#every single one of you are worthy of love

[shahddohan22]

We Haven't Known Joy Yet..."😔💔

My name is Shahd, a girl from Rafah, a city that has tasted war and pain since the day I was born. Near the Philadelphi Corridor, life was simple yet filled with love. I dreamed of finishing my university studies, finding a job that would make me proud, and building a happy family with the one I love.🥹

I married Badr, the love of my life. He’s a pharmacist who owned a small pharmacy where he spent hours helping others and easing their pain. Our wedding was modest—no grand celebrations, just love binding us together and hopes for a brighter future.💔💔

But war does not let dreams flourish. Just days after our wedding, an order came: "Evacuate immediately!" We left everything behind—our memories, our hard work, our home. Then came the airstrikes. Our house was destroyed, along with Badr’s pharmacy, where he worked tirelessly, and even my university, where I had spent years pursuing my education, was turned to rubble.😭🇵🇸🍉

We’ve moved from place to place, city to city, fleeing the death that seems to chase us. Now, we live in a tent in Khan Younis. A small tent that barely shelters us from the cold and rain. Badr tries to stay strong, but I see him every night staring into the void, as if asking himself, "Why did all of this happen?"💔

We’re living in unbearable conditions. Food is scarce, water barely sufficient, and my dream of motherhood is on hold because we don’t even have enough to sustain ourselves. We haven’t had the chance to celebrate our marriage or feel a single day of happiness.

Today, I’m reaching out to you, with a heart weighed down by pain, to ask for your help. We need everything: food, water, medicine, and clothing. We need a chance to rebuild, to dream again, to live a life worthy of our humanity.

Every donation, no matter how small, can make a huge difference in our lives. Every share of our story could reach someone with the ability to help. You are the only hope we have after God.😭🙏🏼🙏🏼💔

Please help us build a new life in the midst of this darkness.

🔗By donating to me on my link or sharing my campaign 😭🇵🇸🍉

The campaign has been checked by @90-ghost

[fisshbones]

Gifts that Obey Me! Characters would get you!

Warnings: not proofread, fluff, lingerie mentioned in Asmo’s (but nothing sexual happens.) Some may be longer than others. Pairings: Mammon, Asmodeus, Belphegor, Thirteen (romantic.) Luke (platonic.) This is written with christmas in mind but no holidays specified.

Note: Does Thirteen not have any Christmas cards??? I couldn’t find any 😔 2nd Note: I plan on doing the rest of the characters but they may come out after after Christmas/end of Yule. I’ll try to release them sooner though!

Mammon:

First and foremost, this man goes all out on gifts for any and every holiday for you. Anything that reminds him of you, things he knows you collect, random obscure artifacts that was probably supposed to be in a museum. Ya’ know just the basics! If there’s one thing I can guarantee that you won’t get for the holidays is a decent wrap job. This man cannot wrap for shit, truth be told it looks like a 5 year old did it… But it’s the thought that counts!

Asmodeus:

Mostly fashion and skincare/beauty. Asmo has your hair and skin type memorized. All the issues you may have beauty/health wise, including allergies. He takes this all into account when deciding what to get you! He compares ingredients, reviews, etc. Asmodeus only wants the best for your health. Also only buys from the most trusted brands. Another thing he likes to buy you is clothes, especially lingerie. If he can’t find clothes that fit your style, size, are favorite fabrics; he’ll just make you a couple of pieces. One of a kind. ♡ Unlike some of his brothers his wrapping skills are on point. He even ties bows on every present, they’re all picture worthy.

Belphegor:

I’m not gonna lie he was definitely too lazy to wrap your gift. So either he just hands it straight to you or had one of his brothers pick up a gift bag for the gift. Belphegor is likely to give you something soft. Sometimes that means blankets, comfy clothes, or a plushie that he definitely didn’t tease you for. This man knows what a soft fabric is too. Whatever he gifts you is gonna be soft as heck or as fluffy as a cloud. Every single thing he buys you is probably gonna be used when you guys cuddle so might as well make it comfortable for him too.

Luke:

Baked goods is his go to. We all know Luke (probably) makes delicious baked goods. He has not so sneakily written down some notes on what your favorite flavour is. Totally had Simeon and/or the other angels help with making the perfect treat for you. You can tell every dessert is hand made with love. (i could go for some chocolate rn.) All of the treats are in cute little boxes or baskets. There’s sometimes also a little card that he made himself saying happy holidays on it. Once he sent a picture with him and Simeon in it.

Thirteen:

Poor Thirteen, busy as ever. Holidays tend to be very busy days for reapers, as many tend to get hurt while celebrating. So she tries to make at least a couple of hours of space for you two to celebrate. If Thirteen is unable to free her schedule completely she’ll gift you a big box of chocolates the day of. (She also definitely steals a lot of your caramel chocolates.) Then on one of the following days she’ll make up her lack of time on a cute little date night between you guys. I can see her taking y’all to an arcade for the date, only to get super competitive when playing against you.

If you enjoyed please like, reblog, and/or reply!

fisshbones©2024 do not repost or translate.

[highlordofkrypton]

This is the story of Lucien Vanserra, as told in his own words, of his journey through his immortal life. Lucien recounts how he, a vampire, fell in love with the radiant and innocent Tamlin and how he destroyed both of their lives.

Finally, the time has come for your main gift @yaralulu for this year's @acotargiftexchange. This is the first of five chapters, so I hope you are seated and ready for bloody and toxic yaoi! Special shoutout to @olenvasynyt in this chapter, hope you like it and thank you for the inspiration!

TAGS: Explicit (oh yes, there will be smut), Lucien Vanserra/Tamlin, Alternate Universe - Vampire. More tags to be added along with new chapters.

READ ON AO3 OR UNDER THE CUT.

Vampires aren’t real.

If they were, surely the world would know about them by now? Science has advanced far too much, along with surveillance and weaponry. There’s no way that a vampire could get away—

No, they could.

The nights are more active with workers and party goers alike keeping the streets alive. People go missing all the time, and the understanding of disease and unique conditions could easily explain away the symptoms of vampirism. Fear of the sun? No, an allergy—skin sensitivity. Sunglasses? It’s nothing more than the consequences of a hangover. Nesta has seen it all, and she unravelled every single thread with plausible explanation and proof. If this one doesn’t work out, then she’ll know: vampires aren’t real.

Her manicured fingers trace the winding banister, up to a plain apartment. She would have imagined something much more wondrous and lavish for someone with the means to live forever, thus accumulating limitless wealth. Instead, he lives among the people, blending in with what would be his next meal. I could be next, she remarks, made of flesh and blood just like his neighbours. Is this worth it?

Curiosity is an insatiable hunger, and poverty deepens it. This could be the discovery of the century, and it would have her name on it. Nesta Archeron would carry her surname out of disgrace and finish her father’s work—the work that had him branded as a madman. People are much kinder to her, likening her interest as esoteric. It works in her favour that witchcraft and astrology are becoming more and more on trend. But she doesn’t want to be a trend. Her hunger lies in the truth, no matter how painful and terrifying. Her work is Putlizer worthy, she just needs the right subject.

Her knuckles rap at the door, just below the metal plaque written ‘406’.

Nesta had met the breathtaking stranger at the bar, drinking her woes away. Another opportunity slipped through her fingers in favour of lesser, more amenable male colleagues. Her mouth is too sharp, and her brain too smart. Maybe journalism isn’t for me, she’d lamented into a glass of whiskey, and at that very moment, he’d slid into the stool beside her. Her lips parted to reject him, but they hung there in muted surprise as she stared. He was beautiful, except beautiful didn’t cut it. He was breathtaking, so much that she could not find the words to express the depth of his handsomeness. Not quite pale, his pristine skin carried an olive undertone which she was sure would ripen nicely under the kiss of the sun, if he cared to venture out into it. His eyes—one amber, and the other pure gold—glinted in the darkness, as if stealing the light in the very room. There wasn’t enough light to make them glow like that, but that made him all the more entrancing. His long auburn hair was tied into a loose bun, strands artfully placed around his face to frame his high cheekbones and sharp jaw. He was so beautiful that she could not doubt that he was something more.

They got to talking, and he made her laugh in ways that were not obnoxious or at her expense. His flirtations were smooth and subtle, but not so much that she did not notice. His words were like the undertones of sweet maple in her drink—present, but not overwhelming and yet, it marks the difference between a good whiskey and everything else.

“I have your story,” he said so easily, as if changing lives were something he simply did at the drop of a hat. “Do you believe in vampires, Nesta?” He slipped a card into her pocket, and she had run her fingers over the gold printed address over and over again before finding herself here. 

The door swings open, and there he stands, nearly a foot above her in all his ethereal glory. His red hair had been let loose to fall across his shoulders like soft silk. She yearns to reach out and touch, her curiosity running wild in his presence. Instead, she tightens her grip on her purse and tips her chin up in defiance of the nerves bubbling inside her.

“You’re here.” The velvet of his voice sends shivers down her spine, and the delicate smile makes her weak. Does he know its power? He has to. His confidence is unmistakable. “Come in, Nesta.”

The apartment is modest, to say the least. It is the antithesis of its inhabitant who naturally commands a crowded room. Here, in the plainness of the room, he is the only thing that matters and it makes her painfully aware of him and his every movement.

He takes her coat, but she keeps her purse, and guides her to the small living room. He sweeps his slender hand towards the single seat while he takes the couch across from her. His arm rests along its back, extended and possessive, and he crosses his long legs. Although he’s the one being interviewed, his gaze weighs on her. It dissects her, and his thoughts are unreadable. He is nothing more than pleasant, patient and willing.

Nesta quickly takes out her things, as if not to waste his time—as if he didn’t have plenty of it. Her recorder is placed between them on a cheap ikea coffee table of pressed wood; she prefers it over using her phone, too easily distracted by the pop of notifications if she were to leave it out within view. In her lap, she keeps a notebook and a pen to jot down any questions that float to mind so as to avoid interrupting him.

“Are you ready?” He asks her. “Do you have enough battery on that?” His eyes flicker down to the recorder.

“I have my phone if ever,” Nesta explains. A small part of her thinks this is some kind of prank, and that she came all this way for nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time I went home with a man and ended up disappointed. What do I have to lose?

She sits back into the chair. “You were saying vampires were real?”

“I’m not just saying. They are real.”

Nesta smiles, and chuckles softly. “You’ll have to excuse me if I seem… incredulous. In my line of work, people make bold claims all the time and they rarely have the proof to back it up.”

If her resistance bothers him, he doesn’t show it. He is nothing more but comfortable. He watches her for a long moment, smiling again. His lips spread to bare his teeth, and the smile widens and widens to reveal two pointed fangs in place of his canine teeth. Before Nesta can argue about the use of false teeth, his eyes light up, and he speaks a single command: “Undress.”

Oh, yes, she would like that. She would like nothing more than to please the man before her. Nesta looks down, fingers darting to the buttons down the centre of her shirt. She frees the topmost one, then moves to the second one.

“Enough.”

Nesta blinks, her attention still pointed downwards to her blouse. A small gasp escapes her as she looks to Lucien in horror, and though his display had been innocuous, the realization that she is not safe prevails. He could hurt her, and she would be willing.

“I won’t harm you, Nesta. I just needed to show you that the things I can do… they are beyond human ability.” He keeps that pleasant smile on his face.

“Why me?”

“Because I want to tell my story. I have lived a long life, and to think that one day, it could fade to nothing,” he turns his head, glancing out the window, thoughtful. “It was not a good life, and I thought to confess to a priest, but I do not care for God’s forgiveness. Perhaps by helping you, I can atone for what I have done.”

Fear simmers beneath her curiosity, but Nesta won’t leave. She wants to know, she needs to know what could haunt someone like him? The terror he brings makes him even more attractive, and Nesta loathes herself for that thought. She nods. “Go on.”

“My name is Lucien Vanserra and I am a vampire, like my brothers and my father before me. I can no longer remember when I was born, or how I became the way I am, but what I remember is the first time I felt alive.” As he speaks, he looks beyond her, to a distant past she will soon be privy to. “And the day I died.”

Vampires don’t die… do they? Nesta isn’t sure what he means, whether he’s hinting at the way he was turned, or something metaphorical. Regardless, she knows exactly what her hook is going to be.

“My early life is nothing more than a haze, walking through this world as something more than human, but less than…” His pink lips purse, looking for the words. “Less than,” he simply decides, and Nesta simply understands. Sometimes, there are no words for that feeling, but only someone who has experienced it will understand. 

“You see, my father is very old and controls most of the world’s… interests. He has worked very hard to build an empire. My six brothers and I were his tools to achieve that.”

Were? These brothers, are they biological?

Nesta knows better than to interrupt a story. She jots her question down, and leaves it for later in case it’s answered later in their evening together. He pauses to give her time to write, and when she lifts her gaze, her breath catches yet again. The weight of his full attention is something. It brings heat to her cheeks, and she glances away, as if to wordlessly ask him to do the same.

Lucien glances away, lightly resting his chin on his knuckles. “His will was all that mattered. He would starve us, make us fight each other for scraps.” He looks back at Nesta before she queues another question. “Of human meat. We’d have to try and draw blood out of it.” Again, he turns his head and finds that distant point to stare at. “It was more of the same. Pain. Hunger. Hate. It all blends together after a couple of centuries. I can’t imagine what it is like for my father. Thousands of years,” he says breathlessly, shaking his head. “And so stagnant.”

“He’s still alive?” The surprise draws the question out of her before she can help it, but Nesta is rarely apologetic, even for the most honest of mishaps.

A purse of the lips is all his father is worth it seems. So little emotions have poured from this man before her; perhaps that’s her responsibility then. Not only to tell his story, but to feel it on his behalf. His life is more than words on a page; she’ll make sure to do it justice, to give it the second chance he so clearly yearns for.

“I would say so. My father has a way of… surviving even the worst odds. Or perhaps my eldest brother has finally dealt with him.” The corner of Lucien’s lips twitch, mild annoyance rearing its head. “I find it strange how humans are the one who show more grace than any of the gods you all worship so.”

“She was my first, a peasant woman in some distant countryside. The details of the place have long faded, but I remember her face, clear as day. The most beautiful human I had ever seen.” Lucien looks at Nesta when he speaks the next words. “At the time.”

“My father had tired of me and my weak heart. You see, out of my six brothers, I fancied his methods the least. Humans are… not cattle to me. They’re small, and weak, yes, but what they excel at is beyond the physical.” He lifts his index finger, tapping over his heart. “It’s here. With every beat. Jesminda embodied that with her every breath. She was better than all of us put together.”

“But that… comes later. I tend to digress when it comes to her.”

The corners of his lips twitch again, and this time, Nesta thinks it's the ghost of a smile come to haunt his melancholy.

“I was starving, and for my kind, hunger is madness. I lunged at her. I was going to drink her dry. I didn’t want to, but there is nothing that can stop us when we are… like that. Or perhaps I am simply a weaker creature. I don’t know how she knew, and she only ever told me that I looked desperate, not evil. She offered me her wrist to drink. I don’t remember letting go, but we both survived the encounter.”

Lucien leans forward, holding his hands out for Nesta’s notebook and pen. She hands them to him without complaint. He begins to draw.

“I loved her, and it was my first time experiencing such a feeling. You cannot truly understand love until you have been truly devoid of it. Anything else is fascination. Affection. Complacency. It was like seeing the sun for the first time and realizing that it does not burn me. It was a drink that could sustain me for the rest of eternity, even in the smallest doses. She was my heart, and every memory of her is a beat in our song.”

He finishes the sketch, handing the notebook back to her. Jesminda is beautiful —a match to his ethereal beauty. Nesta traces her fingers over the lines drawn, etching clearly defining her darker skin tone and long dark hair. Her irises are left clear, likely a pale colour. Are they as sharp as Lucien’s? No, Nesta doubts it. Jesminda has a warmth to her, even in a simple quick portrait drawn by the only soul left to remember her. Was she a vampire, too? Did she choose to stay by his side as long as she could?

“I didn’t have a chance to turn her,” Lucien supplies, and that leaves Nesta even more in awe. 

A human as beautiful as a vampire. A human who’s kindness cleared the haze of Lucien’s meaningless existence. Nesta is careful not to smudge the ink, still tracing her outline as if she could learn more from Jesminda herself. She wants to know what she saw in Lucien, but that is a mystery lost in time, isn’t it?

“I wanted to, believe me, but my father rather enjoys inflicting pain. I do not think he found greater joy than tearing my heart right out of my chest and making me watch.”

Lucien goes quiet for a long, long moment. When he goes still, it’s unsettling. There is nothing natural to it. He might very well be made of marble. 

“I’m so—”

“Save your breath. You’ll see, I’m not worth your pity. Looking back, I think he did us a favour.” He shifts again, peppering in the smallest mannerism tied to humanity. “The story isn’t about her because I don’t think Jesminda would want anything to do with the thing I’ve become. No,” he says to himself. “She’d grieve, I would think. Hm. Yes. She saw something in me that was worth believing in, and my father killed it along with her.”

“I promised a story about a vampire, and you will soon see that the only thing we share in common with you is this mortal plane, and our features. The rest…” Lucien huffs, amused. “Is a fantasy you’ve all made up to cope with the existence of the devils walking among you.”

“I have an amendment to make,” Lucien says, suddenly.

“Oh?” Nesta asks softly, invested in where this is going.

“This more than the story of how I lived, and how I died. This is the story of how I became my father, and it all begins with him. Tamlin. My love, my mate and my greatest sin.”

[sanhwaism]

i just read MEET UP FOR A COFFEE AND A SMILE and AAAA ITS SO GOOD !!! can i 🤭 mayhaps request san x gn!reader who feels rlly bad about their body or just has confidence/low self esteem issues and san does his best to listen whilst also reassuring his partner that they’re a beautiful person?

thank you so much 💌 i love your writing !!

한슴 (BREATHE) | C.S

pairing ⟡ bf .ᐟ choi san x gn .ᐟ reader

synopsis ⟡ feeling down because of so many insecurities, all you want is to be swallowed by a black hole and never perceived again. slowly, but surely you understand that you don't have to deal with these worries alone, but instead let your lover prove to you how worthy of love you are.

genre ⟡ established relationship, hurt/comfort, romance, a sprinkle of angst??? at the beginning, fluff!

warnings ⟡ reader is emotionally struggling; a bit of self hatred and some venting; mentions of a lost appetite and san touching body parts (arms, stomach, legs, etc); pet names; tears inducing! (idk about you but i! sobbed! writing this!)

wc ⟡ 2.8k

author's note ⟡ my first ever request :,) and it's so comforting :,) thank you so much for motivating me to write this one shot @megumisthv sobs ㅠㅠ it means the world to me knowing you love my writing <3 anyone reading this, a gentle reminder that you are not alone and are so beautiful inside and out. i love you.

"jagiyaaaaaa, i'm home!" you barely hear the familiar, comforting voice of your boyfriend coming from the hallway. in a panicked state, you try to wipe away the tears as quickly as you can and get yourself up off the floor. your legs are slightly trembling and your hearing feels muffled. you can't recall for how long you have been crying all by yourself, engulfed by the darkness and coldness of the bedroom. bedroom that you and san share, and which feels warm only when he is around, when he paints the four walls with his delightful laughter, his heavenly voice or just his pure presence, when you're safe and sound in his embrace. there are no worries, no bad thoughts or terrible, terrible inner voices that mess up with your mind.

but it can get suffocating when you're alone, it's so much more difficult to tell yourself all the heartening words he can say to you when things get rough, when you start forgetting your worth. when overthinking makes it harder for you to breathe or look at yourself.

there are moments like this evening, when you can't stop asking yourself what does he see? what could san possibly have found in you that made him fall in love and what can san still see in you that doesn't make him want to leave? you can't wrap your head around it. all you see when you look in the mirror is someone with so many imperfections that it's hard to believe you are even lovable in the first place. worthy of his love. you wish you could radiate confidence next to him, but how is that possible when you feel like your thoughts swallow you whole? making you feel so insignificant?

it breaks your heart. and it evokes such sadness and disappointment inside you. because you understand that there isn't much you can change. that you may, unrightfully so, bring san's mood down and make him feel guilty. you love him so dearly — that's why you're so afraid of losing him.

there are moments like this evening, when all you do is cry your heart out because he's not around, all curled up in a ball while tightly hugging your knees, your flushed face hidden between them. but no matter what, you don't feel better. not even after the hours that had passed by.

"waaaah, baby, baby, i saw a new shop on my way home and it has soooooo many cute things," he squeals. ''i couldn't get inside because i was rushing to see you but i spotted a plushie that looked just like byeol! ah, really, we should go there together!" you hear his excited chattering while he takes off his coat and sneakers. in the bedroom, you try your best to look like you're in a deep sleep, your tears clothed eyelashes softly touching the skin of your under eyes.

and there are moments like this evening, when you can suddenly feel yourself being pulled away from your corrupted, self destructive bubble by a gentle touch that saved you so many times before, in the past.

"y/n? aegiya? hey, hey, hey, what's the matter? honey, what's wrong? why are you crying?"

at first, san innocently thought you just fell asleep while waiting for him and he was ready to close the bedroom's door, but he missed you too much and wanted to take a look at his lover before leaving. to delicately trace the line of your cheekbone with his fingertips, to stare at the way you look so peaceful and beautiful while sleeping with hearts in his eyes. it's what he does every time, but this time something was off. you couldn't fool him, not when it comes to your truthful feelings.

in a desperate way of needing to protect you, san swiftly changes his position, from crouching besides the bed to sitting at the edge of it, leaning towards you. he is panicking internally, but he wants to help and showing you this side of him right now won't do. for how long have you been crying? for how long has his precious lover been hurting themselves?

his heart feels crushed by the way you sob his name out and hide your face in the soft pillow. "sannie... i am sorry. i am so sorry."

"shh, it's alright. i am here, baby, i've got you. whatever it is, i am here," he reassures you in a hushed tone. "don't hide from me, beautiful, look at me. please, y/n."

san's voice sounds wretched and a bit shaky, as if it's hard for him to control his emotions. a big weight is taken off his shoulders the moment you decide to turn around and gaze up at him, all teary eyed, looking so exhausted. mentally and physically exhausted. even if there is so much unspoken worry in his eyes, his unforeseen smile takes you by surprise, but warms your heart and makes you forget about everything for a split second. it's a genuine, soft and loving smile, the familiar curl of his lips whenever he's encouraging you about something.

"can i hug you, my love?"

the whispered question makes you choke up. until this exact moment, you had no idea how badly you yearned for san to wrap his hands around you, to push away all those bad thoughts for you because you can't bear doing it all by yourself anymore. so you nod your head and reach out to him, his fingers gently interlocking with yours to pull you in a tender embrace. he lets out a long sigh, one of his arms wrapping tightly around your waist whilst his other arm hugs your shoulders, offering them a small squeeze as if he's trying to comfort you. in this vulnerable position, you feel him beginning to slowly rock both of your bodies from side to side because he knows it calms you down. after a long minute, his sweet voice lights up the room.

"what happened, jagi? do you want to tell me?"

you sniffle as silently as you can, rubbing your cheek against his broad shoulder while you try to find the right words to speak up. you hear a soft ''take your time'' coming from san's lips that soothes your hazy mind, his hand finding the perfect spot to caress the top of your head.

"do you love me, sannie? like, really love me? for who i am?" you shyly ask him. it's such a stupid question, you think while wiping away with your thumb a hot tear that just rolled down your cheek.

san is taken aback by your questions, but he immediately pushes that aside, knowing it's human for everyone to have their doubtful and insecure days. he promptly answers you. "i love you for who you are to the moon and back, y/n. i love you 3000, i loved you yesterday, i love you today and will surely, definitely, more than one hundred percent love you tomorrow. aaaand the day after tomorrow, beautiful."

he lowers his head so he can leave a light kiss behind your ear and continues to whisper to you. "and so on. for the rest of my life. i love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest."

not only your body, but your dark thoughts as well seem to melt away the more san comforts you, the more he envelops you in his adoration.

you slowly rise your head and meet a pair of cat-like eyes fondly looking back at you. san softly hums as he leans in and kisses your forehead, the intimate gesture compelling you to close your eyes in content.

"i just... gosh, i hate the way i look, the way i act, i think, i speak, i hate it all," you let out what has been eating you inside. you sigh as you feel his lips turn into a pout against the skin of your forehead. "i'm sorry, i shouldn't sadden you even mo–"

"ah, how dare you apologize for such thing, aegiya?" he gently scolds you, but his frowning quickly fades away once he understands the gravity of the situation. "when i say that i love you, i mean it especially in moments like these. even if my heart hurts to see you this sad and all i want to do is keep you in there, protected from everything, i do want to witness every part of you. no matter how awful you think it is. i am not leaving, y/n. i am willing to love you through all of your ups and downs."

the wicked voice in the back of your head tells you to deny his confession, but san feels your uncertainty and slowly raises his hands, cupping your face as you feel the warmth of his palms against your cheeks. you inhale deeply, — an attempt to stop another wave of tears.

"hey. can you do something for me baby?" he quietly asks you, with hope written all over his face. the second you agree with him, your boyfriend breaks into his well known dimpled smile. "thank you. here, hold my hand as tight as you want, okay?"

you listen to him and grab his hand, san bringing yours close to his mouth and kissing the back of it affectionately. he helps you get up.

"follow me."

"where are we going?" you ask, a bit anxious and san can sense it from the way you've tightened your grip on his hand.

"don't worry, we aren't leaving the bedroom. come on, come on!" he cutely giggles, gently shaking your hand.

without any more questions, you walk behind him until both of you are facing the long mirror on the wall. you can't help but frown, visibly confused as san makes you stay in front of him, your back facing his front.

"give me a few more minutes of your time, my love. i promise it will be worth it."

you can't help but softly smile at him. "san, you know i would give you my every second for the rest of my life if needed."

he dramatically clutches his heart, shutting his eyes tight while his head falls back. "aing! wah! ouch, baby, my heart!"

his playful reaction sparked an amused chuckle out of you. your lover smiles, clearly very proud of himself for making you laugh a bit. and very proud of you for allowing yourself to feel better.

"do you have the slightest idea how brightly you radiate when you smile? when you look at me with those pretty, sparkly eyes of yours? do you have any idea how lucky i am, mm?"

you instinctively bite your lower lip, looking away from him. you yelp when you feel his fingertips all of the sudden tickling your waist. laughing, you want to protest, but his face expression softens your heart.

"don't look awaaaaay, my plan won't work if you do thaaat!" he admits, all sulky and with begging eyes.

"okay, okay," you mutter, fighting another giggle.

smiling again, san stops his tickling. instead, he comfortably lets his hands rest on your hips. "this time, can you try looking at yourself in the mirror rather than looking back at me?"

you close your eyes for a brief moment, gaining some inner strength to look at yourself without breaking down. when you open your eyes, you notice san patiently glancing at you.

"mm. ah! no, no, eyes on yourse– that's it," he lets out a breathy giggle, patting your hips. "good job."

his praising gives you more courage, even if you still find it hard to keep your eyes fixated on your face and body. "um... where do i look?"

"just listen to me and your eyes will follow naturally, okay?"

you hum, leaning onto him slightly. he notices and with a cheerful sound escaping his curled lips, hugs you from behind.

"i love your eyes. their color, their shape... those gorgeous eyes have seen so much. witnessed so many memorable moments, but also unpleasant ones that helped you grow as a person. i also love your nose. really, ah, i really love your nose, did you know that, jagi?"

san raises one hand and softly traces the line of your nose. when his finger reaches the tip of it, he gently taps it as he lets out an adorable "boop!". you close your eyes and laugh at how endearing he is.

"i also love when your nose wrinkles like that when you laugh. you're so cute," he whines. "why can't i just make you pocket sized and keep you in there? because i wouldn't be able to kiss you and cuddle with you then!" him answering his own question is a very amusing sight for you.

"ah, and your cute cheeks that i always kiss and–"

"and sometimes munch on them." you teasingly finish his sentence. he pouts again, as if he got caught.

"but they look munchable! it's not my fault!"

while you're giggling at him, san's fingers move a bit lower, to the corner of your lips. you feel your face starting to heat up.

"i love your lips. the shape of them. so mesmerizing, baby," he whispers and your eyes follow his, staring at the way his fingertip barely touches your cupid's bow. you don't move, barely breathing while he traces the shape of your mouth. "your thoughts always come out through those lips. and you always bless me with the way you talk, the way your voice sounds. and the way you pucker your lips when you lean in to share a kiss with me. how soft they feel against mine. i strongly believe they were made for me."

you become aware of how hot your cheeks have become. san notices that as well and smiles, muttering a "cute" under his breath before moving lower with his hands, making sure to lovingly caress every inch of your skin.

"your shoulders. you carried and still carry so much weight on them. and i admire you so much for that. you are such a strong person," he speaks softly and his words touch the deepest corner of your heart, making it flutter against your rib cage. to know he appreciates you for the battles you went through the same way you admire him for fighting his own struggles is very comforting.

"but my shoulders are broader, baby, so i don't mind if you throw some of that weight on them, if not all of it. your strong boyfriend can handle it!"

his fingers slowly move down your arms. "i love your arms too. the way you always wrap them around me. you make me feel so loved," san whispers, softly kissing your right shoulder. "so loved. i love when we snuggle up to each other and i get to be the little spoon."

"mhm, i know. you're always so excited about that." both of you laugh at your words. san kisses your hands one more time before going lower on your body. once they reach your stomach, he interlocks his own fingers against it, smiling to himself.

"i love your stomach, baby. so much. it always makes me so happy when you fill it with yummy food. when i bring you to the best restaurants and we sit there, enjoying each other's presence and the delicious meals we chose to eat. i know it's hard to have a good appetite sometimes, but i want you to know how proud i feel when i look at you enjoying your favorite food. the way you go nom nom nom nom nom nom," he cutely mimics. you giggle, shaking your head. "really! it warms my heart."

he takes you by surprise when he crouches down behind you and hugs your legs, clinging to them with the sweetest look on his face.

"sannie, love, wha–"

"i can't forget your legs, jagiyaaaa! those legs that i love so much. they bring you to so many places. they brought you to me," he sighs in content, hugging them a bit tighter. "the way they move whenever i make you dance with me in the living room or kitchen. ah, i'm so thankful for them."

this whole time, your eyes have been following san's hands without even realizing. with his help and gentle care, you managed to draw imaginary, precious flowers all over your body. from the corner of your eyes, to all the way down where you ground yourself. everything feels like a breath of fresh air, thanks to him. and you will probably never know how to thank him enough for everything he does for you. but as you turned around to press your lips against his in an intimate kiss, you secretly made a promise to him. that no matter how difficult the real life gets, he has the key to your heart, a heart which will always beat for him. that you will forever allow him to ease up your mind and help you breathe.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡ taglist: my loveliest @yuyusuyu

{💌ྀི} masterlist

[tchotchkez]

😮‍💨

[sorry for the hardcore tag rants, y'all]

[the-far-bright-center]

‘Revenge of the Sith may be the greatest work of art in our lifetimes...’

(an excerpt from a long-deleted blog post, archived here)

“Revenge of the Sith is still (and probably always will be) the greatest thing that will ever come out of the Star Wars franchise. I always go further, in fact, and say that it’s the greatest thing that will ever come out of big-budget, action/fantasy cinema at all. George Lucas’s final contribution to his Star Wars legacy—2005’s final prequel offering—was not only an artistic, cinematic and operatic masterpiece, but it was the ultimate, consummate manifestation of everything Star Wars was capable of being and, for that matter, everything that big-scale cinema is capable of being.

It literally does not—and probably can’t—get better than this ever again.

Lucas, who himself pretty much set the standard and invented the genre in 1977, had now taken us to the absolute zenith of what that genre of film-making could produce.

Epic, ambitious, stunning, moving, nuanced, and everything else, it was the glorious completion of Lucas’s original Star Wars saga that I had been waiting for—and something for which I will always be immensely grateful George Lucas came back to film-making to give us. I have already made the case at length for why Revenge of the Sith was an absolute masterpiece of staggering proportions, so I’ll refrain from re-stating here all the ... reasons I eternally bow at the altar of that film and its unfairly maligned architect.

People who didn’t get it or still don’t get it probably never will get it.

I’ve given up arguing with those on the tedious backlash bandwagon, those who join in with the Lucas-bashing for the sake of YouTube channel views, or those who, like [spoilt children] throwing a tantrum, bitterly disavow George Lucas and whine about how the prequels ‘ruined Star Wars’.

Someone who did get it, however, was the noted author and social critic Camille Paglia: she of course famously declared a few years ago that George Lucas was the greatest artist of his time and specifically that Revenge of the Sith was the greatest work of art in the last thirty years.

The respected, if often controversial, academic Paglia didn’t argue that Episode III  was merely the best movie of the last thirty years… but the best work of art in any genre and in any medium.

[...] Predictably a lot of people either assumed Paglia was being sarcastic or they simply pooh-poohed her conclusions. Paglia, however, was not trying to be ironic, and she has reaffirmed and defended her position over and over again and with a passion—Lucas’s final Star Wars film, she maintained, is the greatest work of art in the last three decades.

[...] I cannot think of any film in any genre that has been as absorbing or as immaculate (or as ambitious). Even just conceptually, what Lucas tried to do with the prequel trilogy was staggering and is without any parallel. And while we could argue that the execution was off-the-mark in certain places, the sheer visceral power and broad artistic value of what he did manage to create—even with its various failings—puts Lucas’s saga (and ROTS in particular) into a different stratosphere entirely.

In her own view of it, Paglia especially focuses on the final act of the third prequel—the climactic finale centering on the extended Anakin/Kenobi lightsaber duel against the dramatic lava backdrop and the extraordinarily powerful way that the birth of the Skywalker twins is juxtaposed with the ‘death’ of Anakin and ‘birth’ of Vader. That latter sequence, by the way, in which the death of the mother coincides (and even feeds into) the birth of the ‘dark father��, all of it underscored by John Williams haunting, gothic choral/hymn composition, is just one example (among many) of Lucas’s extraordinarily acute and nuanced levels of vision.

‘The long finale of Revenge of the Sith has more inherent artistic value, emotional power, and global impact than anything by the artists you name,’ she said in this interview with Vice. ‘It’s because the art world has flat-lined and become an echo chamber of received opinion and toxic over-praise. It’s like the emperor’s new clothes—people are too intimidated to admit what they secretly think or what they might think with their blinders off.’

Speaking to FanGirlBlog, Paglia continued her celebration of Lucas’s final masterwork, saying, ‘I have been saying to interviewers and onstage, "The finale of Revenge of the Sith is the most ambitious, significant, and emotionally compelling work of art produced in the last 30 years in any genre—including literature".

Paglia’s assertions flowed from her 2012 book Glittering Images: A Journey Through Art from Egypt to Star Wars, which in part addressed the problem of modern cultural ignorance and the author’s worries that 21st century Americans are overexposed to visual stimulation by the “all-pervasive mass media” and must fight to keep their capacity for contemplation.

In the book, Paglia discusses twenty-nine examples of visual artwork, beginning with the ancient Egyptian funerary images of Queen Nefertari, and then progressing through various artistic works, including creations from Ancient Greece to Byzantine art and Donatello’s ‘Mary Magdalene’.

She explained, ‘Lucas was not part of my original plan for Glittering Images, which has 29 chapters crossing 3000 years. My goal was to write a very clear and concise handbook to the history of artistic styles from antiquity to the present. When I looked around for strong examples of contemporary art to end the book with, however, I got very frustrated. There is a lot of good art being made, but I found it overall pretty underwhelming. When I would happen on the finale of Revenge of the Sith, I just sat there stunned. It grew and grew on me, and I became obsessed with it. I was amazed at how much is in there—themes of love and hate, politics, industry, technology, and apocalyptic nature, combined with the dance theater of that duel on the lava river and then the parallel, agonizing death/births. It’s absolutely tremendous.’

Paglia also entirely recognised the sheer scale of Lucas’s creation and the value of even its various constituent parts as important or worthy works of art. ‘The fantastically complex model of the Mustafar landscape made for the production of Revenge of the Sith should be honored as an important work of contemporary installation art,’ she argued. ‘And also that Lucas’ spectacular air battles, like the one over Coruscant that opens Sith, are sophisticated works of kinetic art in the tradition of important artists like Marcel Duchamp and Alexander Calder. No one has ever written about George Lucas in this way—integrating him with the entire fine arts tradition.’

The problem is that Lucas and the prequel trilogy have become so widely misrepresented as ‘bad’ that most people don’t know how to deal with someone like Paglia sincerely proclaiming “Nothing in the last 30 years has been produced—in any of the arts—that is as significant or as emotionally compelling as Revenge of the Sith…”

[...] In fact, contrary to widespread misconceptions about how the Star Wars films are viewed, a Rotten Tomatoes poll ... found that Revenge of the Sith (and not Empire Strikes Back) scored as the best-regarded of the [Lucas] movies according to aggregation of archived reviews. So the idea that everyone dismisses the prequels seems like a misconception; but it is fair to say that a substantial body of people —including a lot of people who, rather incongruously, regard themselves as Star Wars fans—do completely dismiss this film along with its two predecessors.

As I said at the start, people who didn’t get it or still don’t get it probably never will get it.

But what has always struck me as pitiful about the whiny ‘Lucas Ruined Star Wars’ attitude is that it seems to flow from the premise that Lucas—a man whose stubborn commitment to his own singular vision gave an entire generation from the late 70s and early 80s unparalleled joy—somehow ‘owes it’ to those same people to do things precisely how *they* deem acceptable. That’s essentially what it comes down to—that he, as the artist, should make the art that the fans or the public want and not follow his own creative vision.

What people don’t realise, however, is that if he had done that from the beginning, there never would’ve BEEN an original Star Wars trilogy at all—and arguably all of these huge blockbuster SF/fantasy films that people spend their money seeing today wouldn’t exist either. What a lot of people also don’t realise is that Lucas was never setting himself up to be a populist or even mainstream filmmaker. On the contrary, he was the avant-garde film geek, the rogue, the outsider. The fact that Star Wars spiraled into a billion-dollar behemoth was an accident; and when the first Star Wars movie was released in 1977, it was an oddity that no one in the film industry understood or believed in.

But Lucas had stuck to his own creative vision—a vision that was largely incomprehensible to everyone else at the time the film was being made—and his singular vision hit the mark big-time and accomplished something unprecedented.

By the time of the endlessly-maligned The Phantom Menace in 1999 and everything that followed, Lucas was still doing exactly the same thing—following his own vision, trying to create something extraordinary and largely ignoring contemporary trends or opinion. The only difference was that the vast fan-base he had acquired from the original films were older now, far more jaded and over-saturated with blockbuster movies (most of which were influenced by Lucas’s pioneering work in the 70s) and they essentially didn’t *want* something new, creative or challenging—they just wanted the same thing they’d had when they were kids.

In effect, they weren’t interested in Lucas the artist or Lucas the pioneer—they only wanted Lucas the Popcorn Movie dispenser. But Lucas the Popcorn Movie Dispenser had never existed—he was simply an illusion created by the extraordinary commercial success of the Star Wars Trilogy.

What Lucas had in fact envisioned—and created—with the prequel trilogy, especially Revenge of the Sith, was something that transcended the whole summer blockbuster ennui, transcended genre, transcended the very medium of film itself, and could be discussed in the same breath as Shakespeare, Virgil and the Aeneid, Julius Caesar, and a number of equally fascinating and endlessly debatable works of serious and complex gravity.

But there was an audience of millions who were instead looking for something that could be discussed alongside Jurassic Park or Terminator 2. Which is fine—Star Wars of course can also be discussed just as validly in that latter context too; but it also exists in a stratosphere beyond it. And because Lucas’s process and vision was in that higher stratosphere a lot of the time, there was a frequent disconnect that occurred, whereby a lot of people were unable to meet him halfway or relate to the films on those kinds of levels.

But Lucas pushed on with his long-envisioned trilogy; and by the time the final installment of his Star Wars saga arrived in 2005, a sizeable proportion of the old fan-base had either departed or were by now just coming to the party for the thrill of seeing Darth Vader one last time. Some dismissed the film the same way as they’d dismissed its two predecessors, some were full of scathing mockery, while others were ambivalent. Some were suitably entertained, but didn’t take it much further than that.

Another group, a smaller minority—myself included—had just seen something of epic, overwhelming proportions and had the greatest cinematic experience of their lives.

But great art is like that.

Great works of art divides people, provoking endless debate [...] An argument could be made that the greatest artist will go all-out to create something special and substantive, even if it won’t appeal to everyone. Said artist would follow his own creative vision and not compromise it to the committee of consensus or demand.

Lucas, it should be borne in mind, never made ANY of the Star Wars films with film-critics in mind—even the Original Trilogy movies were not critically approved, despite becoming cultural landmarks. And interestingly, the hang-ups of many of those who were scathing about the prequel movies—ROTS included—were virtually identical to the hang-ups of the critics in the early 80s who either just didn’t get those original Star Wars films or were unwilling to praise a rogue filmmaker who was rebelling against Hollywood at the time and who was making something entirely out-of-step with contemporary trends and sensibilities.

Fittingly enough, the Lucas who was out-of-step with the sensibilities of the time during the late 70s and early 80s is the same Lucas who was equally out-of-step with sensibilities and trends at the time of the prequels too. In both eras, Lucas rebelled against the sensibilities of contemporary cinema and carved out his own piece of utter magic according to his own stubborn vision—the difference is that so many of the same people who adored what he had done in the first instance couldn’t understand what he was doing in the second instance.

Even though what he was doing was essentially the same thing.

For that matter, I always suspected that one of the main reasons so many people failed to appreciate (or in a lot of cases, to even understand) this film is precisely because it isn’t contemporary. That’s a key thing to understand about the Star Wars prequels—they were not made in a contemporary style.

Lucas doesn’t make contemporary cinema. Both of Lucas’s Star Wars trilogies are written and designed specifically to NOT be contemporary, but to have a more timeless quality, steeped in traditions from the past.

Lucas, you have to remember, has never been a contemporary or generic filmmaker, but a more avant-garde artist and experimenter who foremost specialises in tone and impressionism. The fact that he invented modern blockbuster cinema is purely an accident. As he himself once said, “None of the films I’ve done was designed for a mass audience, except for ‘Indiana Jones.’ Nobody in their right mind thought ‘American Graffiti’ or ‘Star Wars’ would work”.

 [...] They were not contemporary or generic at all—consequently, a lot of people didn’t understand or relate to what they were watching: because they couldn’t find a point of comparison in popular culture.

To really understand these films, you have to go back to some of the historical epics of the fifties and sixties, particularly films like Ben-Hur, Cleopatra or Spartacus. If you watch any of those films (and all three are timeless, truly marvelous cinematic works) and then watch the three Star Wars prequels, it will suddenly make much more sense. The acting style, the dialogue style, the themes, the epic scope and settings, the vast mythologizing, the way the films are scored, even the intricate costume design—all of it.

There’s nothing surprising about that. After all, it’s easy to overlook the fact now from our current vantage-point, but the original Star Wars trilogy movies weren’t contemporary in style either—they were stylistically based on things like Kurosawa, Flash Gordon and the Saturday matinee serials of the 1930s and 40s. The original trilogy films made no stylistic sense in terms of contemporary cinema or sensibilities in the late 70s or early 80s—they were, in style, a homage to a long-gone era.

So too were the prequels—just a different homage to a different era.

[...]

When you look at everything that makes up Revenge of the Sith, the scope of vision along with the degree of artistic nuance and juxtaposition is breathtaking.

There’s lots of action, yes, as you’d expect; but the action, like so much of what Lucas was doing by this stage, is almost transcendent. Sure, the acting or delivery is off in a few places; mostly due to some of the actors having to perform in non-existent CG environments—remember Lucasfilm and ILM were breaking new ground technologically in these movies, which we take for granted now with all our CG and digital filmmaking, but which at the time were bound to cause some teething problems. But Ewan McGregor is superb in this film, while the maligned Hayden Christensen....in fact does a solid job in any number of key scenes.

And there’s everything else. The special effects aren’t just good, they’re actually often beautiful in a way that most special effects don’t aspire to be. The level of detail and artistry in the visuals mean you could turn the sound off and still be captivated. Some of the backdrops could make extraordinary paintings that could hang convincingly in art galleries. And Lucas is the absolute master of the establishing shot and the scene transition, turning it into an art every bit as nuanced as in a piece of music.

For that matter, the music is extraordinary—and actually if you look at how underwhelming or non-existent the music is in the post-Lucas ‘The Force Awakens’, it becomes clear that Lucas and Williams had a collaborative process that really influenced how these films were scored (and which is now no longer the case). Lucas himself said that the music was 50 percent of what mattered in these films and that is certainly evident.

Much of it, particularly the climatic Kenobi/Skywalker duel and that final act with the birth of the twins, death of Padme and creation of Vader, almost isn’t cinema at all—but opera. This could’ve been something Wagner was composing if he had ever existed in the cinema age.

In fact, the final few scenes of the film don’t even have any dialogue, but are purely musical and visual. Even some of the most stirring parts earlier on in the film are without dialogue; take, for example, the breathtakingly beautiful sequence of Anakin and Padme trying to silently sense for each other across the exquisite, sunset cityscape—it’s all visual, tone and subtle music, pure emotion with no dialogue. A scene like that could almost be part of a silent movie; and it’s also like an impressionist painting in motion.

Even that Kenobi/Skywalker duel itself is more than just an action sequence. With Williams’ epic, stirring, choral score, it too is opera. But it’s opera married to performance art: the level of intricacy, fluency and speed of Ewan McGregor and Hayden Christensen’s dueling is insane, having required an immense amount of prep and practise. The choreography takes it onto the level of dance; of true performance art as opposed to disposable cartoon violence or cheap blockbuster action.

Everything here—to the last detail—is choreographed like a ballet and it is spellbinding.

Yet while other filmmakers would try to sell an entire movie on such an exquisite centerpiece, for Lucas all of this—all of this poetry, opera, dance, music, visual art and everything else—is ultimately mere constituent part to a greater whole: a Shakespearan epic of a tortured fall from grace and a Greek tragedy... wrapped within an even larger epic about the fall of a Republic, the fallibility of religion and the genius of the Devil and failure of the angels.

[...] What Lucas created in fact was the ultimate expression/culmination of the art of the epic itself—fittingly enough, in order to conclude the defining epic of our modern times (what Brian Blessed once described as the Shakespeare of our age). The Shakespeare comparisons aren’t trivial. The evident Star Wars/Shakespeare resonance has even prompted things like Ian Doescher’s book William Shakespeare’s Tragedy of the Sith’s Revenge: Star Wars Part the Third—a retelling of Revenge of the Sith as if it had been written by William Shakespeare for real.

[...] Various observers, including academics, have noted the obvious fact that Lucas’s story is also a retelling of the fall of the Roman Republic and birth of the Roman Empire. Lucas himself admitted this, pointing to how Revenge of the Sith in particular is partly a story about democracies become dictatorships and citing the historical stories of Caesar and Augustus. You can quite easily watch the prequel trilogy alongside I, Claudius or something like HBO’s brilliant Rome series.

But none of those references or allusions are the important part. Even the fact that the prequel trilogy—and again, ROTS in particular—is quite clearly in part a story about false-flag wars, banking conspiracies, the corporate and military-industrial complex, the Bush administration and the Iraq War, etc—isn’t particularly relevant to the issue of why it’s such an epic work of significance.

Lucas is the author and architect of our preeminent modern mythology—as interviewer Bill Moyers asserted during his fascinating and revealing 1999 interview with Lucas (for the release of The Phantom Menace). Partly inspired by his friend Joseph Campbell’s thoughts on mythology, but moreover informed by his own careful distillation of elements from various cultures and civilisations (what he has referred to as our collective human ‘archaeological psychology’), Lucas is every bit as influential as Virgil, Homer or Shakespeare were in their respective times, and has crafted out the ultimate mythological saga.

Revenge of the Sith is the final, completing piece of that saga—the piece that gives the saga its full scope and true soul, and the piece that makes every one of the other films count for so much more.

And it does it so well—with such vivid and breathtaking quality—that, even having written an article as long as this one now is (and another before this), I still don’t feel like I’m adequately able to explain its full brilliance.

Neither could Lucas himself, I suspect. I’m not sure Lucas even realised how masterful it was; but, as Paglia and others note, the guy is so mild-mannered and self-deprecating that it simply wasn’t in his nature to boast about his own work. Instead he just took in all the abuse and mockery with mild bemusement, shrugged his shoulders and walked off into the twin sunset, knowing that with Revenge of the Sith he had finished what he’d come back to do.

In fact, what Lucas did was so extraordinary, so complex and so nuanced that it may take another decade or two for people to even appreciate it properly—assuming they ever do. As film experts like Mike Klimo have noted, some of what Lucas did in ROTS and the prequels may have been so sophisticated that he deliberately didn’t talk about it, but just left it there, not knowing that anyone would ever even notice.

This, as I said earlier, goes beyond cinema, and possibly even beyond Star Wars itself. Lucas genuinely outdid himself, and it is unlikely anyone will reach that height again—firstly because no one is going to be in the position Lucas was in again in terms of total ownership of a property, and secondly because no one is going to have that kind of ambition again, especially having seen how much of a backlash Lucas received from the legions of popcorn munchers, YouTube profiteers and ungrateful fans who were really looking for something much more in keeping with a generic, formulaic, standardized blockbuster formula.”

[missmeinyourbones]

HAPPY PRIDE MONTH BABIES

[autism-corner]

erm

[librarylexicon]

dan's fate in jo's boys. tell me about it ;-;

WHY DID HE HAVE TO BE LIKE THAT WAAAAHH

I was already not enjoying the book because Dan just could not catch a break, and then Alcott had to go and throw in that line at the end. WHY. Unable to set down roots, falling into the wrong circumstances, manslaughter, prison, hard labour, isolation and suffering and trauma and despair, topped off by a love that can never be (even though it's not unrequited)... Lou, just say you hate Dan and go! He and Nat were why I loved Little Men so much, and then Jo's Boys went and stamped all over that. I have never wanted a book to not exist as much as the visceral reaction I had when I got to the end of Jo's Boys. Just thinking about it makes me angry all over again. UGH.

[girlfictions]

something i’ve been thinking about lately is like. growing up muslim right after 9/11 is something i’d never really reflected on much because it was all i’d ever known — at 5, my friend’s mum didn’t let her invite me to her birthday party because i was the only brown girl in our class, at 12, my classmates would joke about my family being part of isis, at 16, my dad was interrogated by american airport security for hours — and it always stung and it always hurt but it was just the way things were because the western world hated muslims. but i don’t think i’ve ever fully comprehended the extent to which we were hated until now.

palestine is being turned into a mass graveyard. every single day there are new photos of the atrocities being carried out against them and videos of them pleading for help and still those who can actually intervene turn a blind eye. israel is claiming to only be targeting hamas “terrorists” while bombing a refugee camp. israeli police raided and assaulted a non-zionist jewish neighbourhood. israeli soldiers are posting tiktoks of them torturing captured palestinians. this is not a complicated issue and it never has been. ethnic cleansing is being committed right in front of us. and yet the western world leaders refuse to call for a ceasefire.

and while zionist organisations accuse pro-palestine demonstrations of anti-semitism, while zionist celebrities insist that they’re afraid to leave their mansions in los angeles, a six year old muslim boy was stabbed to death and his mother wounded in the same attack in chicago. a muslim doctor was murdered while sitting outside her apartment complex in texas. hundreds of peaceful protesters have been arrested (many of whom have been jewish). despite what zionists want you to believe, this is not a jewish/muslim conflict. i have so much love and gratitude to my brave jewish brothers and sisters all over the world who are condemning israel for their actions.

ultimately, israel have been granted impunity by the west. they have slaughtered thousands upon thousands of innocent palestinians. they have bombed hospitals and schools indiscriminately. they have used white phosphorus, violating the geneva convention. they have completely eradicated nearly 900 bloodlines. how many more need to be wiped out? how many more children need to be buried underneath the rubble? how many more doctors need to be confronted with the bodies of their own family members? how many more journalists need to detail the horrific acts of violence they are witnessing? what more can be done to the palestinian people that has not been done already?

i truly believe that palestine will be free one day. i believe the palestinian people will receive the justice they finally deserve. but what breaks my heart is how much they have suffered and will continue to suffer before they are deemed worthy of help. and it would be to all of our detriment if we ignored how much of a factor palestine being a predominantly muslim state has played into the way the world has reacted to their genocide.

[dostoyevsky-official]

The Elite College Students Who Can’t Read Books

Nicholas Dames has taught Literature Humanities, Columbia University’s required great-books course, since 1998. He loves the job, but it has changed. Over the past decade, students have become overwhelmed by the reading. College kids have never read everything they’re assigned, of course, but this feels different. Dames’s students now seem bewildered by the thought of finishing multiple books a semester. His colleagues have noticed the same problem. Many students no longer arrive at college—even at highly selective, elite colleges—prepared to read books.

This development puzzled Dames until one day during the fall 2022 semester, when a first-year student came to his office hours to share how challenging she had found the early assignments. Lit Hum often requires students to read a book, sometimes a very long and dense one, in just a week or two. But the student told Dames that, at her public high school, she had never been required to read an entire book. She had been assigned excerpts, poetry, and news articles, but not a single book cover to cover.

[...] Twenty years ago, Dames’s classes had no problem engaging in sophisticated discussions of Pride and Prejudice one week and Crime and Punishment the next. Now his students tell him up front that the reading load feels impossible. It’s not just the frenetic pace; they struggle to attend to small details while keeping track of the overall plot.

No comprehensive data exist on this trend, but the majority of the 33 professors I spoke with relayed similar experiences. Many had discussed the change at faculty meetings and in conversations with fellow instructors. [...] Daniel Shore, the chair of Georgetown’s English department, told me that his students have trouble staying focused on even a sonnet.

Failing to complete a 14-line poem without succumbing to distraction suggests one familiar explanation for the decline in reading aptitude: smartphones. Teenagers are constantly tempted by their devices, which inhibits their preparation for the rigors of college coursework—then they get to college, and the distractions keep flowing. “It’s changed expectations about what’s worthy of attention,” Daniel Willingham, a psychologist at UVA, told me. “Being bored has become unnatural.” Reading books, even for pleasure, can’t compete with TikTok, Instagram, YouTube. In 1976, about 40 percent of high-school seniors said they had read at least six books for fun in the previous year, compared with 11.5 percent who hadn’t read any. By 2022, those percentages had flipped.

[...] Mike Szkolka, a teacher and an administrator who has spent almost two decades in Boston and New York schools, told me that excerpts have replaced books across grade levels. “There’s no testing skill that can be related to … Can you sit down and read Tolstoy? ” he said. And if a skill is not easily measured, instructors and district leaders have little incentive to teach it. [...] The pandemic, which scrambled syllabi and moved coursework online, accelerated the shift away from teaching complete works.

[...] But it’s not clear that instructors can foster a love of reading by thinning out the syllabus. Some experts I spoke with attributed the decline of book reading to a shift in values rather than in skill sets. Students can still read books, they argue—they’re just choosing not to. Students today are far more concerned about their job prospects than they were in the past. Every year, they tell Howley that, despite enjoying what they learned in Lit Hum, they plan to instead get a degree in something more useful for their career.

[...] For years, Dames has asked his first-years about their favorite book. In the past, they cited books such as Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre. Now, he says, almost half of them cite young-adult books. Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series seems to be a particular favorite.

[screampied]

“tch, what are you doing.”

“hugging you.”

“i’m not stupid. why are you hugging me,”

sukuna grouses, his entire vast frame growing stiff. it was always like this with you. every few seconds, you’d be talking to him about literally anything and out of nowhere, your human arms just wrap around his waist. the demon stands still with the most repulsed poker-face, yet he doesn’t attempt to pry you off. for whatever reason, your warmth was surprisingly .. comfortable. you’ve got the cutest smile contorting against your features. burying your face into the center of his chest, the demon sighs, flicking your forehead. “oi brat, i asked you a question.”

playfully wincing at his gesture — you have a tiny pout. “you looked like you could use one,” and your arms briefly tighten around his slim torso. “also, usually when someone’s hugging you, you’re required to hug the other person b-”

“don’t tell me what to do,” and you gasp, feeling strong arms pull you in close. with an oof, you land right into his soft padded chest. your cheek tenderly rubs against the various ancient markings that paint and decorate his skin. the ‘hug’ only lasts for about three seconds before he pulls away, pretending to feel ill. a mere drama king. “disgusting. got me participating in such a revolting, humanly act. think ‘m gonna be sick.”

“oh, don’t be dramatic,” you tease, leaning into his touch. you’re met with a crimson-red glare but you could spot the vague pout forming against his lips if you squinted. out of all the pesky humans he’s encountered, no one was ever tolerable or worthy for his attention.

no one except . . . you.

a simple gesture as hugging makes him feel mushy ‘n soft inside and he hates it. loathes it, that dumb carefree grin that cheeses against your lips, the cute glimmer sparkling in your eyes. so irritating, so . . adorable.

as you rest your chin against his chest, you let off a tiny huff. “do demons not hug each other?”

“not in this way,” he murmurs, feeling an awkward lump brew in his throat. sukuna’s eyes suddenly avoid yours and you grow curious. not only that, but his body language changes. your softness was making him nervous.

he swears a plethora of inaudible curses under his breath, remaining rigidly stiff and refuses to move his beefy arms another itch. your arms wrap around him again and a huffing sigh makes his tense shoulder lower. with a grumpy grunt, his eye twitches and a single fang bares below his top lip, a sign of cute stubborn annoyance. “ack, you’re squishing me, human. release me at once.”

your chin swiftly rubs against the soft fabric that made up his personalized kimono before deadpanning. “not until you hug me back.”

“i am hugging you back.”

“no you’re not,” you giggle, burying your face inside between the opening slit of his clothing piece. his body heat tepidly radiates against you and you’re engulfed with his loud natural scent. the demon’s almost always naturally warm, your personal heating pad. he shoots you a vexing glare, nostrils flaring up in exasperation before his arms awkwardly pull you closer. “hey, not s- so tight, ‘kuna.”

“now you wanna complain? you’re gonna take this hug,” and you giggle, feeling him gingerly shove you into his broad chest, squeezing you tight.

sukuna sassily rolls his eyes at the audacity,

he’s never been one to participate in such ludicrous, but if it was with you, maybe it wasn’t that bad. sukuna stares down at you, a weird soft feeling pooling its way into his heart — after a while, he unwraps his arms from your body, ruffling your hair. “stupid.”

with a cheeky grin, you wrap your arms right back around his torso, nuzzling against his chest like you were a kitten. with a gruff groan, his arms suddenly mirror you, slinging around your waist, pulling you close tightly. how annoying, he’s starting to enjoy this little thing called ‘hugging.’

sukuna slowly adapts to the warmth of your body against him, a faint smile creeping on his face at your next adoring words. “love you ‘kuna.”

“you’re gonna experience a deadly cough in five days, brat.”

“huh?”

“hmph. i said . . i love you too.”

[dark-raven-666]

Mr chopped x reader + sfw & nsfw headcanons.

He survives and has a body.

A/N: this is my first time writing nsfw so please bare with me. It's SFW until marked.!!

♡´･ᴗ･`♡♡´･ᴗ･`♡♡´･ᴗ･`♡♡´･ᴗ･`♡♡´･ᴗ･`♡♡´･ᴗ･`♡

@vixxine

Art belongs to: reddeong_ on X/ Twitter

As soon as your eyes met his,he whispered to you. "I only wanted you to be happy".

Running to his side you hold him in your arms and help him stand up. Mr. Silvair who was next to you, helped the two of you to a room where he was put it rest.

Mr. Silvair injects him with a small dosage of some kind of medicine that makes him calm down.

Hours pass and his eyes remain closed. You sitting in a chair by his bed. Your head on the bed and hand holding his.

By the time he woke up, you had fallen asleep. He looks around the room only for his eyes to settle on you.

With a quiet sigh, he holds your hand tighter, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

At his touch your eyes flutter open, molting up your arms wrap around him as you sob. " my love... Oh my dear... I thought I had lost you for good.. " you cry out quietly... His gaze softens and he wraps his arms around you. He felt so warm... His skin.. His body was cold... But the warmth came from within... It's like you could feel his love.

His hand caresses your cheek with a look that says he has yearned to do that for eternity. You mean into his palm and hold it with your hands.

As your eyes meet his once more, you can almost feel his anguish... The pain he had endured..

How he had yearned to touch you, to wrap his arms around you, to be worthy of you.

His eyes closing turn to the ceiling and tears stream down... His hand now shaking he let's out one sob and buries himself in your chest in a speed you had never seen him move in.

HCS.

SFW

Loves to have you in his arms.

Feels insecure at times but you're always quick to bury those away with your touch, kisses and loving words.

Full body cuddles are a must. Now that he can wrap up around you like a koala he won't stop doing it.

Allows you to brush his hair and braid it, but NOT cut it.

Now that he can stand up he wants to go everywhere, visit every part of the world, feel, touch everything.

Now that he has this precious body he will not waste it.

Has gotten into your skin care and will continue to.

He got a bruise? It's the end of the world!

Yes he's still his dramatic self.

NSFW 🤫

Very sensitive, what is this odd feeling?

I'm not even going to lie and feed your delusions, barely lasts 2-3 minutes the first like 20 times. It's all just so new.

You know how I said he wants to adventure? Yes with this too. He wants to feel his body and your body.

Sees a bit of side boob and is immediately hard and stroking himself.

Loves the feeling of his fist but boyyy Foss he love your mouth more.

Will not hesitate to get on his knees and whine for your mouth on him.

[amazinglyashy]

Zayne is for the ones who want to be cared for

Zayne is for the broken- a hammer taken to the porcelain of your body and psychic by the people around you, whether intentionally or not, your pieces are laid out on the floor to be crushed further under the shoes of those who do not notice.

Zayne is for the ones drawn to him due to attachment. Did you really think he was so cold? His rigid exterior is what attracted you in the first place- pulling you in for the familiar, the withdrawn and distant personality being what you crave, what you remember- but then he's cleaning your apartment while you sleep. He's buying you treats unprompted. He's offering you rides out of his way. He's pressing tired hands into the knots of your muscles for hours if that's what you need.

Zayne is for the ones who will cry, not knowing why. Not knowing that it's because of him. Because of his gentleness, his kindness, his love. Broken on the floor alone somewhere, crying not because you feel alone without him with you right now, but because you felt alone before he came. Because you don't know why someone would treat you the way that he does. Because you don't know why you deserve it.

And Zayne is for the ones who so badly want every single thing that he does for them, while also still knowing, believing, that they're unworthy of what they so desperately want from him. What they receive from him. And why are you unworthy? Why do you decide what you deserve, and not the person who has decided you are worthy of the love he gives you?

Zayne is for the broken. The puzzles missing pieces under couches that won't move until it's time to leave a life behind. Suddenly. Permanantly.

Zayne is for the ones who want to be cared for.

[navybrat817]

Just Like That

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: Bucky suggests staying in a hotel together before an undercover mission, which would be fine if you didn't have a massive crush on the super soldier. Word Count: Almost 5k Warnings: Explicit sexual content, unprotected vaginal sex, pining, flirting, slight possessive behavior, talk of undercover mission, "only one bed" trope, slight feels (it's me, okay?), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?). A/N: A combination of @targaryenvampireslayer's Blind Date Writing Challenge and my Bucky Barnes Smut Menu, courtesy of @ellemj. "Only One Bed" Trope and the dialogue prompt in bold italics. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

The engagement ring on your finger suited you. Not large or overly flashy, the single diamond radiated a subtle sparkle. It was beautiful and a perfect fit, a representation of the unifying love of marriage. When you looked at it under the light, it was almost as if you could feel the love that Bucky had for you.

If only that were the case.

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” You asked, taking a seat at the table across from Bucky.

“So we can practice and make sure we’re a convincing couple,” he replied.

You sighed as you glanced around the hotel room for the umpteenth time. A small sitting area, a dining and kitchen combination, a single bathroom, and a bedroom. When you pointed out that there was only one bed, Bucky reminded you of the expectation that the two of you had to sleep together while on assignment since you were going on a couple's retreat. Which wouldn't be an issue if you didn't have a crush on him, right?

Right.

You were completely enamored with Bucky Barnes, the handsome former assassin turned agent for the revamped SHIELD. Instacrush wasn't something you experienced often, so he took you by surprise. It was pathetic to fall for him so hard and quickly. It had to be some sort of karma or divine intervention that you were with him in a hotel room.

Just the two of you.

“You know,” he began, wetting his lips as he leaned back in his chair. You blinked, only because you didn't want him to call you out on staring. “You don't have to look so miserable to be here. Is my company that terrible?”

“What? No. Bucky, you aren't terrible company,” you promised, slumping a bit in your chair. The last thing you wanted to do was upset him. “Just been a bit since I've been in a relationship and I’m kind of rusty.”

“You're talking to a guy who hasn't been on a real date since the 40s,” he deadpanned.

He had a point. Plus, from what you understood, Bucky wasn't exactly interested in dating anyone. Every time Steve or Natasha suggested he go on a date, he found a way to brush it off or change the subject.

Even if he was interested in dating, did he think of you as anything beyond a colleague?

Taking this assignment may have been a mistake.

“I’m just not sure I’m the right one for this job,” you said.

“You’re perfect for this job. Why would you think otherwise?”

You froze like a deer in headlights, even as his compliment warmed your heart. It meant a lot that he thought you would do the job well. But how were you supposed to answer that question? That you adored him and it would be torture to pretend to be with him for a week just to back to being coworkers after?

“We should practice,” you suggested instead of giving him an answer. The backstory wasn't overly elaborate, but you had to get it right.

He leaned forward, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Did someone say something to make you think you wouldn't be good for this assignment?” He asked in a low voice. “Because I'll straighten them out.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from whimpering. The thought of him putting someone in their place to make you feel better was swoon-worthy. “No, Bucky. No one said anything. You're right. I’m good for this,” you said before you added, “We’re good together.”

You couldn't read the look he gave you and it became more difficult not to squirm under his gaze. “Yeah,” he whispered, leaning back and clearing his throat. “So. We’re engaged. Going to a resort for a much needed vacation. We’ll have to mingle with some of the guests in between investigating the owner. One of the first questions will be how we met.”

With an exhale, you recited, “We met at a coffee shop. We both ordered the same drink.”

“An iced caramel macchiato,” he said.

“And we reached for the drink at the same time,” you smiled, making a show out of reaching for the glass on the table. “Our fingers touched first. Our eyes met second.”

“And I immediately asked you out,” he smiled.

Your heart swelled. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world when he smiled like that. “You did,” you said, trying to blink the longing from your eyes. “We went to dinner and talked a bit about ourselves. You told me you're a mechanic and I told you I’m a teacher. And once dinner was over, we went back to that same coffee shop and we shared an iced caramel macchiato.”

“Even proposed to you at the same shop,” he said, gesturing to your left hand. “But I actually got the ring after our first date because I knew I wanted you to be my girl,” he said with such conviction that you found it hard to breathe.

The way his eyes softened as he gazed at you, you found yourself believing him for a moment. You had to stay rooted in realism though. The point of the mission besides the actual mission was to act as if you two were crazy about each other.

Not that you had to do any acting on your part.

You cleared your throat and pulled your hand back from the glass. “If only that were true,” you said, absentmindedly twisting the ring around your finger. You weren't cynical about love, but this whole thing was a reminder that you were single and alone.

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Heat crept up your neck. You shouldn't have said anything. “I mean, it just would've been nice if we met at a coffee shop,” you replied to avoid saying you wanted to be his girl.

“What’s wrong with how we met?” He asked, crossing his arms.

The metal arm gleamed under the light. You noticed that he had a tendency to wear long sleeves and gloves whenever he was in the building, but seeing him with his sleeve pushed up and missing glove? You would almost say he was comfortable around you.

Again, he had to play the part right.

You pulled yourself from your thoughts when he said your name, which sounded like it melted on his tongue. It made you press your thighs together. You needed to stay professional. “Do you not remember what happened or are you just being nice?” You asked.

Months ago, the day you met Bucky, Steve informed you that he planned to introduce you to him after he came back from a long assignment. Not only were you excited to meet one of his best friends and a great soldier, but you had wanted to make a good impression on him. What you did was make an ass out of yourself when you turned the corner only to smack right into the former Winter Soldier.

And splattered your beverage on both of you in the process.

Instacrush and a horrible impression on your part.

Bucky’s lips curled in a smile as your eyes widened. “You do remember,” you said, wadding up a nearby napkin and tossing it at his face, which he easily caught. “Oh, my God! That’s why you chose ‘coffee shop' for this, didn't you?”

You concentrated so much on getting the backstory right that it didn't occur to you that he was maybe poking fun at you. He wasn't the kind of guy that liked making others feel bad though. Tease you, sure. Outright make fun of you at the risk of hurting your feelings? He would never.

“Hey, I didn't choose how we met, but I also didn't object,” he said, raising his hands in surrender when you went to throw another napkin at him. “And I wouldn't forget meeting you, doll. You make a lasting impression.”

You wished you had done something to make him remember you besides spilling a drink on him. “I guess making an idiot out of myself is a lasting impression,” you teased.

Something dark flashed in his eyes, making your breath hitch. “That’s not what I meant. You didn't make an idiot out of yourself and I don't like you thinking that or talking down about yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, not used to someone getting so defensive at your self-depreciation. There was something sexy and heartwarming about it. “You were very nice about the whole incident.”

“You were nice, too,” he said, gesturing to his torso. “I mean, you offered to buy me a new shirt.”

“Because I spilled my drink on it! I felt bad,” you said.

“And when I said you didn't have to buy me a new shirt, you said, ‘Are you sure I can't pay for the dry cleaning at least, Sergeant Barnes?’” he said in a falsetto voice.

He chuckled when you rolled your eyes. “I don't sound like that, first of all, and I was being considerate,” you said. You couldn't believe he remembered your exact words. “And you just gave me that half confused smile of yours before I grabbed napkins for both of us to clean up.”

“You mean this?” He asked, his lips stretching in that familiar awkward grin.

“Yeah, that,” you giggled, your heart doing that funny flip that happened far too often around him.

In the beginning, whenever you smiled at him, he gave you that very look in return. Somewhere along the way, the uncomfortable glances on his end became genuine fondness. It didn't mean anything though.

Just an agent being kind to another agent.

Bucky stared at you as you continued to giggle at the memory. “I’m sorry. I just-”

“I love your laugh,” he said, almost making you choke on your own breath. Nothing like forgetting how to be a human and breathe. “And your smile.”

Maybe he had switched back into practice mode. “You do?” You asked, playing along as you smiled directly at him.

He swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, I do,” he replied, his voice thick as he unfolded his arms. “You know, you're one of the people that actually smiles at me. And you look me in the eye when you talk to me.”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“Because some people are still afraid of me,” he whispered.

Your heart sank. He was a good man. A hero wrongly painted as a villain. It wasn't fair what he went through and you had no reason to fear him.

Why couldn't everyone else see the good in him?

“I’m not afraid of you, Bucky,” you promised. And after what he went through, frightening people was the last thing he would do. “Never have been. Never will be.”

“Maybe you should be,” he muttered, some of the light leaving his eyes.

Your eyes narrowed as you tempered the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Seeing this vulnerable side of him also brought out your protective instinct. “Listen to me. You’re amazing and a good man, okay? And if I don't get to call myself an idiot for spilling a drink on you, then you don't get to say I should be scared of you, Sergeant Barnes,” you said with an air of finality.

He gave you an impressed smile. “Just like that? Because those are totally different things you're comparing.”

“Just like that,” you said, putting your hand on the table for him to take if he wished. “Do you trust that I'll have your back on this mission? Because I trust that you'll have mine no matter what.”

He stared at your upturned hand for a moment before he took it. “You're one of the only people I do trust,” he admitted.

His eyes bore into yours as you tried to find the words to respond. He wasn’t feeding you a line to make you feel good about yourself. Bucky Barnes trusted you.

“Then trust me when I say we got this,” you promised. You would look out for him and let him know that he hadn’t misplaced his trust in you.

“Why don't you have a boyfriend?” He asked suddenly.

The switch in topic jarred you, but he didn’t let go of your hand. “That’s. I’m. What? How is that relevant?”

It wasn't smooth, but it was better than blurting out that your hopeless crush on him was one of the major factors.

“I’m curious,” he shrugged.

“Oh. Well. My last boyfriend dumped me for being an agent. Seriously, he didn't like the fact that I could kick his ass if I wanted to,” you told him, squeezing his hand without meaning to. He didn’t object. “Which I wouldn't.”

“You could kick my ass if you wanted to,” he winked. Physically, Bucky was broad and strong. You weren’t sure you could take him in a real fight, but you could take him another way if he ever offered. “And your ex sounds like an asshole if he can’t stand beside and support an amazing woman.”

You smiled humorlessly. “Thanks, Bucky, but I’m not-”

“I swear to fuck if you talk down about yourself again, I will put you over my knee,” he threatened, his eyes darker than they were seconds ago.

You didn’t laugh as he stared at you. Neither did he. Your clothes suddenly felt too heavy, your body too warm. Licking your lips, you couldn’t stop yourself from saying, “Is that a promise?”

Bucky pushed his chair back and pointed at his thigh, his eyes still on you. “Get over here and find out.”

Oh, fuck.

The sound of Bucky’s phone ringing snapped you both out of whatever spell you two were under. “Shit,” he muttered, taking his hand from yours. “It’s Steve. I better-”

“Yeah, you should answer that,” you said, almost knocking the chair over as you stood. “I think I'm going to call it a night.”

“Wait, what?” He asked, answering the phone. “Hold on, punk,” he said, covering the screen as he looked at you. “You’re going to bed now?”

Guilt settled in your stomach at the hurt in his eyes. “Just going to lay down. I may not go to sleep right away. And we can practice more in the morning,” you replied. You just needed to step out of the room and take a breath.

He waited a beat before he nodded, the tension still lingering. “I’ll be there in a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay,” you nodded, leaving him alone so he could talk to Steve.

You splashed a bit of water on your face when you went to the bathroom to change. The assignment hadn’t started and you couldn’t keep your cool. With squinted eyes, you pointed at your reflection and mentally scolded yourself. Yes, you wanted Bucky Barnes and maybe, just maybe, some part of him wanted you. At least, he wanted you enough to put you over his knee.

You couldn't have him though. Could you? Mixing business with pleasure could lead to complications if you crossed that line, but it wasn’t like you’d break some major bylaw by being his girl.

Now wasn’t the time to think about that.

“Get your shit together,” you hissed, rushing through your nighttime routine and changing into your comfortable yet sexy nightgown.

Your eyes went to the bed when you left the bathroom. Just a regular hotel bed. Inviting, but not overly frilly. Large enough for the both of you, but small enough that you might end up in each other’s arms.

“It’s going to be a long night,” you muttered.

Sighing, you left a light on for Bucky to see and crawled into bed, shutting your eyes as he wrapped up his call with Steve. You tried to block out the sound of his footsteps as he made his way to the bathroom. Maybe his nighttime routine would take a bit longer than you thought and you could drift off and wake up to the sight of his beautiful eyes and-

The bed dipped as Bucky curled up behind you, your eyes opening when he placed his arm around your waist and pulled you back against him. You were conscious of every shift in his body, every breath he took. How you could smell his lingering cologne as he pressed himself closer. How he ran warmer than you and you wanted him to heat you up even though you weren’t cold.

And that he wasn’t wearing a fucking shirt.

“I know you aren’t sleeping,” he whispered, his fingers brushing along the fabric that covered your skin. “Your heart’s beating too fast.”

He was right. It was about ready to burst through your chest. “Can’t sleep.”

“Why not?” He asked, helping you roll over so you were on your back. He didn’t remove his hand though. “Did my ‘threat’ make you uncomfortable?”

“No, it didn't,” you assured him, heat pooling between your legs that you couldn't prevent. “I wouldn't have continued with the banter if I was uncomfortable.”

“Just making sure,” he said. “I was only teasing.”

You huffed out a laugh in an effort to cover up the crushing feeling in your chest, your arousal fading to a dull ache. “Of course, you were,” you uttered. Teasing. Nothing more. “Good night, Bucky,” you said, turning your head away.

He brought a hand to your cheek and brought your face back toward him. How did his eyes look so blue in the faint light? “Don’t go to sleep yet, please.”

“Why not?”

“You rushed to bed and now you're shutting down. I clearly said or did something wrong,” he sighed, which made you feel bad. He hadn't done anything wrong in your eyes since it wasn’t his fault you wanted his teasing to mean something. “I need to fix it.”

“There’s nothing to fix because you didn't break anything,” you said, the ring heavy on the finger. “But can I ask for a favor?”

“Of course,” he whispered.

You didn’t dare search out his gaze when you said, “I may need reminders this week that you don't actually have feelings for me.”

A few seconds went by before he asked in a small voice, “What?”

You took a breath to compose yourself. The last thing you needed to do was get upset for no good reason. “We’re going to hold hands and cuddle and share a bed and be a couple, but you may need to give me a reality check now and again that you only see me as an agent. Okay?”

Maybe he’d ask Steve for a new partner in the morning.

“You think I only see you as an agent?” He asked, sighing when you nodded. “I used to be good at this.”

“Good at what?”

“Teasing. Flirting,” he answered, leaning in close. He stopped just before his lips touched yours. “Kissing.”

“Wait. You were flirting with me?” you said, not moving forward or back as you put a hand on his chest. His heart raced as fast as yours. And your brain couldn’t compute that implication that he wanted to kiss you. “You weren’t just practicing for the assignment?”

He huffed out a laugh this time. “You’re killing me, doll,” he whispered, closing the distance.

You imagined Bucky kissing you before, but didn’t think it would ever be so soft. His lips barely brushed against yours, but it felt like the beginning of something more. It tempted you like nothing else ever had. He must’ve felt it, too, since he deepened it. You melted. You surrendered.

You never stood a chance.

“So, you like me?” You asked when he pulled back a little to gaze at you. “I’m sorry. I just need to hear you say it because I really like you and have for months. Fuck, maybe I shouldn’t have said that because we have a whole week together for this assignment and now you know and I don't want it to be weird.”

Your mind almost shut down when he gave you a full-blown smile and said, “Yeah, I like you. I thought it was obvious. I tried dropping little hints, talking about your smile and trusting you.” He chuckled almost shyly as his words sank in. “I took this assignment because of you.”

A moment passed before you giggled, happiness blooming in your chest. Bucky Barnes liked you. Wanted you. “Thank fuck,” you breathed, pulling him back down for another kiss.

He groaned, ravaging your mouth as he moved on top of you. His knee pushed your legs apart so he could settle between them, swallowing down your whimpers when he pressed his growing hardness against your pussy. He ground his hips, your panties soaked as his tongue tangled with yours. The man kissed you like he had something to prove.

Like he wanted to own you.

His muscles rippled as he leaned up and grasped the bottom of your nightie. The vision of him above you like this was now engraved in your mind. “If you want me to stop, I will.”

Sleeping with him was moving fast considering you just confessed your feelings for each other, but you didn't care. “Don't stop,” you whispered, quivering as he tugged the fabric over your head.

Your hands moved up to cover your chest before he gripped your wrists. “Are you trying to hide from me?” He questioned, his smirk playful in comparison to the uncertainty in his gaze.

You didn't want him doubting himself or your want for him for a second.

“Maybe? I mean, look at you and look at…”

You wouldn't knock on your looks since you were generally confident in your appearance, but the super soldier was an entirely different level of gorgeous. He towered over even the largest of agents, with the exception of Steve, and his dark lashes framing his steel eyes were enough to pull you under.

And who were you compared to him? Just another agent. Average.

“Don't,” he whispered, releasing a wrist so he could cup your breast. You arched your back and any uncertainty in his eyes before faded when a moan escaped your lips. “You're so fucking beautiful.”

The praise almost made your eyes water as he brought his head down, losing focus when he swept his tongue across your nipple. Your eyes fluttered shut as he did it again, a wave from a sea of ecstasy crashing over you. Your heart thudded faster, addicted to the feel of his sinful mouth.

“You’re the reason I don't have a boyfriend,” you whined, your fingers twisting in his hair. Why did you say that?

He smirked against your skin before he reached down and tore your panties away. “I haven't gone on a date because of you.”

Your body throbbed with need as you met his gaze. “You're just saying that to get in my pants,” you joked.

His eyes raked down your body, stopping between your trembling thighs as he pushed his pants and underwear down. “If I had my way, I would've taken you out first,” he said, drawing a moan from you when he wrapped a hand around his thick cock. “But all I can think about right now is how loud you’ll say my name when I make you come.”

“Bucky,” you moaned, tempted to reach down and touch yourself to the sight of him.

“Louder than that,” he said smugly, rubbing the tip of his cock along your slick folds. “Fuck, I wanna take my time and explore you. Make you feel like a goddess. Treat you the way you deserve.”

It warmed your heart and sent another wave of desire through you knowing he wanted to take care of you. “I know you'll treat me well,” you smiled, opening your legs wider. “But for now, please, fuck me.”

He didn't ask about birth control, which you were on. You didn't ask about condoms. It didn't matter. You wanted to feel all of him.

You glanced down as he lined himself up, watching as he slowly eased into you. It was overwhelming as you took every inch, your mouth falling open with a moan. You floated in a cloud of lust, the sound of his groan reaching your ears.

“Look at me,” he ordered as he bottomed out.

Your eyes flew to his as he gripped your chin. The feel of him inside you, his eyes staring so intently into yours that he practically touched your soul. It was almost too much. And that was when he began to move, the weight of his body on top of yours as he fucked you in slow and deep thrusts. It was the kind of lovemaking that would make you crave more.

Crave him.

“Knew you'd take me well,” he grunted. You whined, the praise going straight to your core as you tightened around his thick cock. Your walls couldn't stop gripping him as he slid in and out. “Knew your pussy would be greedy for me. Won’t let me go.”

Your head fell back against the pillow, dizzy as he trapped your body under his. As he rolled his hips, you wondered if he’d let you ride him at some point. Maybe he’d fuck up into you as he brought your hips down. Or maybe he’d lay back and cup your breasts, let the weight bounce in his hands as you took all of him.

You’d take whatever he gave you.

The growing pleasure within you was like you were burning from the inside out, each movement from him stoking the flames. His low groans mixed with your whines, his thrusts increasing in speed when he brought his thumb to your clit. Your hand worked its way back into his hair as you cried out his name, your control slipping further and further away as he took over.

“Just like that,” he moaned. “Don’t hold back on me. Wanna hear every pretty sound you make.”

“Bucky, I'm gonna…” you trailed off, your orgasm building fast in your core and ready to burst.

“Come,” he finished for you, a filthy smirk on his face as he laced his fingers with yours.

One more thrust and you were gone, his name falling from your lips as you came. Your mouth stayed open as you spasmed, pleasure rushing from head to toe. You panted and didn't care if you'd ever properly breathe again. That was how good it felt.

“I’m close, doll,” he gritted, resembling a growl as he continued to fuck you and chase his release. “Gonna come inside you. Gonna own you.”

“Come inside me, Bucky,” you begged, watching through half-lidded eyes as his face contorted in ecstasy. It was such an erotic sight. “Please.”

He buried himself deep with a long moan as he filled you in hot, thick spurts, nuzzling his face in your neck when he finished. He said your name as he heavily breathed against your neck and it was the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard. You wrapped your arms around him when he stayed inside you, not at all bothered as your mixed release slowly trickled out.

You didn't want him to let you go.

“Well,” you huffed, a dopey smile on your face as you ran your fingers through his hair. “I don't think we’ll have a problem convincing people we care about each other.”

He chuckled, kissing your warm skin. “And we won't have a problem sharing a bed,” he said, keeping you close as you yawned. “Sleep, doll. I’ve got you.”

“I’ve got you, too,” you said, feeling him smile against you as you drifted off.

The delicious ache between your thighs was the second thing you noticed when you woke up. The first, of course, was Bucky’s arm and leg draped over you: warm, protective, perfect. He was still fast asleep, the blanket pooled around his waist, completely at ease with the world. You could get used to waking up like this.

You hesitated before you touched his cheek, not wanting to wake him as you kissed his forehead. You wished you had time to kiss every scar on his body and worship him the way he said he wanted to worship you. The two of you would have to leave the bed sooner or later. There was work to do.

“Mmm. Morning,” he said, his voice laced with sleep as he cracked an eye open.

“Morning,” you whispered, cuddling closer as he brought your hand to his mouth and kissed over the ring. The motion made you brush against his crotch and you were close enough to hear the hitch in his breath. You did it again, keeping your gaze innocent as he opened his eyes more and groaned.

Yes, there was work to do, but it was still early.

“You’re still horny? Didn’t I fuck you hard enough last night?” He teased.

“Yeah, I’m still horny,” you replied. Waking up next to him would arouse anyone. “Need you to fuck me again.”

“You won’t be able to walk if I fuck you again,” he smirked, rolling on top of you and digging his fingers into your waist.

“Should’ve known you’d be a cocky boyfriend,” you teased back, your heart thundering in your chest as he leaned down and skimmed kisses along your jaw. “Sorry, we didn’t put a label on this and there’s still stuff to figure out and the mission and-”

“Hey. Boyfriend, your man, whatever you want to call me, I’m yours,” he cut you off, his mouth drifting to your neck. “And I still owe you a date, got it? You’re my girl. You’re mine.”

“I'm yours,” you gasped when he nipped your skin hard enough to sting, his tongue soothing it after. You were his and he was yours. “So, we're a couple now? Just like that?” You smiled as he worked his way back to your lips.

Bucky answered you with a kiss. “Just like that.”

I struggled a bit with this one after having to scrap almost 2k and go in another direction, but I ended up falling in love with it. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[lamiadrowned]

*:･ﾟ✧ sweet like sugar venom

jinx x fem!reader | nsfw

there are many unexpectedly rewarding things about going out with a girl who is mostly seen as nothing but an enemy of the public– a menace to everybody that she doesn’t feel deserves her kindness.

of course, there are ways she expresses her fondness and respect for those who she deems deserving, like silco and sevika (and sometimes thieram, if he can talk to her long enough without becoming visibly uncomfortable by some of the things she says).

but, it seems you’ve been granted the most special treatment by jinx as she learns the ropes of affection and becomes acquainted with the idea of being loved, and showing love in return.

you’ve gotten used to finding trinkets made of scrap metal marked with a signature paint that is unmistakably done by her, or small music boxes that play an off-key rendition of a song she’d overheard you listening to. sometimes, you get to keep them. other times, they explode into a plume of colorful smoke with a reverberating bang.

you’ve also gotten used to her odd compliments. she may not be the best with her words, but one thing is for certain– she’s never been hesitant to say what’s on her mind, even if her idea of a compliment often leaves you bewildered more than anything.

regardless of how she shows her love, you’re often discovering new depths to how sweet she can be.

how sweet she is when she hugs you, as if it’s the last time she’ll ever see you every time she gets her arms around you.

how sweet she is when she kisses you, feeling the giddy smile on her lips as they intertwine with yours.

how sweet she tastes, melting like chocolate under your tongue, one hand gripping the sheets of your bed while the other holds a fistful of your hair.

if it were your choice, you’d stay like this forever– kneeling between her trembling thighs that fight against the tough grip your hands have on them, struggling to keep her legs spread for you while you work your magic. it’s a luxury that’s reserved especially for you, a rare showcase of vulnerability that nobody else gets to see.

it makes you feel worthy, and oddly possessive.

“just like that!” she cries out, fingers gripping your hair hard enough to make you groan. you love how vocal she is. how controlling she tries to be, even when you’re the one in control. “fuck, i’m– i’m gonna–”

you wrap your lips around her clit and snake one of your hands down her stomach, brushing over the goosebumps that follow, and slowly ease your middle finger inside of her. with a single curl upwards into that spot that makes her see stars every time, your hear her let out a long gasp, see her legs tense up as her back arches impossibly high off the bed, and wince at the feeling of her nearly pulling the hair out of your head with how hard she tugs it.

when she finally eases up, jinx’s body goes visibly limp, left in the silent bliss of a post-orgasmic daze. that is, until she gasps when you going back for more– ducking down further to lick up some of the sticky mess she made and moaning at the taste. the vibration makes her choke out a quiet whimper, throat awfully sore from all the screams you’d pulled from the depths of her bare chest.

you don’t let up until she uses a much more gentle, yet firm grip on your hair to pull you away. it isn’t surprising for her to see that signature look on your face; a mix between smugness and pure adoration.

you prop yourself up on your hands and lean down to press your lips to hers, ensuring she can taste herself, only because you know the effect it has on her. she uses the last bit of her otherwise endless stamina to grab your shoulders and flip you onto your back, quickly shuffling to lay herself on top of you with a low growl.

“don’t get overzealous on me, now,” you joke, looking up at her mischievous grin with a skeptical expression. “if you start something, you have to finish it.”

“finish you, you mean?” she tilts her head, frizzy blue hair falling like curtains around your face. one of her hands trails up to your throat, gently wrapping around it and applying enough pressure for you to go pliant beneath her. “you know i don’t like it when you underestimate me.”

you reach up and place your hand over hers, squeezing it as a notion for her to tighten her grip, and she gives you a toothy smile, her eyes wide and observant. so sweet. “i know.”