looked at the woman in front of him and found in her eyes the same countenance that was in his.

He cupped her round face with trembling hands, tentatively, terrified she would retract from the touch of his maimed skin.

Instead, gentle as a lamb, he saw Dorothea nestling her cheek in his palm, nuzzling against it like a cat would, and his heart throbbed in his throat at that gesture.

She didn’t retract herself from his touch. She wanted to be touched by him. She sought to feel his skin against hers. She wanted him.

“Do I scare you so much, Mathias? I promise I do not bite.” She jested, smiling that crooked smile he adored so much. Mathias let out a nervous laughter, one finally born out of relief. “How could I ever be scared of you? You, the sweetness of every single one of my thoughts? The only dream I dare to dream while wide awake? My answer to the endless prayers I raised to a deaf God each night of my life since after the fire?”he murmured, feeling a tear rolling down his cheek ”Dorothea…tú eres mis alas para volar,”

Dorothea’s heart skipped at his words, her head spinning as if drunk just from the sound of his voice, filled as it was with heart-wrenching yearning.

“I-I am?” she breathed, incredulous.

He dared to lay his forehead against hers, cradling her face in his strong hands, finally daring to look straight into her eyes without having to hide anything anymore, without having to steal longing glances whenever her attention was diverted. He finally saw the colour of her irises, in that summer sunset that was their witness, in that garden that had nothing less than the garden of Eden.

“You are. You have turned all my tears into laughter. The solace I feel with when I sit besides you…the hope, the possibilities that my life is not just the cinder and embers left from that fire, but that it can also be rebuilt into something new. Something as beautiful as the breaking of dawn after a long night without a star twinkling in the sky…I thought I had lost it all a long time ago.”

He brought her face even closer to his, until they were just a breath away from each other’s lips. He felt tears rolling down his cheeks and, to his surprise, saw the same tears falling from Dorothea’s eyes. But there was no sadness in her gaze. Only unbridled joy. The same one he felt in every single bone of his body.

“But you, mi amor, mi vida, mi alma…You are the peace of my soul, and the light of my poor broken heart,” he murmured. “I see God in your smile and sanctuary in your eyes; I hear my soul reaching to your voice, resonating as if it finally found the answer to its call. I see my home in your heart… I see my everything in you.” He stopped just for one moment, leaning even closer to her. “In you, I see the reason for my every breath.”

Dorothea felt all air leaving her chest, mouth agape from those words that she never thought he would whisper to her ears. Allowing her heart to finally dictated his will, she covered the remaining distance between them, throwing her arms around his shoulder before pressing a sweet, innocent kiss against his lips, those same lips she had yearned to kiss for almost a year and a half. Mathias felt a chasm opening in his stomach at that kiss, so soft and giving, yet unmistakeably eager for more and more, a kiss that was as wanted as much as it was yearned and needed and desired. He returned each of her kisses with his own, his hands cradling the back of her head so that no distance would stand between them., in between those kisses. Among those trees, in that small corner of Eden that he never thought to find on Earth, Mathias felt the perennial storm that always raged within slowly losing strength, the winds of his pain that often howled at his memories finally quieting down until only a comforting silence remained, as if something, a shield of some sort, was wrapped around his heart and kept those wolves at bay. It is her, he thought. His Dorlé. All of sudden, Mathias felt a small giggle against his lips and opened his eyes, looking at Dorothea with curiosity. “It tickles,” she whispered under her breath, nuzzling the tip of her nose against his upper lip, just below his dark moustache, the instigator of her mirth. Mathias chuckled with her, his eyes crinkling as he kissed the tip of her nose. “I used to sport a clean-shaven look in my youth. Perhaps, you would prefer me without my moust-“ But she stopped in his track when she saw her furrowing her brows, in a look that, he knew, she mastered from observing Antoine herself. “Do not dare to touch your beard and moustache, Mathis, or I shall be immensely crossed with you,” she murmured with a perentory tone that admitted no contradiction, but that was soon betrayed by a smile that brightened her whole face." I love the way you are, Mathis. I do not wish for you to be any different than you are, in any aspect of life," “As Milady wishes,"Mathias laughed, planting another sweet kiss on her nose and forehead, before interlacing their fingers once more. "Far from me to make my love crossed with me.” Dorothea blushed at his word, and Mathias, feeling some of the cheekiness that was usually Colette’s, nuzzled his nose against hers. “Does it please you, when I call you that? My Love? Mon amour?...Mi Amor?" Dorothea wanted to maintain an air of decorum, collected as she always was, but the shivers of pleasure that ran along her spine hindered her effort, when she heard him whispering to her in his native Spanish. All she could muster was a shy nod, before hiding her flaming face against his shoulder, in a gesture that illicited the most profound sweetness in Mathias' heart.

He kissed the crown of her head, breathing in the soft perfume of the flower she weaved in her tresses, in a sigh of relief that weighted on his chest for far too many years.

"Mathis?" he heard her call him, raising her timid eyes once more.

"Yes, mi amor?" he said again, chuckling when he saw her blushing again: he would never call her anything else, if it meant seeing her cheeks turning as red as apples.

"Will you-" he heard her clearing her throat. "Will you look at the stars with me, tonight?"

Mathias tilted her face so that she could look at him once more, his gaze turning even softer as he counted all the freckles that graced her face.

His own stars on the sky that was her gentle visage.

"Every night of our life, if you wishes," he whispered, daring to brush his lips against hers one last time.

Dorothea's own happiness couldn't be contained at his words, as she allowed herself to get lost in his kisses once again.

"I do, my love. For every night of our life."

From Antoine´s room, Colette was smiling widely, as she sat on the windowsill, her leg hanging outside the window as she swing it with almost childish joy. She could not hear a single word her brother and Dorothea were saying. She could not see them, hidden as they were by the branches of the tall trees that surrounded that particular corner of the garden. But Antoine’s look -her face strangely at peace as she perused in the same direction she was watching- was more than enough to tell her that her plan succeeded. And no greater joy could fill her heart, for in knowing that her dearest companion and her adored brother had finally found one another, she felt her soul at peace. “See, Toinette?” she giggled as she poured some wine in two glasses, one for herself and one for her elder sister. “I might not be an Assassin and have your perception, but I might know a thing or two about Love and its whims,” Antoine chuckled, her lips stretching in a smile. “I’ll concede that, pollita: you know your stuff.” she took the glass of wine that her sister offered, and drank it all in one shot, “So you better start preparing a list for a nuptial banquet, because if I know Mathias- and trust me, I know him- it won’t be long before we are going to celebrate a wedding in our house, and even less long before we will be hearing the pitter patter of tiny feet running around the house…unless you and the that reprobate of Novice Dorian aren’t planning on beating them on time? “ Colette sputtered some of the wine she was drinking, turning as red as the ribbon she had tied around her neck. “How do you-“ Antoine let out a throaty laughter, filled with mirth. “Oh, pollita: you sure as hell are one expert of “Love and its whims”,” the Master Assassin took the bottle and again filled her glass with wine.”-but you have still a lot to learn about discretion,” She leaned toward her younger sister, and toasted to that evening summer. “To your health, Colette,” then she raised her glass in Mathias and Dorothea’s direction. “And to them. May the fate be kinder to both of them, this time around.” Colette giggled, joining her sister in her toast. “It will. Because this time, we will be there to make sure of that!” “How can you be so sure we will succeed, Colette”? The young woman laughed with mirth. “Because if there is something I learned, is that even Fate Itself is terrified of you, when it comes to Mathias!”

AND THERE YOU HAVE IT.

ALMOST 9K WORDS OF PURE FLUFF, INTROSPECTION AND WHATNOT.

But not going to lie, I love writing this.

It gave me the chance to finally give a voice to my Unity darlings, and by the Gods, this renders me incredibly happy.

Thank you, Susie, for suggesting me to write about Mathias and Dorothea <3

I hope you all will like this <3

--Nemo

[slut4sugu]

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐆𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍- ( nsfw + sfw alphabet: Spencer Reid)

mentions of: sex positions, choking, of giving head, some slight fluff, but of an msub!spence

A- AFTERCARE (what he’s like after sex.)

Absolute sweetheart; immediately makes sure you drink water and draws you a bath while you rest. He comes to join you after putting a new set of sheets on your shared bed. “Don’t pout angel, im right here okay?”

Peppers kisses on your face and whispers old poems in your ear as you drift off to sleep.

B- BODY (his partners favorite body part.)

Spencer loves all of you equally; your breasts, your thighs, your ass, all of you. However if her was being honest with himself it would be your voice/ your face. Hearing and see you make such naughty noises with that love drunk look on your face was unfair. The

C- CUDDLING ( big spoon or little?)

both; tho he wouldn’t admit it he loves being the little spoon a bit more, not because he doesn’t like holding you. God does he ever, holding you calms any hypotheticals or concerns he has. Soothes his ever busy mind and makes him feel so at peace.

D-DICK SIZE (how big is he)

Yknow how they say it’s always the quiet ones? Yeah, spence is not anything small. He’s 7.5 soft 8.7 looks like 9 kinda when hard. Trimmed, and it’s flushed pink with a mushroom tip. Very sensitive on the underside of his shaft <33

E- EXPERIENCE ( how experienced is he?)

Now I have a strong belief in the fact that Spence here is a virgin, however that does not mean he’s entirely inexperienced. He might read a bunch of books but the if we’re talking biological books? You know he’s read atleast 200 of those alone. So let’s just say finding your g spot wouldn’t be as hard as your past ex boyfriends made it out to be.

F- FAVORITE POSITION( self explanatory.)

Missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, ie any position that lets him stare into your pretty eyes as he makes love to you.

G- GOOD ( how good are they in bed?)

9.9/10 only reason why spence isn’t a 10 is became he tends to stop mid thrust just to memorize your expression. You’ll literally be on the edge and he’ll just stop to get a good look of your euphoric expression. You almost think it’s partially because he likes hearing you beg for more, but he’d never admit that <3

H- HUGS ( how does he hug? )

in public a quick tight normal hug, usually only lasting 7 seconds but if it’s just you and the team it’s a bit longer. Or until Morgan starts to tease Reid. In private however it’s all types of hugs. Back hugs, bear hugs, princess twirl hugs, any hug there is he’s done it Atleast twice in the hour that he’s come home.

I- INTIMACY ( how romantic is he? )

Very. You know good and well that Spencer doesn’t just take sex as some spur of the moment kind of thing. Each time he makes love to you he makes sure to do just, make love to you. Not focus on his own orgasm, no. Your pleasure is his pleasure. He’s literally cum before just from eating you out.

J- JERK OFF (how often does he self pleasure?)

I’m a strong believer in the idea that he’s never really touched himself like that before until you came into the picture, he just didn’t see the point of it. But when he started having lewd thoughts about you that weren’t exactly professional. Once or twice a month was the norm for him.

K- KISS ( what’s it like kissing him?)

Sweet and methodical; time is something that Reid always takes slow with you. On days when he’s a bit pent up he still takes his time, however his tongue slips into your mouth a bit faster than usual.

L- LOCATION ( where does he like to do it )

In the comforts of his own home; listen while I LOVE the stories/fics of workplace sex w Spencer but I honestly just don’t think that would happen. Love the idea but would it happen, I honestly don’t think so. The most I’d think Spence would even do is finger you in a library under a table.

M- MOAN (moaner, grunter, whiner or begger?)

Spencer can be downright slutty when it comes to moans when he gets into it. Give him two bjs back to back and he’s as horny as a porn star. Whimpering, moaning, and begging for god knows what. It’s honestly surprising and such a turn on to see Dr. Spencer Reid with his head thrown back begging for more of you. Anywhere however, he just needs you now.

N- NO’s (turns off for him.)

Suggesting to do it in public, asking him to hurt you (now I don’t mean choking because done right I feel as though he’d be into it), asking him to degrade you, (his limit is probably calling you a needy slut)

O- ORAL ( does he like giving or receiving more? )

giving; that’s just a given. While the site of you on your knees for him is ethereal, he loves servicing you even more. The feeling of your thighs clamping around his head as you cum, your manicured hands gripping his hair. It’s all so…perfect.

P-PACE ( how fast is he ? )

It all depends on the situation: if you’re needy = deep, slow. If you been bratty = fast, but he’s edging you. If you’ve had a bad day? = whatever you want <3

Q- QUICKES ( self explanatory )

he’d only do this if he was in the middle of pleasuring you already; and he got a call from work when your on the edge of an orgasm/ close to one. What makes you clench impossibly tighter though is the fact that he’s still pumping his fingers in and out of your puffy cunt while discussing the basic details of the case with JJ. Purposely hitting that sweet gummy spot to make if harder for you to stay quiet <33

[firstfloweroftheninthhouse]

I just stumbled across an E. A. Poe poem I wasn’t familiar with. It’s titled The Sleeper???? As in Wake’s river bubble pseudonym. I would be willing to write it off as a coincidence if it wasn't for Alecto also having a Poe poem as an alias in Annabel Lee. And let me tell you, this poem is fascinating if you read in a tlt context with the presupposition that Tamsyn is unhinged enough to weave allusions to external media into her works as a form of foreshadowing. (spoiler: I am fairly certain she is)

Some highlights of The Sleeper include:

“I pray to God that she may lie 

For ever with unopened eye,”

Which reminds me an awful lot of  a certain ninth prayer: “I pray that which was buried remains buried, insensate, in perpetual rest with closed eye and stilled brain.”

“Looking like Lethe, see! the lake”

A reference to a river in Hades

“For her may some tall vault unfold- 

Some vault that oft has flung its black 

And winged panels fluttering back, 

Triumphant, o'er the crested palls, 

Of her grand family funerals- “

A description of a tomb being opened

“Some sepulchre, remote, alone, 

Against whose portal she hath thrown, 

In childhood, many an idle stone- “

A description of someone throwing stones against the door of a mausoleum - which to me feels really reminiscent of Wake futilely “throwing” baby gideon against the door of the tomb

Followed by:

“It was the dead who groaned within.” (within the tomb)

Which could refer to Alecto, but I actually lean toward Anastasia

Anyway, I made this post to beg you to go read “The Sleeper” and tell me what you think its implications might be because I am going a little crazy over here.

[bloodcasket]

A BEGINNING, AND AN END

PAIRING: Vergil Sparda x GN!Reader

WARNINGS: Not proof-read, angst, mentions of readers death, depression, loss, loneliness, a relationship that is crumbling.

WC: 1,650

DESCRIPTION: Vergil wonders what exactly he did that made him lose you. He breaks as he realizes his mistakes, and that he will never be able to hold you again.

A/N: This work was rushed!!!!!!!!!! I literally just had a vomit post of all my sad little ideas. Currently hyper-fixated on Vergil! Probably will write more for him. I imagined this concept last night, and I kid you not, I cried.

Marriage was a concept created for foolish beings who wished to bind themselves to one another. When Vergil lived through his life, blinded by a pursuit of power, such things like marriage were nothing but a stupid scheme.

Why would he wish to be controlled by someone? Tied down to them? Love was nothing. Love was idiocy. That is what he thought, after all.

Then you came.

A human, young and kind. You placed your hand in his, pressed your silken lips along his bruised knuckles, and kissed his ruined skin. You promised him love. You showed him peace. You introduced him to light and laughter and mirth.

It was then, after the many days of holding you and growing to love you, that he realized why people did such “foolish” traditions. He grew weak with you. Became sensitive. Was not embarrassed to be genuine with you. He had finally decided.

He would propose.

You had tears swelling up along your waterline, slipping down your upturned cheeks as you smiled, you sobbed the words “Of course I will marry you”.

He married you.

The marriage was simple, no one but you two to promise yourselves to each other. He had found an old church to hold the ceremony, the ceilings tall and pointing to the sky. The tinted glass waned bright colors over your bashful face, your eyes glittering with devotion before you leaned in to kiss him. A kiss to ensure eternity.

Your fingers trembled against his as he slipped the wedding band on, he had not realized his cool façade has cracked along with yours. He was crying with you, so ecstatic to finally have someone who can understand him.

Someone who won’t judge him, someone who will tell him it will be okay. To hold him close in the night when he had nightmares. To lay their head in his lap as he read out his favorite poems.

“Vergil, stand over by the tree! I want to take a picture of you!” you giggled happily, face contorting into an expression that can only be described as glee. You held up your camera, adjusting the device to be suited for the brightened, summer day.

“And what for?” your husband seemed annoyed, looking at you with a nonchalant grimace. “Because I want to capture memories, now go, go!”. You shooed him away, begging him to find purchase near the weeping willow tree. It’s arms swaying in the gentle breeze, faded green leaves swooping overhead, tangled moss falling to the soil.

He obeys, acting as if this was something pointless, but internally, he was blissful, full of pride at the acknowledgement of your adoration. He stands, watching as you snap the picture, and then returns to your side gracefully.

“Well? Was that to your liking?” he asks, leaning down to see the picture, and you nod with a grin, telling him “thank you”.

This was something that became quite frequent. You had recently started to indulge in art, and had brought up to him that you would paint his portraits.

And paint you did.

Your works were wonderful. Your art room his secret sanctuary. A gallery of only him, painted with oils and acrylics, colors that portray him to be a god amongst this tiny Earth.

Inspired by a simple, small photo of him. A photo that is always captured by you.

You enjoyed comparing his white hair to the color of a rich magnolia. Consistently painting him alongside the elegant flowers. You had told him once that they reminded you of him. They were sensitive to the human touch, turning brown from the oils of a selfish finger caressing it. They were independent, and were beautiful while they kept to themselves.

Just like him.

Relationships are hard. He understands this. He knows that if he does not give enough, the ones he finds dear will crumble away. Loyalty, honesty, generosity, quality time, devotion….. so much he must do to keep you satisfied.

He tries, he’s a perfectionist, but when you two wander in public, see the other couples mold into one another, he feels ashamed. He does not like to hold your hand in public, and he feels tense when you initiate certain intimacy. You would get bored of him, wouldn’t you?

He admires how easy you make it look, how you strip him of his clothes, settle him in the tub, speak reassuring words of praise as you scrub the grime off his beaten skin. He relaxes under your touch, wonders why of all people, you chose to be with him. How you don’t hesitate to bend to his will, run miles to retrieve whatever he wants. Speak honeyed words, just enough to make him melt.

You’ve helped rid his nightmares, you’ve made him feel alive. He only dreams of bliss, of divine moments shared with you.

Moments like you and him, taking pictures under the willow tree.

But yet, he cannot even find the courage to move forward. To give you the smallest things you desire.

He grows sour. For once, he feels powerless. Inferior.

He can never give you what you want.

Recently he has grown colder to your touch. Shallow and incoherent with any simple notion.

You will try to reach for him, your pinkie grazing the side of his firm hand. He only tugs away, resisting your affection. You will plead to bathe him, massage the ache in his shoulder blades. He only denies your wishes to care for him.

Your paintings become more erratic than before, a sense of gloom in their glistening wake. A sheen of desolation hidden amongst the thick lines of paint. You have lost inspiration. His divinity and blue aura that was once captured by the bristles of your paintbrush are now fading into a melancholic art piece.

You are afraid you have lost him.

You two seem to get in an argument one night. It is after an awkward vent of your feelings to him in the library.

“I miss when you loved me”, is what you confess.

Vergil shouts selfish comments, says he prefers to be alone. Says you bother him too much. Says that maybe marriage was the wrong decision. He does not mean these things. But you have taken them to heart.

You start to cry, the whites of your eyes now bloodshot. Hiccups erupting from your lips. Sobs that beg him to take all his words back.

He doesn’t.

“Fine” you sniff, “I will let you be “.

A sickening feeling blooms in him when you leave, your bag tossed over your shoulder.

When you pass it is like no other.

He felt it burn through him. Regret. Guilt. Loneliness. He knew something had went wrong.

Your body had been found on the streets, bloodied, bones shattered, arms disfigured. You had tried to put up a fight, that was for sure. It made him sick. He felt numb. Practically in denial of your death. Of your murder.

He could have saved you…..he promised you. You have given him everything he wanted, and yet this…he couldn’t even prevent this from happening.

Your face, swollen and bruised. Eyes blackened and cheeks cut open. Your soft lips, never to kiss his again.

If only he hadn’t been selfish, you wouldn’t have went out that night. You could have been here, with him, embracing him. Telling him that you loved him for all eternity.

The wedding band was still firm on your finger, your blood thick over Vergil’s name engraved on the ring.

Vergil kisses you one last time before your body is sealed in it’s coffin, a wooden box that shall keep your remains concealed forever. Your lips are so cold now, lifeless and chapped. Lacking it’s warmth and tenderness that you usually carried.

A part of him regrets kissing you. Your frozen face and your icy touch will now haunt him for the rest of his life. Terrorize his dreams.

Just a couple of months ago you two had stood in the old Victorian chapel, the stained glass casting an array of colors over your gentle smile. The beginning.

The last image of you is an image of death. They are lowering you into the Earth, shovels tossing dirt over the wooden case. An end.

Dante has offered that Vergil should stay with him, get away from the home that he once shared with you. His brother figured it would be best, a solution to rid him of his sorrow. The elder refuses every time.

Your presence…your glow. It still is fresh, and alive in the walls of the home. He must stay. He must stay for you. Sometimes he swears he hears your voice in the halls, your sweet tone making him panic and get up, just to realize he is only imagining it. He is only imagining that you are not gone. That you are still here with him.

He still visits your grave, as often as he possibly can. In the meantime, he tends to the tree he has planted in your garden, a magnolia tree that is fresh and desperately trying to grow. He wished he could show you.

There had been one night where he had a nightmare, images of you screaming and crying his name, pleading for help as you died, crimson leaking from your lips as you sputter blood.

“Vergil! Help me!”.

He wakes in a cold sweat, so terrified that it genuinely shakes him. This vision had stayed clinging in his dreams ever since your death, never sparing him mercy.

On nights like this, he rushes to enter your art room, sitting amongst your wooden work chair, now too restless and shaken to attempt to sleep again. He knew if he tried, he would only be met with the image of your lifeless form again.

He sits there, your painting of him underneath the willow tree sitting proudly amongst your art desk. You had told him it was your most prized possession. Your best work. He thought so too.

He cries your name under the glum luminescence of the moon.

He decides this time, he will paint you. No matter how bad he does it, your beauty will always bleed through.

[jarmes]

There’s a link that keeps going around for a website

You can click a button once a day

And give a fraction of a penny to the victims of a genocide

I do my daily clicks

I go to work

On my lunch break, I read articles

1,000 dead

2,000

10,000

30,000 now

Tomorrow more

I do my daily clicks

I see a photo of a murdered child

They starved him to death

He doesn’t even look like a human being anymore

Like an alien, the way his eyes bulge

The way his skin clings to his bones like saran wrap

I see him when I close my eyes

I do my daily clicks

I read the news again

They gunned down a crowd begging for food

The next day, the news has moved on

The day after, another massacre

No one cares this time

I do my daily clicks

A soldier burns himself to death

He screams for freedom as his skin turns to ash

He gives everything he can

I do my daily clicks

They call it self-defense

But I see their politicians call for extermination

I see ours call for the same

I see soldiers stealing the underwear of the women they murder

As their commanders talk about feminism

I see the burned remnants of ambulances

Soldiers dressed as doctors murdering surgeons

Churches turned to rubble

Burning white phosphorous

I do my daily clicks

I talk about the genocide online

A dozen people I’ve never spoken to flock to the post

They try to explain why the murder of children is righteous

I block them, but they come back again and again

I get an anonymous message calling me a Nazi

I do my daily clicks

I donate $50

I do it more to feel like I’ve done something

I know it isn’t enough, know it won’t matter

But at least I’m able to sleep now

I do my daily clicks

I confront a politician

I ask him about the slaughter

I want him to be hateful

I want him to talk about the glory of the white race with a smile on his face

He doesn’t

He’s articulate and solemn

He calls the loss of life tragic

Then says we must accept it

Says it is for the good of those slain

Says that this is what happens in war

I know he would not say the same if Americans were dying

I do my daily clicks

Before he died

The soldier asked a question

What would you do during the holocaust?

During slavery?

I know the truth

He gave everything he could

I gave $50

I do my daily clicks

They cut funding for aid

They increase funding for bombs

I go to work

I pay my taxes

I contribute to the slaughter, in some small way

I do my daily clicks

I go to church

They talk about forgiveness

About mercy

About loving your enemy

The same people who cheer the deaths of children

The same people who smile at piles of corpses

Who tell me we must go on a holy war

They tell me their god was loving

That’s why they are permitted to be cruel

I say nothing

I do my daily clicks

I fantasize about violence more and more

Of killing the people responsible

Of saving lives

I know I’ll never do anything

I know that I’m a coward

I do my daily clicks

I act like I’m the victim

Write a poem about my pain

It’s laughable

To think that I am suffering

I am so very very lucky

I do my daily clicks

They say that evil triumphs

When good men do nothing

But I am not a good man

None of us are

A good man would do more than click a fucking button once a day

I’m sorry I didn’t do more

[torturingpeople]

OC SMASH OR PASS

RULES: pretty self explanatory. include physical descriptions or pics, and propaganda. the “other” label can be used for “sexuality misalignment” (ie: oc is femme and you’re gay, vice versa or you aren’t into smashing but a specific thing you wanna do with them like perhaps hug or study them under a microscope idc).

i was tagged by @letters-of-fire! thank you so much ^_^ @staring-at-my-keyboard and @your-friend-s-santos i nominate you both :-)

Edison Hollingsworth, the Sybaritic Laureate

AGE: 34

GENDER: Male (?)

SEXUALITY: Pansexual Demiromantic

PROS:

extremely skilled and ridiculously experienced on account of his job literally being a prostitute

very comfortable with him body and with anything you wish to do to it

can be a top or a bottom depending on what you want! usually he tops but you can get him to submit occasionally

very high stamina. can go for hours if you can keep up with that!

he's really sexy. obviously. i mean Look at him. he has MOLES. EVERYWHERE.

open to anything - all genders, threesomes/groups, kinks - and wrt that doesn't have many boundaries to being involved with him

big on dirty talk, likes to fill the silence with it

will probably write poems about you

never goes past a no-strings-attached casual surface-level relationship

a god at reading body language and will know what you want way before you ask for it

will work hard to treat you or buy you gifts occasionally when he can

???:

biter. will bite

doesn't stop yapping he will talk your ear off in the bedroom

massive tease. links with the talking thing

threesomes can be a bit tense after if it was an existing couple

very stubborn. you can get him to sub but i wish you good luck with that

often attempts to get his clients drunk or high before working with them

extremely flirtatious with everyone i.e. you are not special

50/50 chance that he's manic during work and will probably say something mildly frightening to you in a toxic yaoi kind of way

CONS:

The Scandal

likes it best when you're terrified of him and will actively work to scare you just for his sport and profit

will publish details about everything you did and what you like in the papers ESPECIALLY if you're rich or upper class because he thinks its funny and it pays

shit at aftercare. will kind of just Clear himself up and 99% of the time will fuck off 2 minutes after you're both done

obviously not loyal. (if you're polyamorous i suppose this isn't a con but. You know)

reckless as fuck and loves the adrenaline from fear so will likely put you, himself, or both of you in some sort of harm's way for the sake of his own enjoyment

severely mentally ill. psychotic and obsessive. will probably get weirdly religious at some point

will probably stalk and harass you for a few weeks, especially if you don't contact him at all after

will hound you for payment if you were a client and he thinks you didn't pay what you owe him

needs to be told no 62 times before it stops meaning "try again later" or "convince me"

mr wines will 99% of the time not allow you to pursue a relationship with him past the parlour of virtue. getting into a serious relationship is virtually impossible

he will approach you in public if he sees you and expect you to be friendly which. again. The Scandal

definitely open to blackmailing you with things you don't want getting out about you in order to attend society events and the like

addicted to alcohol, honey, tinctures, vigours, the WORKS

if you don't devote your entire life to him and pledge to kill the neath in order to keep his affection he'll assume you don't care about him

severe abandonment issues. if he wants you to stay he will beg for it desperately like a homeless dog

broke as fuck and 99% of his money is stolen by mr wines. the other 1% pays a fraction of his rent

0 standards and will fuck anyone and everyone