#all credit given to the artists

[tellurium-iron]

Sloth (@hcarter1332 on shuffle).

Butterfly (@annathebananna34 on shuffle).

Vintage (@ughspo on shuffle).

Cats (@kaitlynshep1 on shuffle).

Flapper Girl (@emisnothome on shuffle).

Punk Princess (@MrsWebster13 on shuffle).

Light Academia / WLW (@wildflowergirlie on shuffle).

Retro / Florida (@turtle4surf on shuffle).

[micamicster]

They'll turn me in your arms, lady, into an esk and adder, But hold me fast, and fear me not, I am your husband dear. They'll turn me to a bear sae grim, and then a lion bold, But hold me fast, and fear me not, I am your own true love.

The Perilous Gard (1974) by Elizabeth Marie Pope

[roseofhybrids]

firstly, when you get this, answer with 5 things you like about yourself, publicly. then, send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers. Have a good day! ✨️

I literally read yours and was like "dang would I be able to come up with 5 about myself? Well, I haven't been asked, so I don't have to think about it-" and what shows up in a few seconds later?! (light-hearted, this will be tricky, but I do enjoy getting asked questions like these sometimes)

ok, let's see here-

I like how my art looks these days. There's still some areas I want to work on, but I like how much I've improved the last couple years and am developing an art style I really enjoy

I like how I'm able to accept myself as being aroace without any reservations. I've heard a lot of stories about others feeling like they're broken in some way for not feeling romantic or sexual attraction. But I never felt that way about myself, I like that I didn't feel the need to pressure myself into fitting in and was content to just live my life without that kind of partner no matter what anyone else had to say about it

I like being able to remember so many fun facts. Even when the info is often useless and can't really help with anything on the day to day. I enjoy learning new and interesting things and like how I'm able to hold on to all sorts of little tidbits and interesting ideas

I like that I'm able to be comfortable in my own skin. We all know how bad people's body images can be these days. People using filters and editing when they post photos of them selves, countless tutorials on how to this or that to your face or body, endless supplies of anti-aging products that even teens are using. I like that I'm able to accept that I look the way that I look and that there's no problem with that. Pale skin with long dark arm hair, stretch marks from when I hit my growth spurt, scars on my hands, only 5 feet tall, not having a flat stomach. It is what it is, that's how my body is, and I'm ok with it

I like how I'm able to keep my patience. Don't get me wrong, I'm no saint. I still get annoyed when I have to wait a long time for things, having to repeat once or twice, other people standing in the way and having to wait for them to finish something before I can get past. It's annoying, and it can be grating. But I like that I'm able to keep myself calm and wait it out without snapping at others. People can often being annoying or slow, but I don't need to always need to comment on it or pester them to hurry up. Minor inconveniences aren't something I need to let myself get worked up over

[fruitsofhell]

Idk who's gonna step up and absolutely torch the live action snow white movie alive when it comes out but I wanna be one of them. You cannot even begin to comprehend how much of a spit in the face it is to the entire medium of animation and the positive artistic legacy of Walt Disney studios that they're making that abomination. I have an essay waiting in the wings about how thoughtfully the original Snow White was constructed in relation to blending the humanity of live action with the elevated stylization of animation, and I may either just post it ot twist it into something about the live action remake if I wanna sit on it.

Hell, I was going through a personal project of watching every Disney film and taking notes and I might actually start posting those to get ahead of the disgusting ass live action trend. They already said they're making a Bambi remake and I'm so serious, my entire personality will shift, I will become the hater to end all haters, and a lover of the og to the highest degree.

I'm so disgusted by the live action remake trend, it's anti-art, it's anti-humanity and a shameless display of sheer corporate greed and disrespect from Disney on every conceivable level.

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

*

[notdeezy]

SOME MF JUST POSTED AI ART OF ROY HARPER AND Y'ALL JUST ATE IT UP??????

[turtletoria]

They have gotten so far and are nearing their goal. Please help them to reach the finish line!!! Remember that these funds are necessary for daily living as the family awaits evacuation.

🕊 Currently at €64,657 / €100,000 - a donation can also get you entered into a raffle for a free commission from me! More info here !

🎨 Art NOT by me - all art credit goes to an artist (who wanted to remain anonymous for now) who gave Ahmed permission to post, and then Ahmed gave me permission to post on his behalf.

🌟 This campaign has been vetted by @/el-shab-hussein and @/nabulsi - #264 on the vetted Gaza fundraiser list. Also verified by @/butterflyeffect.project (line 741)

EDIT: final goal has been changed due to Ahmed needing to raise the goal to ensure he receives the necessary funds after gfm fees and bank taxes have been taken out! truly despicable that these financial hurdles exist given the circumstances :((

tags - please share if you can!

@heritageposts @90-ghost @pcktknife @ot3 @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @sabertoothwalrus @effen-draws @aria-ashryver @paper-mario-wiki @valtsv @ankle-beez @jezior0 @schoolhater @komsomolka @appsa

[akajustmerry]

I wanna say from very bottom of my heart that I deeply truly rabidly despise Taylor Swift and the glamorous black hole of immorality, gracelessness and lack of integrity she represents. I truly hate that I have to witness her 2-chord mediocre stream of consciousness high school ballads win the highest accolades in music. I hate how there's not a single discourse - from sports to fucking queer theory - that's free of her. I hate her white feminism, how she's never stood for a single thing that didn't ensure her wealth. I hate how she's credited and praised for things marginalised artists did before her. I hate how she latches onto new artists so they serve HER fame, like remoras to a shark. I hate her phony humble beginnings narrative that people parrot without acknowledging she's a nepo baby. I hate what she did to olivia rodrigo and how no one talks about it. I hate the waste her concerts, lifestyle, and merch create and that a young girl died from heat illness at her concert because the swift team prioritises exclusivity and profit over safety. I hate how she and her fandom popularised the idea that critiquing a woman = misogyny. I hate how she's in her mid 30s and still writes songs like she's a teenager and that songs written by a woman in her 30s acting like a teenager are inescapable. I hate she deliberately re-releases songs and records so other artists can't chart. I hate how she regularly and openly associates with bigoted people but somehow is always given the benefit of the doubt. Most of all I hate how she does and continues to do all of this and so much more and her fans will always have a, "but!" always have an, "anyway!". she's openly and uncritically supporting a presidential candidate who's administration is enacting genocide, but because she made a joke with her cats, we're meant to be like, "yay!" I truly despise Taylor Swift and the black hole of neoliberal white feminist mediocrity she is in popular culture.

[prokopetz]

A selection of promotional art for Violet Core, a forthcoming self-described "Romantic High Speed Sapphic Mecha TTRPG" by artist and writer @sarahcarapace, author of Death Spiral and visual designer for @cavegirlpoems' Dungeon Bitches. Violet Core takes its cues from Heaven Will Be Mine, Zone of the Enders and Knights of Sidonia, and plays like a tabletop dating sim with giant robot fights.

The game is currently entering the final 24 hours of its crowdfunding campaign, fully funded and having knocked down two substantial stretch goals in the last days: one for extra art (i.e., more of the above), and one to add an asymmetric play mode in which some but not all players pilot giant robots, explicitly including provisions for, in the author's own words, "handler and pilot toxic yuri" – a particular interest for many of this blog's followers, I'm given to understand!

With just under a day left to go, there are several additional stretch goals within striking distance; I've seen a lot of noise about the one for rules for combining robots (presumably also for yuri purposes), though the one I'm most keen on – a big stack of random encounter and event tables by the aforementioned @cavegirlpoems – is presently just $1700 AUD away. (Yes, I know I'm predictable; my love for Big Stupid Tables is well established.)

I'd love to see this one go the distance, so whether or not you're interested in supporting its campaign, if you happen to know anyone who might be in the market, please pass the word along!

(Art credit: excerpted pieces by @sarahcarapace, @portentous-offerings and @cryskir)

[revasserium]

Okay okay hear me out Rain: reader watching Sanji cook, just sitting, waiting, maybe reading a book but catching glances at him every so often and he knows they're looking at him and just smiles....sorry I love that man

accidentally in love

opla!sanji; 2,569 words; fluff, banter so much banter, flirting, flustered!sanji, whipped!sanji, no "y/n", confessions, "sweetheart", fem!reader, straw hat"!reader

summary: in which sanji is trying to cook dinner but you're very, very distracting. or, sanji finally meets his match.

a/n: i know i said i might not write for anyone other than zoro but i lied. i guess i'm a sanji bitch now too. fuck.

Sanji’s always liked to say that he can cook anywhere, anytime, given that he’s got something that resembles heat and a smattering of ingredients — like any great artist, he knows how to make do. But, he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t enjoy this — the quiet of a ship’s kitchen, the gentle sway of the ocean, the simmer and pop of fat on a pan, the soft bubbling of boiling water — and you.

You, perched on the counter with your legs hanging off the side, hair piled up and pinned with a chopstick, a book in your hands or on your lap, the early afternoon sun spilling in to caress your skin like so many loving fingers. Sometimes, he’ll glance over while chopping onions or mincing garlic to catch a glimpse of you, and he’d find himself stilling, his fingers slowing, his breath suspended in his chest, caught like an insect in amber: held weightless and perfect.

“You’re staring,�� you say, flipping a page without looking up, a smile twitching at your lips.

“Yeah, I know. I’ve found that admiring beautiful things helps me in my creative process,” he says, his grin going lopsided as he lowers his eyes to the ingredients on the cutting board — tiny, plump cherry tomatoes ripe to bursting. He resumes slicing each in half with swift, decisive cuts and relishes in the sound of your laughter.

“Careful with that mouth of yours — someone might accidentally fall in love with you,” you flip another page.

Sanji slides the cut tomatoes into a bowl and wipes a hand on the towel slung over his shoulder.

“Accidentally? C’mon, you gotta gimme some more credit. But if anyone’s fallin’ in love, it’s gonna be with you.”

Another page. Sanji plucks a few zucchini from a large bag and starts to julienne them into thin strips.

“What are you making?” you ask, finally setting the book down in favor of peering at all the ingredients he’s got laid out. He quirks an eyebrow, glancing up.

“What, finished with that book already?”

“Nope — just found something more interesting to look at, that’s all.”

Sanji blushes.

Let it never be said that Vinsmoke Sanji can’t take as good as he gives but by all the gods and monsters and sea kings — you’re a damn good flirt. Almost as good as he is, he used to think. Now, as he covers up his rapidly darkening cheeks with a chuckle, turning away to grab a potato for skinning, he wonders if you might just be better.

“You never answered my question, y’know.”

He looks up again, his tongue feeling strangely swollen and uncoordinated in his mouth. You’re grinning at him, your legs still swinging, but in the few seconds he’d looked away, you’ve inched closer, your outer thigh now almost pressing against the edge of his cutting board.

The first time he’d found you perched up on his long work table with a book in your lap, he’d blinked, crossed his arms, and debated on asking what on earth you thought you were doing. Chefs generally do not take kindly to their prep spaces being treated like free real estate for sitting, but he’d never been able to say no to a beautiful woman, now has he? And least of all you.

“Thought you could use the company,” was your answer to his then-unasked question. He’d laughed, nodded, and gotten on with his breakfast prep. But that was months ago and since then, it’s become something of a habit; a ritual, almost.

“What question was that? I was —” he asks, clearing his throat, his fingers almost slipping on the freshly peeled potato, “distracted by your —”

“What are you making?”

“Oh —” Sanji returns his gaze to the cutting board, now acutely aware of the smell of your skin, creamy and warm. He swallows, trying to focus on slicing the potato.

“Just a cherry tomato and zucchini noodle pasta — not often that we get such fresh produce. But Luffy’d asked if I can make chips from scratch the other day so that’s what this bad boy’s for,” he says, holding up half the potato.

“You sure one potato’s gonna be enough?” you shift your leg to cross one above the other, and Sanji has to swallow passed the thickness building up in the back of his throat at the sight of your soft, smooth thighs.

“Good point,” he says, laughing as he bends down to grab a few more.

You fall into a companionable silence, the quiet only punctuated by the tack-tack-tack of his knife on the cutting board and the occasionally shunk-thump of ingredients being swept into a metal prep bowl.

“You’re staring,” he says. And this time, it’s Sanji who grins, keeping his eyes fixed on the remainder of the herb mix he’s chopping up.

“Yeah, I know. I’m making a habit of admiring beautiful things. I’ve heard that it’s good for me.”

Heat bursts in Sanji’s chest as if he’d swallowed a shot of whiskey or gin or perhaps something even more potent. His head spins, but he steadies himself before letting out a soft, low whistle. He fights the urge to look up just to check if you’re as affected as he is.

“Keep talkin’ like that and falling in love with you’s not gonna be an accident.”

When he finally looks up to shoot you a flirty smile, he finds himself faltering as he meets your eyes.

“Who said I wanted it to be an accident?”

The knife in Sanji’s hand slips and he swears as it knicks the skin of his forefinger.

“Ah, shit —”

“Oops.” You have the decency to look sheepish as he shoots you a mildly reproachful look. But you shift your legs and tug open a drawer that had been tucked beneath where your knee had been, pulling out a small bandage.

“Come here,” you offer, reaching out as he stares at you for a second before moving forward to give you his hand. You gently wipe away the blood before pressing the bandage to the small cut, running a thumb over the edges to make sure it’s sealed.

The air hangs between you like dust motes trapped in sunlight, like first snow caught in the silvery breaths of awestruck children.

“There,” you say, the word no more than a whisper. Your hands linger over his, his skin burning where you’d touched him. Shivers skitter down the length of his spine as he gulps in a breath of air that tastes faintly of fairytale endings and happily-ever-afters.

“Thanks.”

He doesn't pull away. Neither do you.

Like this, he can count every single lash that frames your doe-wide eyes. Like this, he can feel the static thrum of electricity threatening to jump from his body to yours, and all at once, he understands why lightning always tries to reach for the closest thing to its storm-ridden skies.

Perhaps it, too, yearns for closeness — for that infinitesimal moment of connection.

He wants to reach for you.

Your lips hover a kiss’s-breadth away.

An alarm goes off.

“Oh fuck —”

He jerks away from you, the world clanging rudely back into focus as he reaches for the lid of a large pot, his heart hammering something fierce inside his ribcage. He nearly burns himself on the thick fog of steam rising from inside the pot to reveal six flat-face crabs, freshly caught that morning.

Behind him, he hears the distinct sounds of you slipping from the long work table.

“Leaving already?” he asks as he turns back around with a stab at his usual light-hearted cheek.

You lick your lips, grinning, “I feel like I’ve caused enough damage for one dinner service. If I keep hanging around, you might lose a finger next.”

“Small price to pay for the company of a beautiful woman,” but there’s a gravel and grit to his voice that wasn’t there before, and he looks away first when this time your eyes catch. He tries to busy himself with prepping the pan sauce for the crabs.

“I’ll let Nami know that the next time she wants to peek in on you cooking.”

“Hey —”

You pause at the sound of his voice just as you reach the door. You turn.

Sanji’s expression flickers between caution and anticipation as he opens his mouth, his eyes somehow sharper and darker than they usually are.

“We’re not done talking about this.”

You cock your head, “About what?”

But there’s a smile teasing at the corner of your lips and Sanji lets out a good-humored sigh.

“Alright, go. Or else I might lose more than a finger.”

Like a heart, he thinks as you close the door behind you with a soft click.

Dinner is an appetizer of cold zucchini pasta followed by a warm, tangy tomato veloute. Then come the crabs — freshly steamed over a bed of risotto and served with a lemon and rosemary pan sauce so delicious it has even Zoro sighing with satisfaction.

“Wow, special occasion?” Nami asks, looking up as Sanji comes around with a tray full of cocktails, complete with blood orange slices garnishing the lip of each glass.

“Ain’t every day a special one with this crew?” he asks, winking at Nami as she takes her drink.

Everyone laughs, but as he sets down your drink, you notice a tiny note tucked beneath the base of your glass.

You take a sip of your drink, glancing down at the note. It has three simple words written in Sanji’s unmistakable, slanted handwriting:

Kitchen — after dinner.

You tuck the note away in your pocket with a secret grin, taking another long sip of the cold, refreshing drink.

The final course is a heaping pile of home-made potato chips with garlic and cheese dip, and Luffy wastes no time in shoveling half the batch into his mouth, crunching loudly over a series of vague, animalistic hums and grunts that all seem to denote happiness.

You finish your drink and slip away under the guise of going for another.

When you get to the kitchen, it's to find Sanji already cleaning up.

“Need a hand?” you ask, setting your empty glass on the counter before lightly hoisting yourself up onto it.

Sanji shakes his head, turning off the water and wiping down his hands. He pours you another drink from a large pitcher before setting it down and pursing his lips.

“This afternoon —”

“I meant what I said —” you say, cutting him off as you look away, eyes fixed on your knees as you swing your feet away from the table’s edge, “if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sanji clears his throat, reaching into his pocket to grab a cigarette and a lighter, if only to keep his hands busy. The thing in his chest that he’d been so convinced was his heart for most of his life now feels very much like a ticking time bomb. Or perhaps a hand grenade, with the pin held precariously between your teeth.

One word from you and —

“So? What about you?” you ask.

Sanji sucks in a long breath of smoke, holding it in his lungs before letting it out. The familiar sting grounds him as he looks at you and wonders if you know all the things he’d do for you. All the things he’s already done.

“Me?” he asks.

“Yeah — did you mean it?” And for the first time since he’s known you, you sound uncertain, “All… all those things you said? All the things you’ve been saying?”

He takes a few steps forward, finally allowing himself to breach the delicate circle of your personal space, his free hand coming to rest on the counter next to your thigh, his palm pressing flat to keep himself from going too far, too fast.

“Three guesses,” he says, letting his eyes flicker down to your lips and linger there, “You guess right… and there might be a prize involved, hm?”

A small, knowing grin spreads across your lips even as you quirk an eyebrow.

“Three guesses to a yes or no question? C’mon, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re losing your touch.”

Sanji leans in and you can almost taste the smoke on your tongue.

“But you do know better, don’t you, sweetheart?”

You suck in a breath, reaching up to tug the cigarette from his lips.

“Yes.”

You catch a flash of his smile a second before his lips find yours. He tastes of salt and tobacco and lemon-rosemary sauce.

“That’s one,” he says as the pair of you break apart. The cigarette lies forgotten on the counter.

Somehow, his hands have found their way to the bend of your waist, settling there as naturally as the tide might settle against its favorite stretch of forgotten beach.

You smile as you reach up to tug him closer, “Yes.”

Another kiss.

Sanji notes with a satisfied grin that your cheeks are just as flushed as his feels when he pulls away this time. He nods, trailing long fingers up your side, one hand reaching up to cup your cheek, the other pressing at the small of your back.

“That’s two.”

You nudge his nose with yours and he feels his hand-grenade heart leap into his throat.

“And…” you hum, letting your head lilt to one side as you ghost your lips over his, “Hm, lemme think about this one…”

Sanji rolls his eyes, tugging you forward by the back of your neck, crushing your mouth to his. It’s more insistent this time — the kiss, the breath, his fingers, your hands — more desperate and fumbling, fueled by the ever-growing heat bubbling at the base of his spine.

“Yes —” you hiss, panting as the pair of you pull apart, your pupils blown wide and dark in the dim kitchen light.

“And that’s all three,” he says, his smile going wide with warmth, “See? You’ve got it. Knew you’d get there.”

“Did you ever doubt?”

Sanji shrugs, taking half a step back to admire the sight of you, with kiss-swollen lips and heat-flushed skin. Perfect might not be strong enough a word.

“There was a moment here or there,” he says, to which you respond with a light shove to his shoulder as you hop off the table.

“Oh, I meant to ask you — what’s for dessert?”

Sanji laughs, “What? Did my garlic-cheddar chips not satisfy?”

“Really? Chips for dessert? And here I was hoping for something sweet.”

You make to leave the kitchen but Sanji reaches forward, pulling you back all too easily, spinning you around and pinning you against the door. His eyes are soft with mirth but as he leans down, you can’t help but shiver at the promise of something more lingering beneath the smoke of his breath.

“Well then, sweetheart, I think I’ve got my dessert picked out already now, don’t I?”

recs r technically closed, but... if you have an opla!sanji one... send it here.

[tellurium-iron]

Pride (@themult1versesaga on shuffle).

Theater / Nightout (@emma_parrot on shuffle).

Vintage / Music (@aprilleboyack7 on shuffle).

Daria Hlazatova (@chrshne on shuffle).

The Kraken! (@zbcoop17 on shuffle).

Scorpio (@Ghost4l1 on shuffle).

A woman is a changeling (@jorobubble on shuffle).

Haunted (@mortemcornix on shuffle).

[paper-mario-wiki]

this video made me laugh, and i wanted to post it on tumblr with some kind of caption, so here's the caption:

i think it's interesting how transient ownership over things has become in "meme" and content creation spheres. im thinking now about this video in particular. im thinking about how i downloaded it off of a tweet reacting to another post. they probably downloaded it from someone else, who got it from someone else, who got it from someone who decided to put a simple edit on a youtube video to have it speed up gradually as it progresses. that youtube video, before that, was made by someone who used this character someone else made-- a character whose identity is ubiquitous enough for it to be expected that the audience just know who they are and what they're from. along the way, as this piece of digital textile has been passed around, ripped from its original tapestry and defaced again and again to fit the intent of the current owner's message, there's been no credit given to any additive measures that brought this post into being, nor is much expected. there is a noticeable difference in meme spaces where the same level of "credit the artist" is not necessarily expected for these edits which i would consider natural descendants of the animutations of the early oughts (through the youtube poop genus, of course). i find it fascinating that these-- speaking objectively-- complex and abstract messages that take measurable effort to learn how to create, are taken for granted. they simply exist as tokens within a human ecosystem, like seashells or coins. these things just float from person to person, and everybody has just sorta grown to expect it because there's so many of them being made every single day, and so many of them are being more and more blatantly derivative. including this! this post is incredibly derivative! it's derivative of all those people who hadn't been credited because they didn't credit each other, and likely wouldn't be terribly cross with me that i didn't go out of my way to credit them. i think that's fascinating.

alternative caption:

logging into a business meeting but i forgot to turn off my vtuber software

[gfhunklescalendar]

The 2025/2026 Gravity Falls Hunkles Calendar (print version) is now available for pre-order on Etsy! 

Additionally, digital versions of the previous calendars (2022, 2019, and 2017) and the Wayfaring Strangers art book are also for sale during (and after) the pre-order period. The old digital calendars will be $5, and Wayfaring Strangers will be $10.

The 2025/2026 Gravity Falls Hunkles Calendar features art from 21 amazing artists and is priced at $30 USD. The calendars will be 12”x 12" and saddle-stitched with a hole for hanging. 

This is a limited print run of 350 calendars, so when they’ve sold out, I will not be printing any more! Pre-orders will be available for 2 weeks, and if I somehow sell 350 calendars in that time, There’s a chance I will print more copies.

2025's "Fully Clothed Old Men: Back in Style" is a slight derivation from our previous years. More of a silly pin-up-ish calendar, this year mainly features a young Stan in all his mullet-sporting glory, but there ARE 4 months where we've given young Ford a spotlight.

2026's "Fully Clothed Old Men: The Final Layer" features senior Grunkles enjoying some more mundane adventures, like baking, doing laundry, or just chilling in front of the TV.

Both calendars feature art and holidays based on Gravity Falls (and Gravity Falls adjacent things), standard US holidays, key religious holidays, and a select number of international holidays. 

I am funding the printing for the calendars with the pre-sale money, so please be patient with the shipping/delivery time. Calendars will ship sometime in July, and I’ll be sure to announce when I’ve received the order and have begun shipping them out.

You should find that the Etsy shop will automatically figure out shipping costs for you, once you put in your address. Please, please make sure you enter your complete address correctly!

PRE-ORDER IT RIGHT HERE!!

Payment methods available are PayPal and credit card.

This is a charity project, and all proceeds will go to A New Way of Life Reentry Project!

If you'd like to help us spread the word, please reblog this post!

Or share this post over on Twitter! Cover arts by @Stephreynaart & @toasttbutt

[seonghwaddict]

not just a distraction — park seonghwa

in which it’s too easy for the new literature professor to pick a favourite.

literature professor!park seonghwa x fem!reader. genre. fluff, angst. warnings. LEGAL teacher-student relationship, implies age-gap, an argument, suggestive, nickname (baby, angel, doll, princess). wc. 10.4k. rating. pg-13.

lilo’s notes. this is my comeback yessss~ anyways, this is part 1 of 2 because the next part will have some… fun activities >:) i hope you guys enjoy this, i’m sorry for being so inactive for the past month but i have lots for you guys to look forward to! excuse any errors i did not proofread this.

listening to. training wheels, melanie martinez / angel, kali uchis.

masterlist.

the first class of the new literature course at your campus garnered the attention of quite a few of the students from the arts department.

there was, of course, a literature class that existed before that one, though a few students had been unhappy with it since the introduction of more contemporary works. the classic masterpieces, they thought (including you), should not be bunched together with colleen hoover.

with enough pressure, the faculty were able to introduce a new course; classic literature. the few students unhappy with the initial course switched into this course instead, delighted by the fact they were allowed to keep their previous credits. a completely new teacher had been hired too, stirring anticipation. all you knew of him was his name, given in the description of the course when you signed up.

so you found yourself in one of the many lecture halls, around fifty others surrounding you. when you walked in, the new professor was at the long chalk board at the front, looking down at a book in his hand while the other wrote something down. you tried catching a glimpse of him, but his positioning faced him away.

but from what you could see, he was quite slender. his grey slacks, neatly ironed, were secured around his hips by a thin black leather belt. his white button up seemed a little large, though it complimented him well, tucked into his trousers with the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms elegantly—his blazer, a grey matching his slacks, shucked off and placed around the back of the chair at his desk. you could also see his hair was dark, a slight waviness to it, a little longer in the back.

finding the most convenient seat, you chose to sit in the left-most seat on the second row, next to a girl you recognised but couldn’t remember the name of even if you tried.

you catch a glimpse of professor park glancing down at his watch, prompting you to do the same. nine in the morning, on the dot.

“literature,” he starts, underlining the bold word on the chalkboard before turning around. and you nearly choke at the sight of his face.

he’s handsome, almost impossibly so, and a lot younger than all your other professores. dainty glasses sit atop the bridge of his nose, carefully placed strands of his hair framining his face as he begins pacing in front of the seats, making sure to look at each students individually.

“it’s many things, but at its core, it’s all about the manipulation of language. language, simply put, is food, nourishing literature. and so, with the intricacies of the art, literature becomes one of the sweetest passions known to man. because what is it if not love and hatred and disgust and every indescribable feeling thrown into a melting pot of prose.”

his voice is captivating, making you feel just a little lightheaded as you listen to his passion intently, all precise words and confidence as he paces, his hands clasped behind his back. you’re hanging off his every word, watching as he stops by his desk to place down the chalk.

it isn’t after a few moments that you realise you were admiring his hand, how it moves to elegantly. the way his fingers gently curl around the little white stick is almost artistic in itself.

he turns around, resting his hips against the edge of the mahogany desk behind him, legs crossed at his ankles and arms crossed over his chest. his eyes scan the room as he continues speaking, occasionally locking with yours. “is it not poetic? how morphemes, for example, or adjectives or conjunctions are the morsels of literature, small parts that are put together to create meaning? of course, something may be described in one word, but there’s something quite magical about being more metaphorical, more intimate.”

he catches you leaning forward in your chair slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips at how captivated you look before he schools his expression. but his focus is quickly redirected when another student raises his hand.

“yes?” professor park pushes himself off the desk, clasping his hands behind his back.

“professor,” he begins—you recognise him as a jock that calls himself dylan, but you know it’s not his real name and he’s probably here to fulfil a requirement to keep him on the volleyball team—his tone incredulous, “don’t you think all this romanticisation of literature is a bit dramatic? we don’t need fancy words to describe everything.”

professor park arches his eyebrow, a soft huff escaping his nose as he took steps in the direction of dyland’s seat. “dramatic? perhaps,” he nodded, eyes fixed on him, “however, as a literature professor, i enjoy the romanticisation of it. my job is to introduce others to the passion that is literature, and therefore i will romanticise it all i wish… what is your name?”

“it’s, uh, dylan?”

his eyebrow quirked once more as he gave the jock a once over, evaluating him. “i see… well, dylan, have you ever felt the rush of emotion when reading something truly spectacular? have you ever read a sentence and felt it like a punch in your chest or a sudden breath of fresh air?”

dylan’s opens his mouth to respond before he is interrupted with a raise if professor park’s palm. “think before you answer, please.”

you nearly laughed at his baffled look, never having seen him so silent, pondering the question for a moment before answering. “well, yes i have.” he answers honestly, earning a nod of approval.

“describe that feeling for me. can you find the correct words to explain the way you felt in that moment?”

dylan tries to explain it the best he can, but your teacher only shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “close, but no. see, it’s difficult putting into words such strong emotions no matter how many synonyms of ‘joyful’ you use.”

he turns away from him to address the rest of the class. “and that is the beauty of literature—it can be used to describe the most indescribable feeling, stringing together individually meaningless words to create something so much more.”

you smile at that, enjoying the link he made. your eyes meet for another moment, a split second that made heat rise to your cheeks under his perceptive gaze. but you blink and his pretty brown eyes are gone.

he takes a moment’s pause, glancing over at the clock in the room before finally addressing the rest of the class again. “i want an assignment from each of you by next class that demonstrates the true beauty of the language we know. it can be anything you feel like writing. a short story, a narrative, an essay, a poem,” his eyes flick over to land on you once again, “i want to see the feeling you want to convey in this written form. and i don’t just mean the happy feelings—get raw and descriptive. write something from the heart.”

the class is dismissed and you pack up your things, heading out but not before trying to catch another glimpse of him in the moving horde of students.

though you hadn’t noticed it, throughout the lecture his eyes lingered on you as well. of course, there were so many students for him to focus on, but none of them seemed quite as captivated as you. judging by the evident fascination on your face as he spoke, he knew you understood every word he said. unlike dylan, apparently.

the next class is on friday, four days away. you take that time or write the assignment. instead of writing a story or a poem, you decide on writing an essay. something where you can really write without the constraints of sticking to a plot. when you’re not in any of your other classes, you’re at your shared house, writing. and if your roommate is being too loud, you take the short bike ride to campus, sitting in your usual corner in the library, also writing.

by the time friday comes around, it’s ready and you’re happy with it, confident in your works as you walk into the lecture hall between some other students. you follow them as they stop at his desk, placing their papers on a stack of other turned in assignments, following suit before sitting at the same seat as last time; far left, second row. this time there’s more people sat at the front, whispering and giggling as they gaze at the professor.

he’s sat at his desk, a similar suit to last like on except a beige colour. his glasses are off and placed on the wooden desk, a book partially obscuring his face as he reads and waits for it to be nine on the dot.

he can vaguely hear the students talking amongst themselves as he reads, but he doesn’t pay it too much mind. it was normal. a lot of his students found him attractive, and that was clear just by the way they talked while he was around. after a while, he glances up at the time, noting it was almost time for class to begin.

he closes his book, setting it off to the side before standing up behind the desk. his hands clasp behind his back.

he glances around the room as more students trickle in and take their seats. he notices you at the second row almost immediately, and he can’t help the small smile that crosses his face. he lets his eyes roam over you for a second before he looks away, noticing the other students chattering in their seats. he clears his throat, loud enough to make them stop and look at him.

“good morning, class.” he says loudly, glancing around once more before resuming, “i’ll be looking over your assignments after class, but for today i’d alike to talk about some literary devices. i know this is classic literature and you’re all expecting to be reading classics, but some groundwork should be set before we jump into analyses. for example, can anyone tell me what a hyperbole is? any guesses?”

he scans the room, as if challenging one of the students to answer. the students in the class are quiet, no one wanting to take the challenge. he hums after a couple minutes and walks around to the front of the desk to lean against the edge of it.

“no one? how about you,” he suddenly says, nodding to you.

you blink, taken aback by the fact he chose you in the sea of fifty-something students. after clearing your throat, you simply say, “an exaggeration, sir.”

he gives a small nod of approval, a smile accompanying it. he expected you to know it, one of the most basic terms in the subject, but could he really be blamed if he just wanted to hear your lovely voice?

“that’s correct. a hyperbole is an exaggeration. it’s also a useful tool in literature to convey specific emotions. i’m sure you’ve come across sentences such as... ‘i could kill him’ or ‘i can’t believe it. this assignment was a literal death sentence.’” he adds the last part in a joking manner, and the few students in the room who were paying attention let out a quiet bout of snickers. he gives you one last small smile before moving on.

he spends the rest of the lesson talking about all sorts of techniques used to enhance literature and the effects they have on the readers. sibilance creates a smooth flow and double entendres are often used to amuse the reader.

nearing the end of the class, he instructs everyone to start on their reading of “the picture of dorian gray” by oscar wilde while he starts going through the turned in assignments. you pull out the book, having borrowed it from the library the other day. you’ve read it before, but it was entertaining enough for you to be willing to read it again, leaning back in your seat comfortably as you flip to the first page.

professor park gets through the first couple of assignments, grading them and adding comments here and there. he finds your essay on the third assignment, and glances up to look at you sitting at your seat, reading so serenely. he takes the time to look you over for a moment before his focus turns to your paper in his hand. he can’t help the slight curiosity as to what you have written, so he begins reading.

he can tell from the quality of the writing alone what kind of writer you were. not like the others, you weren’t rushing with each sentence. no, each word was well thought out, each word placed delicately in the paragraph. it was obvious you had taken the time to write it, and it was obvious that you enjoyed writing even before he finishes reading the introduction. there is passion in the way you laid out your paragraphs. the way it seems so effortless for such words to spill onto your pages.

he finds himself rereading some of the sentences and paragraphs, just to see the way you had worded things. the way you describe how literature can make a person feel could be compared to a piece of art itself. a smile tugs at his lips as he finished reading, having become completely entranced in what you had written. he wanted more, he wanted to read even more of your writing, see more of your passion, more of you. he had expected to have to read through mindless writing but instead he had been surprised by something actually worthwhile.

at the end, he writes a decently-sized comment, a perfect grade circled in his black ink right below.

as he dismisses the class, it takes you a moment to register his words and the people filing out of the hall around you. but once you do, you fold over the corner of the page you’re on and start packing away your items.

as the class is now empty, the only person left in the room besides himself is you. he watches from behind the desk as you pack up your things, noticing the slight hesitation in your movements when you glance towards him. he takes a moment to just watch you before speaking up, his voice firm and clear.

“stay a moment, if you don’t mind.”

you glance up at him before looking around, making sure he was speaking to you before you nod, taking the steps down from the second row to the first, standing at the end of the seats expectantly.

he picks up something from his desk before making his way over to you, his long legs carrying him effortlessly.

he studies your face for a moment, holding up the stapled stack of papers that were your essay. he takes in your features as he speaks, his tone softer now that you’re alone, “you enjoy literature, i take it?”

you glance at the papers before meeting his eyes again, heat rising to your face at the realisation that his full attention was on you. that he was standing so close, just a step away, looking down at you ever so slightly. you give him a nod.

he hums softly in acknowledgement, his eyes looking at your face curiously. he can see the flush of your cheeks clearly, the way you’re keeping your gaze averted from his for the most part.

he glances down at the paper in his hand, tapping it against his fingers gently before looking back at you.

“your assignment. i read it,” he starts, flipping through the pages absentmindedly to keep him from staring at you too long, “it’s quite well written, and i can see the care you put into the language of it. i enjoyed reading it.”

he watches as your eyes queen ever so slightly, a certain sparkle that does not go unnoticed by him; can see the gears turning in your head as you take in his words, your face growing to an endearing mix of shy and embarrassed. he couldn’t exactly pinpoint what he was feeling, couldn’t describe it in any way other than a bloom of warmth in his chest, akin to familiarity.

“oh, thank you, sir.” you smile at him lightly, having been worried you were in trouble and about to be in the receiving end of his scolding.

he hums again, still looking at your face. he can’t help the slight grin that forms on his face as he hears you call him ‘sir.’ he liked the sound of it coming from you. he glances down at the paper again before speaking again, holding the stack out to you.

“i should be thanking you, really. you seem to be the only one to have put some effort into it,” he gave you a soft smile before nodding towards the door, “you may go now, i’ll see you next class.”

you smile and nod, giving him a slight bow before straightening up again. “have a nice day, sir.” and with that you leave, making a beeline to leave campus since you didn’t have anything else to do for the day.

the next time you see him is on monday, in class. he teaches as usual, introducing some context for the book you’re all supposed to be reading. he doesn’t talk to you during the class, though occasionally his eyes find yours and you can’t help but think they soften ever so slightly.

soon enough, you pick up on the fact that you have a similar routine on wednesday evenings. usually, you stay in the campus library for a little longer on those days, whether it’s to read or to work. you like it then because there’s usually barely anyone there, the library big enough for the students that are there to disperse out of each other’s views.

you notice him on your way in, talking to the librarian with a stack of three or four books on the counter. but sometimes you’d see him at a table or couch, or browsing through the shelves. and each time you smile at the sight of him before making your way straight to the second floor, ducking between some bookshelves on the far end to sit in your usual seat.

this may be your favourite spot on campus, maybe the whole city. a little sofa tucked against a big window, two bookshelves—historical fiction—on either side hiding you from the prying eyes of your peers. at this time, the sunlight is just right, a copper glow feeding the two little plants on the windowsill and providing a warmth that felt like a blanket on a cold winter day. it wasn’t too bright, able to look outside without squinting your eyes, enough light to read comfortably. there’s also a little round table that you use to place your laptop on if you need to work, though often you push it aside, favouring to relax on the plush sofa against the soft pillow and get lost in the pages of whatever book you got your hands on.

he’s noticed you there before, on his way to pick up a book from the bibliography section, right next to the historical fiction section where you resided. he soon comes to notice your form among the bookshelves that he passes by, doing a double take before he forces himself to continue along his way. when he finishes the bibliography exactly a week later, he offers to bring it back to its previous spot; in reality, he just wanted to see whether or not you’d be there again.

and sure enough, you were. and he slows down in his movements, looking at the way you’re curled up comfortably in the sofa.

he finds himself watching you silently from a distance for a while, just watching you flip to the next page in your book as you lay comfortably against the pillow, to absorbed in the story to notice him. you look completely at ease there, he finds himself thinking. the sunlight from the window seems to caress your features softly, and a part of him wondered what it would be like to be the sunlight for once, to touch your skin so softly and admire the details of it.

he watches you for a while, taking in your expressions as you turn the pages, before deciding to make his presence known. he takes a step, his leather shoes clunking against the polished wooden floors, “mind if i join you?”

your eyes dart up at the sound of his voice, flinching as you were caught off guard. once his words process, you offer him a smile, nodding as you retract your feet from the sofa to make some space for him. “yeah, of course, professor.”

he smiles warmly at your reply, settling into the newly available space on the sofa. now sitting, he realizes just how small the space is. it’s a two seater, so he ends up sitting very close to you, his side pressed right up to the armrest to prevent from being pressed against you. he glances at your face, noting the small reaction you had when you weren’t expecting him to approach. cute.

he leans back a little to get comfortable on the sofa. it’s quiet between them for a moment, both of them looking outside or at their books. the silence isn’t awkward, he finds. in fact, he quite enjoyed it in such proximity to you. he turns his gaze to watch your face, studying you; the curve of your nose, your lips that are pulled into a frown ever so slightly as you concentrate. his gaze then flicks down, to your sweatpants-clad legs tucked under you on the sofa, and lower to the hand holding the book.

you sit together in silence for a while, reading your respective books. you can’t stop yourself from glancing up at him occasionally, however, just wanting to catch a glimpse of his soft hair or perfect plump lips or the slope of his neck.

but when the sun go too low and the lights too dim and you could barely keep your eyes open, you let out a soft yawn, stretching. he glances up, opening his mouth to say something before his throat suddenly feel to dry to produce any words, distracted by the arch of your back and the curves of your hips. you look so inviting.

“tired?” he manages to force out with a slight chuckle, watching you slump back into your seat. he has the urge to brush away the stray hairs that fall over your cheeks.

you glance at him, nodding as you pull yourself off the couch for one last stretch before gathering your stuff and facing him. “i should probably head home,” you mutter.

“alright,” he pushes himself off the couch, closing his book, “i’ll walk you out.”

too tired to argue and insist he didn’t have to, you just nod, turning on your heels to walk out of the shelves, waiting at the end for him. the walk is silent, holding your breath and heart thumping in your chest each time his fingers brush against the back of your hand as you walk side by side.

this became a new routine. every wednesday, you’d find him or he’d find you, sitting in the little brown leather couch. and you’d stay there together for a while, talking or laughing or working or reading. there was no longer an awkward space separating the two of you, happily resting against each other, far from worried that anyone would see.

neither of you mentioned it, but it was the elephant in the room. you didn’t know what to call it, whatever was happening between you. but it felt good, it made you want to cling to his shirt and bury your face into the warm curve of his neck and never let go. but you couldn’t, no matter how much either of you wanted to.

and as the lines between professor and student blurred, you found yourself looking forward to your wednesdays with him.

and so did he. still, he often thought about how he behaved around you, like it was a secret meant for him and you and you and him.

the way he would find himself sitting closer and closer to you. the way he’d find his gaze lingering on you for too long. the way his mind would wander on how it would feel to run his fingers through your hair, trails them along your thighs. oh, how badly he wants to feel your skin against his own. the idea of what he was doing was dangerous, foolish for someone of his position.

but it’s hard to care when you’re right there next to him, in the soft light that makes your skin glow, your face relaxed and content as you read beside him.

one particular friday evening, it’s pouring, and you’re standing outside under where the roof of the humanities building entrance protruded, protecting me from the rain. this morning you had decided to walk to school instead taking the bike, though you suppose it wouldn’t have been much better with a bike.

your shoes are already wet from the puddle you had accidentally stepped into on your way out, your clothes soaked from having walked into the rain for a minutes as you hug your messenger bag close to your chest.

he’s on his way to his car when he spots you standing by the doorway, and he frowns as he notices you, soaked from the rain that pours mercilessly. he glances around, noticing the lack of anyone nearby thanks to the weather, before making his way towards you.

he stops a few steps in front of you, opening his umbrella to block the rain above both of you. "what are you doing standing out in the rain?"

“i walked to school this morning,” you look from him to the pouring rain, just a step away, “didn’t check the weather.”

he takes you in for a moment, taking in the way your clothes are sticking to you, your hair slightly damp. a small part of him found it quite adorable to see you like this.

"you’re soaked," he says, his voice firm and concerned, "you’re going to get sick like this." as if on cue, a shiver racks through your body. he notices, his expression softening as he takes a step closer, offering his free hand. “come on, i’ll drive you home.”

“oh, you really don’t have to,” you smile at him, grateful at his offer, worried about getting his car wet with your clothes, “i can just wait here until the rain stops.”

his eyes narrow slightly, taking your wrist lightly. "don’t be ridiculous," he scolds, "you’ll freeze to death if i leave you here."

you blink at him, not used to being on the receiving end of his firm tone. his concern making the corners of your lips tug up, you sighed softly, nodding, “alright, lead the way.”

a small smirk pulls at his lips as he watches you relent, giving in to his words. he steps to your side, releasing your wrist and putting a hand on the small of your back to guide you towards the parking lot.

he pulls a tissue from his pocket, unfolding it and using it to gently pat your face. you giggle softly at his attempts to dry your face, reaching one of your hands up to take the handkerchief, your fingers brushing against each other before you dry your face yourself, your other hand helping him hold the umbrella in the strong wind, hand a little lower than his on the handle.

he looks at you with a small smile as his hand rests on the umbrella’s handle, moving to cover yours. his hand is a little bigger and warmer than yours. but as he guides you further towards the parking lot, he notices you shivering again, the cold air starting to get to you.

"if you get a cold, it’s your fault." he teases slightly, pulling you closer to his side, making you stumble a little before you regain your footing.

“oh no, i won’t be able to attend your 9 am lecture on monday, whatever will i do?” you gasp dramatically, holding back a laugh as you joke around, instinctively glancing around in case anyone saw. but everyone was gone, rushing home in the midst of the downpour.

he lets out a low laugh at your dramatic response, rolling his eyes playfully at you.

"stop that," he chastises, his hand on your waist keeping you from falling. it was hard to miss the nervous looks your threw around, and he knew exactly why.

“hm?” you glance up at him as he stops in front of what you assume is his car. it’s a black mercedes, sleek and modern. you clasp your hands behind your back, tilting your head, “no idea what you’re talking about.”

he pushes open the passenger door of his car, gesturing for you to get in. he shakes his head slightly with a scoff, his gaze raking down your figure for just a moment.

“sure you don’t,” he says in a slightly teasing tone, “just get in the car, angel.”

you blush lightly at the nickname but shake your thoughts away, looking down at the leather passengers seat before looking up at him again “but i’ll get your seat wet and mess it up.”

it takes him a moment to process your words, distracted by how the flush of your cheeks makes you look even lovelier. the thought that he was able to make you blush like that because of a simple nickname makes him bite back a giddy smile.

he shakes his head. “i’ll take my chances. just get in, you’re shivering.”

you don’t move for a moment, weighing your options; get his seat a little wet, or walk in the rain. deciding the former is obviously the better choice, you thank him silently as you slip into the passenger seat, securing your seatbelt after resting your bag in your lap

he shuts the door behind you and circles the car, walking to the driver’s side. his steps are a little rushed, eager to get out of the rain and into the warmth of the car.

he gets in the car, pulling the door shut behind him before he looks over at you. you sit quietly, your head down and hands in your lap.

it’s silent for a brief moment before he speaks up. “i’m gonna need your address, you know.”

“oh, right.” you hum, leaning forward to the screen on the dashboard to type in your address. it takes some effort, your muscles mostly focused on your legs as you try not to seat my full weight in an attempt to not ruin his seat despite what he said earlier.

he says absolutely nothing, his gaze glued to the arch of your back. he swallows hard, clenching his jaw as he keeps his eyes trained on you, fighting the urge to reach a hand and touch you.

he clears his throat, “just lean back into the seat.”

before you can protest, he’s pushing down on your thigh until you’re fully seated. you give him a playful glare as you finish typing the address. it’s just over a five-minute drive, while walking in this weather would’ve taken you nearly twenty.

he looks at you with a chuckle, his hand still on your thigh, giving it a slight squeeze.

“now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he jokes, giving your thigh a tap before pulling his hand away, turning the ignition on and pulling out of the parking space.

the drive to your place is quiet except for the sound of the rain outside. he has the heat on full blast to keep you warm. every now and then he glances at you out of the corner of his eye.

the heat makes you shudder, holding your fingers up to the air to warm them up a bit.

he can’t help as his mind thinks of how cute you look, all bundled up with your bag in your lap. and the urge to touch you, god, the urge to run his fingers through your hair.

“we’re almost there, don’t worry,” he mutters as he tears his gaze away from you.

“hey, um,” you start after a few moments of silence, glancing at him, “if you want, you can come up and we could have some coffee or tea or something together. if my roommate doesn’t mind, which she probably won’t, she’s really nice so i wouldn’t worry. but you don’t have to if you don’t want to! i just, uh, wanna thank you properly… for this.”

he watches with a fond smile as you ramble, stopping at a red light. he’s about to accept the offer, tell you that he’d love to, but the realisation of your roommate being there changes things, his expression turning solemn.

“i don’t think that’s a good idea…” he mumbles, avoiding your piercing eyes.

your brows furrow ever so slightly, a frown threatening to override your features. “why not?”

he swallows, pulling over in front of the address you had typed into the gps.

“i’m your professor,” he starts, his tone firm, “it would be unprofessional if we’re caught.”

he hopes you can’t notice the way he’s gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary.

“that hasn’t stopped you so far, though,” you muse, chuckling lightly despite your confusion of his suddenly change in sentiments, trying to ease the tension.

“but don’t you think it’s a bit suspicious that we’ve been sitting together in the library every week, completely hidden away?” he mutters, “if someone saw us, someone who didn’t know, it would look bad. this could be worse.”

“i thought you liked being there with me…” his words get to you this time, actually frowning as you turn to look out the window instead of at him, noticing you were in front of your house.

shit.

he mentally berates himself upon noticing the slight change in your expression, realizing with a pang of guilt that his words bothered you, having come out the wrong way.

“oh, angel,” he starts, letting go of the steering wheel. his hand reaches for you, and before he can stop himself, it’s cradling your face.

“i do. i like being with you there,” he sighs, gently pulling your face to make you look at him, his thumb caressing your cheek. “you have no idea how much i enjoy it.”

his touch on your face feels warm, and his words even warmer as his directs you to look at him. you don’t say anything.

he’s not used to this, to you being quiet and still. he’s too used to your carefree self being full of jokes and laughter. he doesn’t like you like this, looking at him with disappointment written on your face.

“what i meant is,” he murmurs, the pad of his thumb moving across your cheek to your chin, tilting your head up so your eyes meet his, “i’m just worried about your roommate.”

“i like spending time with you, princess,” he continues, his tone firmer this time, “i like it a lot, alright?”

your frown eases at his words, nodding as you answer in a whisper, “okay.”

he lets out a small sigh of relief, his fingers tracing down from your chin to the side of your neck, and then your collarbone. he gently caresses your skin with the lightest of touch, letting the pad of his fingertip graze your skin.

he tries to ignore the voice in the back of his mind telling him to tug you across the console and kiss you. he shouldn’t.

he shakes himself out of his thoughts, pulling his hand away reluctantly. glancing out the window, he sees your place right in front of him.

“we’re here,” he murmurs, looking back at you. his gaze softens when he sees the remnants of the frown still on your face, and his hand gently reaches out to give your thigh a light squeeze.

“come on,” he says quietly, “let’s go.”

you look out the window before nodding, unbuckling and stepping out, walking to your front door as he accompanies you with an umbrella. you rummage around in your bag, trying to find the keys. groaning as you realise you were in such a rush this morning you must’ve forgotten them in the bowl where you and your roommate place your keys so you don’t lose them. with a sigh, you ring the doorbell, waiting for her to answer.

but she never comes. and that’s when you realise she had the late shift at work today. you groan, frustrated as you thump your forehead against the wooden door.

great, he thinks to himself as he watches you struggle trying to get inside. and then you turn around, with a frustrated sigh, and a thump of the door.

he can’t help but feel like the world is against him. the universe wants to punish him, to test his limits.

he bites the inside of his cheek, watching you and listening to you as you mutter about your locked door.

“i don’t have my keys, my roommate isn’t home,” you explain, kicking the door light before burying your face in your hands, your voice a little muffled, “oh, i’m so sorry, hwa.”

he stands there, watching you explain your situation, and he fights back a smile at your last sentence.

hwa*.*

he likes it when you call him that. spending three months growing closer, you’ve evidently given each other little nicknames.

he glances over at the parked car behind him, before back at you. “do you need a place to stay?” he asks, trying to keep his tone neutral again.

“i don’t wanna bother you too much,” you shake your head, running your hands over your face “please, i can just wait here for her to get back.”

he doesn’t like how you’re trying to push him away. frowning, watching you as you shake your head and run your hands over your face in defeat. he closes the distance between you, taking hold of your wrists and pulling your hand away from your face gently.

“it’s pouring,” he reminds you, “your clothes are soaking wet. and you think you can just sit here on the front porch until your roommate comes back?”

“i don’t want to inconvenience you any more,” you murmur, your hands relaxing as he pulls your wrists away from your face.

his chest tightens at your words, at how stubborn you’re being. he sighs.

“you’re not inconveniencing me,” he insists, “i’d feel better knowing you’re inside with dry clothes and a warm drink than out here soaked to the bone.”

you contemplate his offer for a moment before sighing, nodding, “okay, if you insist.”

his heart nearly skips a beat at your agreement, and it takes all his willpower not to visibly show the relief that washes over him.

he tightens his hold on your wrist for a moment, before gently guiding you back to his car. he opens the passenger door for you, waiting until you get in before he shuts the door and circles around to the driver’s side.

he starts the ignition again, the warm air blasting through the vents yet again. you hold your hands in front of the hot air again, glancing over as you hear his door open and close as he slips. “in is it a long drive?”

he lets out a scoff, looking over to you with a teasing smile. “it’s a whole two minute drive. i’ll try not to bore you too much.”

he turns back to the window, pulling out of the parking spot. the rain starts again, and the sound of it pounds against window before he turns on the wipers.

“oh dear me, i can already feel myself falling asleep,” you slump your head back and pretend to snore, back to being playful.

he turns to look at you, watching your dramatics with a fond grin. “shut up, you,” he says, reaching out to pinch your side gently.

you giggle as he pinches your side, opening your eyes again to look out the window, watching buildings and cars glide past as he drives smoothly. true to his word, just a few minutes later he’s pulling into the underground parking lot of an apartment building.

he parks in front of a spot numbered ‘407’, cutting the ignition as soon as he does.

he glances at you briefly before nodding almost to himself.

“come on,” he says with a jerk of his chin, gesturing for you to follow as he gets out of the car.

his longer strides have him walking faster than usual, and it takes him a conscious effort to slow down for you to keep up.

he presses the ‘up’ button and the elevator doors part within seconds. he steps into the elevator, holding the door open for you to enter.

it’s a silent ride up. his mind is racing, though he doesn’t show it outwardly. his hands are in his pocket, and he keeps his eyes trained on the blinking numbers signifying each floor.

the elevator dings and the doors open and he steps out without looking back to see if you’re following, striding down the hallway, making a turn to a door marked ‘407’.

he fishes for his keys in his pocket, pulling them out before unlocking and opening the door as you look around the empty hallway, your gaze lingering on the mass-produced paintings hanging on the wall that he knows can be seen on every other floor of this building.

the apartment is spacious, with plenty of open floor space for the front room. the color scheme is simple and neat, with a large armchair and a small couch that sits in front of a flat screen tv, as well as a wooden coffee table.

he steps in, taking a moment to kick his shoes off and set his stuff down. he looks over his shoulder, watching you step into the apartment as he places his umbrella in the umbrella rack and hangs up his coat.

you grimace as your shoes squelch when you step in, muttering apologies as you take them off and leave them outside of the door in the hallway instead, not wanting to mess up his flooring.

he raises an eyebrow, watching you as you leave your wet shoes in the hall. he’s about to say something when he’s interrupted by the sound of a small meow.

a ball of black fur appears at his feet, nuzzling against his ankle, and he smiles, scooping the cat into his arms without a word.

he scratches behind the cat's ears as it purrs in his arms, the sound of its soft mews filling the room. he can see a hint of confusion on your face, watching the cat with interest as he holds it, its front paws resting on his chest.

"his name is kuma," he explains, bringing the cat up to his face and letting it rub against his cheek.

you nearly melt at the sight, stepping into the house with wet socks as you coo at the cat, the front door falling shut behind you automatically. “i didn’t know you have a cat.”

he has to physically stop himself from grinning as you nearly swoon at the sight of his cat, covering up his smile with a cough. he shakes his head, lowering the cat gently to the floor. it runs over in your direction, nuzzling against your ankles much like it did to him moments ago, before disappearing down the hallway into the heart of the apartment.

"i got him a couple months back," he says, taking in the sight of your soaked clothes once more. he lets out a sigh, tilting his head toward the hall.

he glances down at your feet, eyeing your soaked socks, before looking back up to your face.

"you can shower if you'd like. I can lend you some clothes to change into," he says, pointing down the hall toward the bedroom.

“oh, yes please,” you nod, relieved that he offered instead of you having to ask.

he nods and starts down the hallway, motioning for you to follow him. as you follow, you look around. just like his car, the design of his apartment is sleek and modern, glowing in warmth as he uses a variety of floor lamps and shelf lamps to light up the interior instead of headache-inducing overhead lights. the furniture and walls are light in colour, a variety of whites and beiges.

it’s an open floor plan, the kitchen and living grouped together, separated by a counter island and some stools. the countertops of the kitchen have a glossy white finish, everything clean. a narrow hallway leads to some three doors, which you assume are his bedroom, a bathroom, and guest bedroom or office.

he stops first in front of a door, where the cat lies on the floor, tail flicking back and forth. he bends down to pet the cat briefly.

"that's the bathroom. the towels are in there. I'm just going to grab some clothes for you," he says, giving you a quick glance before striding away toward the bedroom.

your eyes follow him as he walks away, before letting out a soft yelp at the feeling of something furry wrapping around your ankle. looking down, you realise it’s kuma, giggling as you crouch down to pet him.

he returns a few moments later, taking a moment to watch as you play with his cat so nicely before clearing his throat, making you stand back up as he hands you the stack of clothes.

“feel free to use whatever you need in there,” he nods towards the bathroom door, “you can leave your clothes in the basket, i’ll put them in the laundry later.”

“thank you, hwa.” you grin at him, accepting the clothing before disappearing into the bathroom, locking the door behind you.

you shower with warm water, relaxing every muscle in your body as you wash off the rain. without any other choices, you’re left to use his shampoo. it smells of him, a deep vanilla. when you finish, you dry off and change into the clothes he brought, using your own previous undergarments as he obviously didn’t have those on hand.

the clothes are quite large on you, hanging off your body as you tighten the string of the sweatpants. you pat your hair partially dry with the towel before tossing everything in the laundry basket, stepping out to go to the living room.

only to see he wasn’t there. shrugging, you figure he’ll return soon as you flop onto the couch, kuma coming to sit with you after a moment. you sprawl out a bit as you realise just how spacious the couch is, the cat padding all over your body, playing with the drawstrings of the hoodie he gave you before curling up on your stomach.

meanwhile, he’s in the shower of his bedroom’s en-suite bathroom attempting to get himself together, both physically and mentally. the water feels amazing on his skin as it beats down on him, and he tries to relax his muscles as he lathers shampoo in his hair.

but his mind keeps going back to you, and how you’re probably already in his living room.

wearing his clothes.

he sighs, leaning his head against the shower wall as he tries to push those thoughts out of his mind. he stands there for what feels like hours, letting the hot water hit his skin before shutting off the shower and stepping out. he dries himself off, quickly drying his hair enough so that it’s not dripping all over his floor before he getting in record time, pulling on an old pair of sweats and a loose black shirt.

he takes another deep breath, opening the bathroom door as he ruffles his damp hair. he starts to make his way toward the living room, hoping that you’re just as nervous as he is.

he turns the corner and enters the living room, nearly freezing in his place at the sight of you sitting on the couch with kuma. you look good. comfortable.

by the time he makes it back, you’d be kuma are no longer sitting calmly, practically rolling around on the couch as you try to get away from the playful punches of his paws. he feels his heart flutter at the sight and the sound of your laughter.

there’s just something about seeing you getting along with his cat that makes his heart nearly skip a beat. he silently watches from the hall for a moment, just gazing at the two of you playing together before clearing his throat to make his presence known.

you look up at the sound, grinning at him stupidly. you glance at his clothes, noting that he’s wearing comfortable clothes now rather than his usual suits. “oh, hey,” you say between giggles as kuma continues to jump all over you.

his heart stutters at the sight of your grins and the sound of your giggles, at the joyful look on your face. he swallows, forcing his arms to cross over his chest to keep himself from reaching out and pulling you against him.

trying to appear nonchalant even though he’s having a hard time doing so, he walks over to the couch, standing at the end of the coffee table and looking down at you.

“seems like you’re having fun together,” he remarks with a slight nod towards kuma.

“uh huh,” you nod before squealing, covering your face as kuma’s paws swat against your cheek, attacking you, your stomach hurting from laughing.

he lets out a scoff, watching kuma pawing at you and your failed attempts to shield your face from the attacks. he can’t help but let a small smile settle on his face, his heart fluttering again at the sight of you two.

“he’s playing rough,” he comments with a smile, walking to the couch and plopping down beside you.

you crawl over to his other side, hiding your face under his arms as kuma chases, “help me, hwa.”

his heart skips a beat as you hide under his arm, ducking away from the harmless kitten. he can’t help but laugh, finding the situation both endearing and adorable.

“I think you can handle kuma, doll,” he teases, grinning down at you as you continue to use him as a human shield.

“he’s a beast,” you try to sound serious, your voice muffled against his sleeve as kuma starts attacking him instead.

“he’s not that bad,” he teases, grabbing the cat by his little body and lifting him up in front of his face, “see? look at this face. he’s not even one bit menacing.”

“that’s the face of evil!” you exclaim, sitting up and placing the back of your hand on your forehead to fall into his lap dramatically, feigning death, my body draped over his thighs faced down.

he looks down at you as you go limp against him, and he can’t help but laugh at your antics.

“don’t be so dramatic,” he grins. he lets kuma go, watching as he climbs down your combined bodies to muzzle against your cheek before moving away to curl up in his usual spot in the corner of the couch. “i think he’s gonna end up liking you more than me.”

“good,” you hum, closing your eyes and relaxing in his lap, forearm under your chin so it doesn’t dig into his legs.

he rolls his eyes jokingly, resting his hand on your back and tracing down your spine, “very funny.”

you chuckle at his response, sighing softly, content where you are. in the privacy of his home, you’re not scared of being affectionate, especially not as his hand traces down to rest against the small of your back, eliciting a faint shudder.

his heart hammers in his chest as his hand trails further down to the back of your thigh, the feeling of your plump flesh beneath the fabric, under his touch igniting something in him. he has to remind himself to breathe, trying to control the rush of blood that is steadily flowing downward.

enjoying the feeling of his hand kneading the back of your thigh, you go a little silent before turning to look up at him, a question that’s been balancing on the top of my tongue for three months finally spilling out.

“hwa… what exactly are we? what is this?” you point between the two of you as you mutter the question.

his hand freezes the second he hears it. he’s been avoiding that question since the two of your really started seeing each other every wednesday months ago, but he knows he can’t anymore. not when it’s thrown straight at his face.

he takes a deep breath, avoiding your gaze for a moment. he lets the silence sit for a few more seconds as he considers his answer, then looks down at you.

“i don’t know,” he mutters, his hand moving to rest on your waist, “i’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

“well, what is this to you then?” you ask softly, sitting up to be eye level with him, kneeling beside him.

the question sounds more demanding coming from you face to face, eye to eye, and his heart is beating fast enough that he fears you can hear it. he swallows, looking into your eyes.

“a distraction,” he mutters, his gaze flitting to your lips for a moment before going back to your eyes, preparing his next words.

but before he can continue, you visibly deflate at his answer, sitting back as i nod. a distraction. “i see,” you tear your gaze away from him, getting up, making his hand drop from you, “i’m gonna go to bed, wheres the guest room?”

he feels his heart twist at the sight of you leaving his touch, a dejected look on your face.

he’s never seen you back off so quickly before. not like this. he watches you get up and stand over him, a step too far for him to reach for you agajn, his heart tightening in his chest.

“wait, doll-“ he starts, reaching out to take your hand.

“what? you said what you said.”

“i didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, his tone firmer. he stands up from the couch, towering over you. he holds a hand out to you. “come here, please.”

“then how else could you possibly mean it,” you scoff lightly, eying his hand but not taking it.

“listen, doll,” he mutters, holding back a huff of frustration. “you can’t seriously think that I would call this a distraction,” he gestures between the two of you. “a distraction. you really think that you are just a distraction to me?”

“well is that not what you said?” you mutter, trying to prevent your lips from trembling as a lump latches itself onto your throat.

he lets out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. he reaches out and grabs your wrist, tugging you closer to him. he can feel the tension in your body, and he hates it. he hates himself for causing it.

“you didn’t let me finish. i didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, looking directly into your eyes, resting your hands in his chest. “you’re not just some random, meaningless distraction to me.”

your fingers flex slightly as he holds them up to his chest, right over his heart, “then tell me how you really feel about me if i’m not a distraction”

he looks into your eyes, holding onto your wrists firmly but gently, his thumbs rubbing against your skin, the inside of your wrists.

he’s never seen you like this before. this vulnerable and open in front of him. he can feel the tension in your body, the stiffness in your shoulders and the tightness in your jaw.

he wants to smooth out those frowning lines on your face, erase that look of uncertainty in your eyes.

“you’re more than just a distraction to me,” he mutters. “you’re an obsession. you’re all i think about, doll. i think about you constantly. i don’t know how else to describe it other than an obsession,” he continues, his voice getting softer as he speaks. “i can’t shake you. you’ve gotten in my head and you’ve been living in there rent free for months and you refuse to get out. even when i try to ignore you,” he lets out a scoff, looking into your eyes, “even when i pretend to ignore you, you’re still there. you don’t leave my mind.”

his heart races as the words spill out of his mouth, like there’s a dam bursting inside of him. the feelings that he’s been bottling up for months finally coming out, and he doesn’t want to stop, letting those words tumble out and onto you. he can see that you’re listening intently, that you’re listening intently as his grip on your wrists tightens, almost as if he’s scared that you’re going to run away from him.

“you’ve got me so distracted i can barely focus on anything that doesn’t involve you,” he admits in a low voice, glancing down at your wrists. “i can’t even teach my own goddamn class without thinking about you.”

you’re speechless, even as he finishes, staring up at him with wide dumbfounded eyes, feeling his hammering heart beneath your fingertips just as how he feels yours under his as his thumbs continue to rub the inside of your wrists.

you suppose you can always rely on a literature professor for an extravagant, dramatic confession.

he continues to hold onto you. he’s never seen you this speechless and dumbfounded before, and he’s torn between how good it feels to see you like this and how bad it things could go now that his feelings were out.

he swallows, looking down at your wrists. he can feel your pulse point under his thumb. “say something, angel,” he murmurs, a pleading tone in his voice.

instead, you pull your hands out of his grip to wrap them around his neck, pulling him down, placing your lips against his urgently, your eyes falling shut.

his heart hammers in his chest as he kisses you back, his hands gripping your waist and pulling you against him, his fingers curling into your hoodie. he wants to kiss you forever, wants to make up for all those months of holding back, but his lungs are burning from the lack of air and he’s forced to pull away to breathe.

he lets out a sigh, his forehead falling to the crown of your head. his hands stay on you, still holding you against him. he can still feel your heart racing against his chest.

“that was your idea of saying something?”

“uh huh,” you hum, chuckling softly as you thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, mind full of him. seonghwa, seonghwa, seonghwa.

he closes his eyes as he feels your fingers, enjoying the feeling of your fingertips against his scalp. he still has his arms around you, unwilling to let go yet. he leans down just enough to press a kiss to your temple, his lips brushing softly against your skin.

“but seriously,” you snicker, pulling away from him a little “i am kinda tired, wheres the guest bed?”

he almost lets out a whine when you pull away from him, opening his eyes reluctantly. he looks down at you, a frown on his face.

“you’re really gonna go sleep by yourself?” he mutters, an almost petulant tone in his voice as he quirks his brow.

“is that not what i’m supposed to do?“

“you really think i’m going to let you sleep alone after… that? come on now, you’re not that dense.”

“i know, i just wanted you to say it,” you giggle after a moment, grinning up at him as you lean down to scoop up kuma from the couch.

he lets out a scoff, rolling his eyes, but he’s unable to hide the small smile of his own. he reaches out and ruffles your hair, letting out a scoff. “you’re insufferable.”

“and you just said you’re obsessed with me,” you shrug, kissing his cheek as his hand find the small of your back, leading you don’t the hallway, “where does the kitty sleep?”

he looks down at kuma, still curled up in your arms, practically purring himself to death. “baby, he’s a cat. he’ll sleep wherever he wants.”

you snort, setting him down on a little armchair in the corner of his room, next to some bookshelves stacked with books upon books, and more books. you lean down to pet him a few more times as seonghwa watches you with a fond smile.

he watches you as he sits on the bed, his heart clenching at how good you look in his bedroom. it feels almost surreal, having you here in his home. he pats the spot next to him.

“get over here, baby.”

networks. @cromernet @cultofdionysusnet @wonderlandnet @atzhouse

permanent taglist. @ad0rechuu @sankatchu @mlink64 @yeosangsbb @seonghwasbbgirl

@likexaxdaydream @dreamingofyeo @yalyallic @yunhoswrldddd

@coffee-addict-kitten @thunderous-wolf @chngbnwf @okdudeiime

[iwanthermidnightz]

When I think back on the Speak Now album, I get a lump in my throat. I have a feeling it will always be that way, because this period of time was so vibrantly aglow with the last light of the setting sun of my childhood. I made this album, completely self-written, between the ages of 18 and 20. I've spoken about how I feel like those ages are the most emotionally turbulent ones in a persons life. Maybe when I say that, I'm really just talking about myself.

I think they might just be the most idealistic, hopeful years too. At this point in my life, I had released my second album, Fearless. It became the breakthrough moment I'd always dreamt of, one that catapulted my career to new realms of success. It had brought with it a tidal wave of pressures and pitfalls and growing pains. All the while, I was encountering the milestones and checkpoints of normal teenage growth. I had cataclysmic crushes and brushes with heartache. I moved out of my parents' house and set my bags down in a new apartment. I hung photos on my own walls and decorated the space where I would sob and cackle and shatter and dream. Sometimes I felt like a grown up, but a lot of the time I just wanted to time travel back to my childhood bed, where my mom would read stories to me until I fell asleep.

In my darker moments, I was tormented by the doubt that swirled loudly around my ascent and my merits as an artist. I was trying to create a follow up to the most awarded country album in history, while staring directly into the face of intense criticism. I had been widely and publicly slammed for my singing voice and was first encountering the infuriating question that is unfortunately still lobbed at me to this day: does she really write her songs? Spoiler alert: I really, really do.

In the years since, I've developed a thicker skin about public criticism and the cynicism with which some people approach the music I make. At that time, it leveled me. I had these voices in my head telling me that I had the perfect chance and I blew it. I hadn’t been good enough. I had given it all I had and been found wanting.

I wanted to get better, to challenge myself, and to build on my skills as a writer, an artist, and a performer. I didn't want to just be handed respect and acceptance in my field. I wanted to earn it. To try and confront these demons, I underwent extensive vocal training and made a decision that would completely define this album: I decided I would write it entirely on my own. I figured, they couldn't give all the credit to my cowriters if there weren't any. But that posed a new challenge: It really had to be good. If it wasn't, I would be proving my critics right.

I had no idea how much this pain would shape me. That this was the beginning of my series of creative choices made by reacting to setbacks with defiance. That my stubbornness in the face of doubters and dissenters would become my coping mechanism through my entire career from that point forward. This exact pattern of enacting my own form of rebellion when I feel broken is exactly why you're reading these very words, and I'm re-releasing this album now.

I went through my first worldwide scandal (the mic grab seen around the world). I experienced the weirdness of trying to get to know a boy while a swarm of paparazzi surrounds the car. Media contacting my publicist for an official statement on why two teenagers broke up. These are weird experiences to have at any age, but even more surreal when you're 19.

I had the nagging sense that in the most intense moments of my life, I had frozen. I had said nothing publicly. I still don't know if it was out of instinct, not wanting to seem impolite, or just overwhelming fear. But I made sure to say it all in these songs. I decided to call the album Speak Now. It was a play on the speak now or forever hold your peace' moment in weddings, but for me it symbolized a chance to respond to the chatter and commentary around my own life.

Some of these emotional revelations were surprising to people. Some expected anger and instead got compassion and empathy with 'Innocent'. Some expected a kiss-off breakup song but instead got a hand-on-heart apology, 'Back to December. It was an album that was the most precious to me because of its vast extremes. It was unfiltered and potent. In my mind, the saddest song I've ever written is 'Last Kiss'. My most scathing is 'Dear John' and my most wistfully romantic is 'Enchanted'.

I'll be forever proud of setting a goal and seeing it through. I'lI always feel shivers all over when I remember singing 'Long Live' to close the show every night on tour. The outstretched hands of those bright and beautiful faces of the fans. Their support was like an open palm that reached out and helped me up off the ground when others were, frankly, mean.

These days I make my choices for those people, the ones who thought I had been good enough all along. I try to speak my mind when I feel strongly, in the moment I feel it. I'm still idealistic and earnest about the music I make, but I'm less crushed when people mock me for it. I know now that one of the bravest things a person can do is create something with unblinking sincerity, to put it all on the line. I still sometimes wish I was a little kid again in a tiny bed, before I ever grew up.

I always looked at this album as my album, and the lump in my throat expands to a quivering voice as I say this. Thanks to you, dear reader, it finally will be.

I consider this music to be, along with your faith in me, the best thing that's ever been mine.

Yours,

Taylor

[needfantasticstories]

“Many places I have been

Many sorrows I have seen

But I don't regret

Nor will I forget

All who took that road with me”

-The Last Goodbye by Billy Boyd

This is an Adjuration by @not-freyja, after 86 chapters, 300k words, and 10 months of joy, laughter, tears, heartbreak and love, has finally reached its end. 

Adjuration is a tragedy that is nothing short of an act of love. That much is clear in the passion and dedication put towards the story, the characters, and the message Freyja is trying to convey. This fic will teach you about love. About death. About the inevitability of existence and why despite knowing it will all come to an end, there is still meaning in trying and hoping and loving each other. In loving yourself. You will laugh, you will cry, you will hope and you will despair as you read this story, but you will not be able to put it down.

It’s hard to say goodbye to something that has been so important to and loved by so many people. So we won’t. Instead, we will say thank you for this incredible journey and the community this fic has built. For the friendships that have been made and the endless inspiration you have given us. Thank you for wanting to tell a story, and for letting us join you around the campfire to listen.

Thank you.

(If you like Linked Universe and haven’t yet read Adjuration, see below for spoiler free reviews of this fic and artist credits.)

This is an Adjuration is the kind of story you fall in love with, the kind of story you think keep thinking about long after you put it down. The kind you keep finding hidden details in after you think you’ve got it figured out. 

The characters are distinct and people with their own voices, motivations, relationships and histories. You’ll have your favourites but love them all. They influence how you’ll see the characters in everything else. 

It’s full of moments where everything clicks and everything before is recontextualised in a way that’s so satisfying and make the whole story very re-readable. A time travel story where all loops are already closed, where you can know but not yet understand what will happen. It’s long, complex, and beautifully, meticulously planned and detailed. It’s clever and considered, funny and heartbreaking. 

A story that whispers ‘it matters’ over and over. It is worth it to love, it is worth it if it doesn’t last forever, it is worth it to give someone a little more time, it is worth it to fight. It’s about loving others and your world and finding grace for yourself. 

It’s loss and tragedy and the cruelness of fate. It is the sacrifice and the breaking. 

Full of heart to both fill yours and break it in the best possible way. 

It’s about love. Always.

By @toyouhellohowareyou

Sometimes, it’s hard to explain to others why art moves us.

I could tell you This is an Adjuration will make you cry, laugh, and sit at the edge of your seat in anticipation. And it’s probably true - I did all of that as I read, often with a coffee in one hand, early in the morning as I got ready for the day. 

But that’s not the reason why I’m writing this.

The real reason is how it followed me during the rest of the day.

You see, at a certain point I realized this isn’t a story about Links going on adventures. Well, it does feature Links, and they do go on adventures, so let’s talk about that for a minute.

The first thing that caught my attention about this book was the characters. Each individual is unique, interesting, and exciting to follow. Not only are the Links individually compelling, but one thing that stands out in Adjuration is how the relationship between each Hero and their own worlds matter, and these connections shift, evolve, break and grow as the plot progresses.

Freyja does an incredible job of bringing together impactful storytelling with humor and heart. This is an Adjuration starts with an interesting premise, and then twists and turns in directions you wouldn’t expect. It’s rich in thought-provoking moments, soft joy and intense action, blended in with carefully crafted time travel and magic.

Adjuration sucked me into the world it builds, combining believable characters with fascinating stories, an unnervingly devious antagonist, plot twists, and lovingly crafted details that slip unnoticed until you’re surrounded on all sides. It made me cheer for characters I feel as if I’ve known intimately for years, made me worry for their safety as I would for that of a loved one, kept me hunting for hints and hidden references, pulling on a thread to try to find the end only for it to twist and loop into itself and show me a completely new side to the story.

Yes, This is an Adjuration is a fanfiction piece that explores the winding river flow of the Legend of Zelda timeline and how the stories of each Hero merge into each other. It also stands out for its heavy emotional content, and it doesn’t shy away from angst and hurt.

But to me, Adjuration is an epic journey that taught me how the choices we make, make us in turn. It’s a tragedy that deals with pain and healing, and it bares naked the non-linear nature of grief. It’s a celebration of the things that make us unique, of our flaws, an essay of the impact of little acts of love. Indeed, it’s a story about love.

I can tell you now, This is an Adjuration moved me. It still does. It has a special way to surface in my mind in unexpected ways at seemingly random times, from something as simple as tossing an apple core, to watching a lightning storm in the distance, or finding a picture of an old friend.

And every time, without fail, it makes me think about love.

By @sunny-porridge

This is an Adjuration is a wonderfully and beautifully crafted story about love, loss, and choice as the various incarnations of Link come together and travel through time. Freyja seamlessly weaves a tapestry of setup and payoff across different timelines and loops, in the best-constructed time travel plot I’ve ever seen on page or screen. Even at its surface, Adjuration is an emotional rollercoaster involving tragedy and the soft moments that make that tragedy worth it. But the deeper you look, the more meaning you can pull from every chapter of this amazing work. This work has made me cry, squeal with delight, and think more deeply about its themes all while having an absolute blast reading it. So in summary: READ IT. READ IT. READ IT NOW. YOU WILL NOT REGRET IT.

By @life-in-winter

While I love that every chapter is emotionally enthralling, with carefully woven, visceral tension you crave in any good story, yet Adjuration is more than that, and you feel it in the careful weave of each character and plot point. Nothing is lost or unanswered. It's the kind of story that, by the end, makes you stop and take a hard look at your own life. Are you appreciating the now? Are you savoring joy? Are you so wrapped up in fear that you can hardly take care of yourself? Do you know who you are?

This story is more like an external experience. It's riding atop a tsunami. How do you handle that ride, Link?

There aren't enough words to describe how amazing this fic is.

@needfantasticstories

Artist credit

Legend: @gia-d

Hyrule: @bittirsweeteer

Time: @toonblade

Sky: @noorahqar

Warriors: @whitewinterstar

Wild: @weavingstarlight

Twilight: @bluury2

Wind: @thewitchdoctor39

Four: @lunaopus

Red: @peepthatbish

Blue: @glowingmin

Green: @winterfen

Vio: @waterfallstream

Shadow: @deleetrix

Wolfie: @linkiscool333

Fierce Deity: @awildsilver

Ravio: @lele5429

Malon: @tooner-tastic

Dink: @passerinesoncaffeine