#have you heard him speak… so poetic for what

[swampthingking]

the thought of cracking the spine of a book makes kevin nauseous. he like opens it just enough to see the words and holds the book at such uncomfortable angles to read— anything to keep the book pristine and intact. he does not let people borrow his books because he is a control freak (as a term of endearment) and does not trust them to take care of them the way he does.

and andrew is the complete opposite, cracking the spine as soon as he opens it. he annotates in pen. he dog ears the pages because who the fuck has time to find a bookmark. he throws books out of anger. he throws them at aaron for fun. he lets them get smashed and torn in his bag. he always keeps them, he just prefers them to look like they’ve been read.

[slytherinslut0]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 10th. tom riddle — oral sex, experienced!tom.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. I 2024

summary: your ex couldn’t make you orgasm, so you were certain you were broken. tom shows you just how wrong you are.

warnings: 18+, SMUTTT MDNI, tom riddle can eat me aliv—sorry who tf said that?, tom riddle is such a realist; he sees a problem and he finds a solution, tom is a munch, praise kink, oral f!receiving, experienced tom, hufflepuff!reader.

Months pass, and your project remains the only thing Tom ever prioritizes when it's you asking.

Progress is slow—slow because you're usually far too busy talking to actually focus—yet, he always stays. He listens, even when the things you say should bore him, even when they mean nothing at all. He sits there—giving you hardly the barest scraps of himself in return as you fill the space between you with everything that crosses your mind.

Things he'd never waste a second hearing from anyone else.

And tonight, to no-one's surprise, you're doing it again—rambling on about nothing and everything all at once. You've got this way of talking—weaving tangents into something almost poetic, and usually, he lets it fade into the background as he works. You're saying something about the differences between the seasons, or maybe it's just some other kind of sentimental nonsense—at this point, he's not entirely sure.

It's easy to tune out. He tells himself he's not really listening.

Until—

"Actually, I guess I should clarify that—it's all hypothetical. I don't date," he doesn't know what you said before this, but he's certainly intrigued by it now. "And really, it has nothing to do with like, self esteem or anything, I'm just broken. Best to save someone the trouble."

That stops him cold. It's not so much the declaration that you don't date—he could have guessed that himself—but more so the way you've just called yourself broken.

It's not a word he's ever heard you use before.

"What do you mean, broken?" He asks, the question coming out far more blunt than he probably intended.

It just seems so out of character for you—you've always been an optimist, far too annoyingly positive to speak of anything this way. He blinks when you freeze, and blinks again when a moment of self consciousness seems to pass over your face—and he notes how that's a first for you, too.

"Broken...as in, uh, not normal," your eyes flit down to your lap, tracing the wood beneath where you're seated on the floor in his dorm. "My ex made that very clear in his assessment of me."

The mention of an ex is something he'd been anticipating—you're in your twenties, after all—but it's the idea that your ex is the source of you calling yourself broken, that he can't quite swallow.

"You're 'broken' because of one ex?" He says, and he can't stop how derisive and skeptical his voice sounds. He doesn't care to try. "I'm not following."

"I'm what you'd call, damaged goods, I think," you murmur, and there's an almost self-deprecating smirk on your face. He can't help but think how he's never seen that look on you, either. "I've got a slew of unhealthy baggage that comes along with me. You know, childhood traumas, abandonment issues, daddy issues—"

He snorts at that—daddy issues—and your head snaps up, smirk deepening despite yourself.

"Don't snort at my daddy issues," you huff, and there's a familiar annoyance in your voice that puts him at ease. "They're valid and real."

"I'm not denying their validity," he counters, his own smirk beginning to surface. "But daddy issues? Come on. You're not some tired cliché ripped out of a teenage romance novel. I refuse to accept your declaration of brokenness until you give me factual reasoning."

You laugh at that—alive and genuine—and for a moment, he's reminded of why he even tolerates you in his space at all.

"Fine," you cross your arms over your chest. "What do you want to know then?"

He makes a low, contemplative sound at that—because there's a million questions that come to mind with the words damaged goods—and after a moment, he settles on the one that falls out first.

"What is it, precisely, that makes you broken?"

You sigh, a bit theatrically—he knows you're just putting on a show and he wants to laugh at you for it—but he reigns that in, for now, while you figure out how you're going to respond to that.

The truth is, you don't know how to tell him the real reason you're broken—the part that has nothing to do with the laundry list of emotional baggage you could rattle off with ease. It's something...different.

Something more physical.

"I don't know, okay?" You're getting defensive. You're not sure why but you are. "Just—forget I said anything. We have this assignment to—"

"You dodging the question tells me it's more than just psychological," he cuts you off, leaning back into the couch. The way he's looking at you makes it clear—there's no way he's letting this go. "You getting defensive tells me you're embarrassed by it."

You sigh again, leaning back on your palms to mirror his body language, though it doesn't feel half as natural on you as it does on him.

"And you, being an insufferable arse, is telling me I never should have mentioned it in the first place."

His smirk at that makes you want to glare at him.

"Stop dodging," he says. "You brought it up. You don't get to take it back."

It's a challenge—the gleam in his eyes is practically screaming so. You're not sure why the sight of it makes something low in your stomach clench, and you're even less sure of why you want to tell him something like this—something you haven't told anyone else—not friends, certainly not family.

Whatever the reasoning, you can feel yourself relent.

"Maybe," you pause, the look on his face makes you second guess yourself. "...maybe I don't want to tell you because I'm afraid you'll look at me differently." You glance down at your lap, fingers twitching against the yellow pleats of your skirt before finally meeting his eyes again. "And I kind of like the way you look at me now."

Something like curiosity passes over his expression at that—but it's quickly hidden by the type of skepticism that tells you he still doesn't believe you're being serious.

"You're overthinking it," he replies, unmoving. "Whatever it is you think you're going to tell me, I'm not going to look at you differently. You're still you—no filter, unabashedly verbal—"

"Too verbal. Too positive, too loud," you finish his sentence for him—because you know that's how he thinks of you. "Too annoyingly optimistic. Far too hufflepuff for your cold snake skin. I know."

"Exactly," he says, tongue running over his bottom lip in attempt to quell his smirk. "So I reiterate. There's nothing you could tell me that would change that."

"Fine," you relent, giving in begrudgingly because you know there's no other option. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

He just lifts a hand at that, as if to say; whatever you think it is, I can handle it. The action makes you suck a breath into your lungs, trapping it there.

"You're right," you say after a long exhale. "I have a slew of psychological bullshit that would take the span of a year for me to fully go over in one sitting—but, I'm fine with it. That's...that's not the thing that made me call myself broken."

He says nothing, just makes a motion with his eyes for you to keep going.

"It's, uhm...physical." You whisper, and your brain is moving too much and too fast and you're not even completely sure how to say it without sounding insane. "And...I don't know, I just...I can't orgasm. No matter what. I just can't—it's frustrating and embarrassing and it's the reason my ex ended things."

There's a silence that follows, and he knows if it were anyone else, they'd probably find a way to comfort you. Reassure you. Tom, however, isn't anyone else—

"You're joking," he says, and his tone is incredulous again.

A self-depreciating laugh leaves your lips involuntarily, the sound of it making you almost want to cringe.

"Would it be less embarrassing if I was?"

He's still just watching you, dissecting your words as if waiting for you to crack a smile and confess this was all some stupid joke—and the vulnerability of it aches like a stab to the gut.

"This is the reason you think you're broken?" Is what he goes with when he finally realizes you're being serious. "Because you haven’t orgasmed?"

The bluntness of it makes you flush, makes you wish you could sink into the floor. "I know it's not normal, okay—"

"It's not an abnormality, either," he asserts, with casualty. "You might just have a disconnect."

You blink, caught off guard—not just by his choice of words, but by how matter-of-fact he sounds, like this isn't the mortifying confession it feels like.

"A disconnect?"

"A disconnect," he repeats, looking you over, something clinical slipping into his eyes. "Between mind and body. And considering how loud your thoughts are—"

"Hey—" you snap, suddenly feeling a bit indignant, but he just continues on.

"—it's not surprising that you can't get out of your own head."

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him he's not a therapist, so what the hell does he know? But the certainty in his expression makes you pause. He doesn't look patronizing or condescending, just...assured. Like he knows exactly what he's talking about.

You hesitate, lips parting, a protest forming on your tongue. Before you can say anything, though, he raises a hand to stop you.

"Come here," he says, standing up from the couch.

You blink, trying to decipher what the hell he's implying—because if anything, the last thing that's going to make you less paranoid about intimacy is proximity.

"What?"

He just looks at you, making a motion with two fingers, beckoning you to stand.

"Don't ask questions. Just come here."

It's an order, and it makes your spine tingle in a way that's definitely not comfortable—but you get up from the floor, and move closer to him anyway, closing the distance between you with only a few steps until you're close enough to him that you can practically feel the heat that seems to come off him in waves.

It's weird—he's suddenly too much all at once—you're so much more aware of him being in front of you than you think you've ever been before and it does not help that he's just looking at you—as if studying you—blinking only once as he raises those same two fingers to your neck, resting them against the pulse point at your throat.

Your entire body tenses. His touch is far more gentle than you ever imagined it being, something disarming that makes your pulse beat faster against his fingers as a result—and because this is Tom, with all his smug and certainty—he gives you a look that tells you he can feel it before he slides his fingers up to rest on your forehead.

You scowl at the motion, but he clicks his tongue, the sound as condescending as it is amused.

"I told you, you're an overthinker." He murmurs, eyes dipping to your lips. "Too much noise."

You want to refute that—mostly because you're not overthinking, you can't be—he's just so unequivocally overwhelming—

"I'm not—"

You start, but he moves his fingers from your forehead and places them against your lips—

"Quiet." He scolds, and that makes something low in your stomach clench. "Your body knows what to do. You're just letting your thoughts get in the way."

You long to protest again, just for the sake of defiance—but then his fingers are against your collarbone, and that motion in your stomach becomes a bit more of a squirm—

"Your body is trying to tell you something," he whispers, watching each little hitch in your breath. "But you're too busy talking over it to hear what it's saying."

You realize—with a sort of horror that's laced with something a little more uncomfortable—that he's right. Your body is trying to say something. It's communicating through the unsteady force of your breaths, through the clench of your fists against your skirt—

Of course, he notices. He's noticing far too much.

"Relax," he murmurs, and now he's trailing those same two fingers in an unhurried path down your shoulder. You suddenly regret every decision that led to you wearing a T-shirt. "I'm not going to bite you."

Something about the way he says it makes you wish he wasn't quite so convincing—the familiar banter you long for gone with the sharp exhale that comes out of your mouth as his fingers encircle your wrist—

"Your pulse is racing," he says casually, far too casually for how much effort it's taking you not to scream. "Does that seem broken to you?"

Gods—you want to respond—you really, really do— but your thoughts flatline when you realize his touch has shifted. He's no longer just holding your wrist; he's guiding your hands to rest against his chest, and—

"There you go," he whispers, and the tone of it tells you he knows exactly what it is he's doing to you. "See? Your body's doing exactly what it's meant to do. You—" his fingers trail up your arms, and his voice gets lower. "—are not broken."

You swallow hard, acutely aware of your hands on his chest and the way your palms are clammy against the fabric of his shirt. He's shifting you now, deliberately crowding you, and it's only when you feel the edge of the couch press against the back of your calves that you realize—perhaps a second too late—exactly what it is he's doing.

You stumble back onto the leather, and he follows—crushing his lips to yours.

You gasp, startled, because despite everything you truly hadn't seen this coming. The kiss is messy, clumsy, and his hand finds the nape of your neck, tugging at your hair with just enough force to make it sting. And inevitably, when you gasp again, he takes it as an invitation to work his tongue into your mouth, other hand slipping under your shirt—trailing up your stomach.

You're trembling now, and he makes a low sound at the realization. Your brain is racing to catch up, and the irony of this isn't lost on you—he'd just claimed you weren't broken, but he might as well be destroying you himself.

He parts from your lips only to trail his own across your jaw—

"You're shaking," he murmurs with a smirk against your throat—as if he's taking immense pleasure in the fact—you hate how smug it makes him sound. "Do you want me to stop?"

You want to tell him he's being a bastard, but then his lips press to that spot on your neck—the one that makes your breath hitch and your pulse stutter—and you find yourself whimpering at the sensation.

"No," you breathe, and you'd be embarrassed by the pleading tone in your voice if you weren't so lost in the moment. "Don't stop."

He makes another low, satisfied noise at that.

"Good," he whispers. "No thinking. Just feel."

You swallow—throat dry. It's unfair how easily he's dismantling you with nothing but his mouth and hands. Unfair how he's leaving you breathless and unraveling while somehow making you feel seen in a way you can't explain, even with your eyes shut.

"Tom," you find yourself whimpering, and you aren't even sure what you're asking for—you just know you want more as his lips trail lower—as his fingers work to tug down your skirt. "Gods."

"Shh. Feel me," he murmurs, almost possessively, his lips brushing lower, grazing over your stomach, then your pelvis. "Let your body do the talking."

You've got your hands tangled in his hair before you even know what you're doing, and you hate the fact that you're pretty sure you'd melt into a puddle if he weren't holding you together.

"I feel you," you whimper as he kisses lower. "You're all I feel."

He makes another low sound at that, and you just know it's the response of ‘yeah, that’s right’—but then he's between your legs, panties shifted out of the way, and the first sweep of his tongue against your clit makes all coherent thought shift to static.

"Oh! God," you gasp, the word barely escaping before dissolving into a whimper when he does something with his tongue that makes your vision blur. "Tom—oh, fuck."

He just makes that smug, satisfied noise against you again before his tongue swirls over your clit and you find yourself almost cursing whatever deity made him so good at this, because it's not fair how quickly he reduced you to a whimpering, shaking mess beneath him and—

"Don't stop," you find yourself babbling, digging your nails into his scalp and knowing you look like a goddamn wreck as he makes a meal out of you—tongue lapping up your slick and swirling your clit before sealing his lips around it and forcing your back off the leather beneath it. "Please, don't stop, please—"

It's all you can manage to say. Your thighs are shaking now, and you're sure he's got you dripping all over his face with how soaked you are. He knows you're falling apart and he just keeps going— your brain ceasing function in favour of just focusing on how fucking close you are—how close you are to something you've never felt before in your life—and you're not even sure what you're begging for anymore but it's incoherent and loud—

"I need—" you whimper, your hands tightening in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan against you. You don't know what you're asking for, but you know he has it. "I need—I need—“

"Let go," he murmurs against you, the roughness in it vibrating up into your belly. "I dare you."

There's still a little bit of you functioning on autopilot, just enough to tell you that when he murmurs those words—vibrations rattling up your cunt and into your chest—you're completely done for.

It’s merely a few seconds later that your high reaches its peak and he just keeps lapping as you shake apart beneath him with an intensity you've never felt before in your life—orgasm shredding you apart at the seams. Your thighs clamp around his face, your eyes squeezed shut, ears ringing so loud you barely register his low, muttered praises: "good girl," "so good," "there you go."

You’re fairly positive your legs will never be able to support you again when you finally come back down, feeling entirely like jelly as he pulls back, tongue flicking over his lips to clean off whatever's left of you.

And without thinking, you grab him and pull him up, crashing your lips against his in a messy, desperate kiss. He tastes like you, like him, like something you can't quite describe—and it makes everything feel intense and unbearably real all at once.

He gives you a moment, as if letting you recover, just languidly kissing you back—and you have to be honest with yourself and admit that this kind of makes you want to scream.

"A disconnect," he smirks against your mouth, the tone still smug. You manage a weak smack to his shoulder, though it does nothing to wipe the satisfaction off his face. "Still sure you're broken?"

You hate that he's right. Hate that he's managed to pull a reaction from you that you didn't think was possible. But as you sit there, shaky and spent, you know you can't deny the truth: no, you're not broken.

"Not broken." You whisper back. "You will be though, if you don't stop smirking at me like that."

[felassan]

What's all this about Solas speaking in iambic pentameter? English isn't my first language so I never noticed anything odd about the way he talks, but your blog is the first time I've seen it mentioned by anyone

hello! ◕‿◕ Solas sometimes speaks in a specific pattern or rhythm. It sometimes gets described as or compared by people to iambic pentameter. (which is a type of rhythm common in traditional English poetry. Shakespeare used it in his sonnets and plays.) Though, I'm not sure that it's actually literally that or always that. The main point is that at those times, he's speaking particularly poetically, with a specific poetic rhythm in his speech. (Like where the stress on syllables is and the 'beats' in his speech.) Occasionally, the Inquisitor's dialogue line[s] in response to him are the same.

When Trick Weekes wrote Solas in DA:I, they wrote some of his key scenes to KD Lang's cover of the song Hallelujah on a loop. They talked about some of their process and the reasons for the use of this technique in terms of Solas' characterization in this DA:I-era blog post:

Trick Weekes: "When Solas talks about things that he saw in the Fade, things that speak to a distant past, I needed him to sound ever so slightly otherworldly and wistful – someone remembering a dream with a sense of both sadness and inevitability. If you follow [that link] and look at some of Solas’s lines, you may notice a familiar rhythm come out. It would have been forcing it to give lines the same rhyme scheme, but giving the words the meter captured some of that wistfulness and made Solas sound ever so slightly otherworldly. (In the rare cases the player got into the same rhythm, there was always an approval bump from Solas. For that brief period, it was like the player was thinking like he did.) I used this a few times over the game, and I love what it did to his voice. Also, Cori (who edited Solas) is exceedingly kind for putting up with my request that changes to those lines keep this surreptitious rhythm."

[source]

An example of when it happens in DA:I is:

"I've journeyed deep into the Fade // in ancient ruins and battlefields // to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I've watched as hosts of spirits clash // to reenact the bloody past // in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. Every great war // has its heroes. // I'm just curious // what kind you'll be."

Compare this with the song's lyrics:

"I heard there was a secret chord // That David played, and it pleased the Lord // You don't really care for music, do ya? Well it goes like this: The fourth, the fifth // The minor fall, the major lift // The baffled king composing Hallelujah Hallelujah // Hallelujah // Hallelujah // Hallelujah"

An example from Trespasser is:

"I lay in dark and dreaming sleep [I heard there was a secret chord] while countless wars and ages passed [That David played, and it pleased the Lord] I woke still weak a year before I joined you. [You don't really care for music, do ya?]" etc.

Recent mentions of this are:

Q. Will Solas still occasionally or dramatically speak in iambic pentameter? A. “Massive kudos to Patrick, who always writes Solas so well. Again, Solas is a returning character. It’s the same Solas you know and love (or hate depending on who you are). The same writer. So I think the answer is yeah, it’s Solas.” – John Epler

[source: BioWare dev Discord Q&A on June 14th]

User: "you really went off with solas. but the iambic pentameter makes writing fanfic dialogue for him so treacherous..." Trick Weekes: "It doesn't always have to be in the cadence! Just when he's deeply feeling The Old Days! He's written in standard prose 99% of the time!"

[source]

I think he does it a bit in the gameplay reveal video [Veil ripping scene with Varric] too. hope this helps :>

[msg refs this post]

[For the developer Q&A from June 14th on Discord: Notes are here, re-watch link is here]

[wooahaes]

a place you can come to, a place I can go to

pairing: non-idol!wonwoo x fem!reader, ft coworkers!96z

genre: romance. kinda fluffy. just a very soft fic of wonwoo coming home. established relationship.

warnings: mentions of reader and wonwoo discussing having kids one day. reader has bad eyesight. reader is mentioned to be introverted.

word count: 1.8k~

daisy's notes: title taken from the lyrics for home

Wonwoo woke up to the sound of the captain speaking, announcing that the plane would be landing within the next hour or so. With a stifled yawn, he popped open his glasses case and began to compose himself. He reached underneath the seat, pulling out his backpack and rifling through it. He found a small bag of cheap toiletries, snagged his water bottle, and squeezed past Soonyoung with a soft apology for waking him up. 

He made his way to the plane bathroom, and rubbed at his eyes after a moment. He popped open the bottle of water, wetting his toothbrush before he began doing a little bit of basic hygiene. He could have waited until he was in the airport, but he wasn’t traveling alone. Soonyoung was out there asleep, and he’d passed by where Jihoon was awake and on his laptop (always working, Wonwoo swore) next to a half-awake Jun. With his teeth brushed, he threw away the disposable  toothbrush—his own was tucked away properly in his bag, and he didn’t trust breaking it out in an airplane bathroom unless he was going to boil the thing later. Then he paused, taking a better look at himself. He looked a little tired. Would you notice that? How would you wax poetic about him this time? You once told Wonwoo that you saw him in every romantic lead you wrote, and he’d been flattered. 

He finally left the bathroom, squeezing past someone else with a quiet apology for taking so long, and passed by Jihoon once again. His coworker looked up, giving him a polite nod before looking back at his laptop for a moment. Wonwoo popped open the overhead, zipping the toiletries into his carry-on instead. The cap of his mouthwash felt faulty when he screwed it back on, and he’d rather spare his laptop from an accidental spill by shoving the cheap, plastic baggie back into his backpack. A moment later, he met Jihoon’s eyes again.

“It’s her birthday today, isn’t it?” He said, far too awake for how early it was. All Wonwoo gave him was a silent nod, and Jihoon shut his laptop. “Hold on, then.” 

Wonwoo just pressed himself against the side of Soonyoung’s seat as a single father passed by with his baby still curled up against his chest. He caught a glance of the sleeping child, chubby cheeks squished against her father’s chest. Would that be Wonwoo one day? Quietly moving to the front to ask a stewardess about something, just to avoid rousing any of the other passengers, his child asleep in his arms while you slept in your seat? He found himself diving into this daydream a little too much. He hoped his child would have your eyes, even though you’d always mused aloud saying you hoped that any kids you had would be like him. Smart, patient, kind, and they’d hopefully have some of his looks. 

“Hopefully they won’t get our eyesight,” you’d giggled at the thought, head resting against his shoulder. “God, imagine how fucked that would be.”

It earned a soft chuckle from him. He had made peace with the fact you cursed long ago. It was nice that you cut down on the habit for him, though (although he’d heard you when you were heated at someone over the phone). You respected him enough to cut back, and he respected you enough to understand that you would never entirely quit because you were you. If anything, you’d thanked him once for it: you slipped up sometimes at work and always apologized profusely for it, and dating Wonwoo helped you slow down and be conscious of what you were saying. 

He did agree, though: thankfully, eyesight was something easily taken care of, but it would be pretty fucked up if your kids had both vision problems the two of you had. You’d laughed when he told you those exact words, too, before kissing him and joking that you were a bad influence after all. He’d hold back what he thought, though. You could never be a bad influence on him. Not when you brought him so much joy.

Jihoon reached forward, tapping something against his side to get his attention back. Wonwoo turned, and it was just a plain envelope, although a little thicker than if it just contained paper. He accepted it from him with a quiet thanks.

“It’s just money and one of those pins you said she likes.” Jihoon ran his thumb along the side of his laptop. “You chose between a few of them and I bought the one you put back. Tell her I said happy birthday.” 

Not all of his friends were like this with you. Wonwoo knew Jihoon was, because it had been Jihoon and Soonyoung who introduced you two to one another. You had been a longtime friend of Soonyoung’s, and it was Jihoon who thought that you would get along well with Wonwoo. He’d only meant it in a friendly way, but Wonwoo remembered when he told Jihoon the two of you started dating. He’d looked up, blinked a few times, and then congratulated him on the new relationship. 

You told him at one point that you had lunch with the pair. After Soonyoung left to use the bathroom, Jihoon quietly asked you to take care of Wonwoo. It had made Wonwoo blush to know that Jihoon was looking after him so carefully, and he’d later offhandedly mentioned it to Jihoon. He joked that he usually saw the situation reversed in fiction: a leading lady’s friends telling him to take care of you.

Jihoon had looked up again. “I know you’ll take care of her,” was what he said, “so I wanted to make sure she does the same for you.” 

Wonwoo tucked the envelope into his bag once he settled back in, and a moment later felt Soonyoung shift and rest his head on Wonwoo’s shoulder. He just shut his eyes, resting his own head against Soonyoung’s as he enjoyed a few minutes of peace. Traveling for work wasn’t something out of the question for him—he was usually one of the ones going somewhere if anyone was going. But traveling without you? It felt weird after the first time. He would see things and quietly muse about how you would respond to them. The two of you went to Japan almost three years ago now, and he made sure that the two of you went when the cherry blossoms were blooming. His phone background was you staring up at the pink flowers, a candid he was thankful to have taken. The soft, amazed look in your eyes, the way your lips were slightly parted, all too astonished at how beautiful nature could be. It was saved for his home screen, though. A little memory exclusive to him and you and anyone who happened to notice you in that moment. His lock screen would always be a picture of the two of you together with you centered, the apple of his eye and love of his life. 

The plane eventually landed, and Wonwoo stood with Soonyoung as the pair waited for Jihoon and Jun to rejoin them. Soonyoung had been half-asleep, swaying into Wonwoo’s side a few too many times. Wonwoo just wrapped an arm around him, patting his head. He’d been unable to sleep with the turbulence earlier in the flight, and Wonwoo couldn’t blame him. 

Even still… His mind was on you. Would you be awake by the time he came home? As much as he hated knowing it, you had to work today. The two of you had already set the plans in stone before he left for this trip: he would take you out tonight to celebrate your birthday, and then the two of you would probably cuddle and sleep while recovering from work and travel. A comfortable night for two introverts in love.

Wonwoo was the one who drove everyone home with the company car. First Soonyoung, who had Jihoon following after him to make sure he didn’t trip on the stairs up to his apartment and bust something in the fall. Then Jun, who waved him onward while insisting that he go ahead and drop Jihoon off and hurry back to you. Jihoon had thanked Wonwoo for returning the car to the company, heading up to his own house with his bag hanging off of his shoulder. And then it was just Wonwoo, listening to the radio as he relaxed against the driver’s seat. Soon enough, he was on his way home to you. The cab dropped him off outside the little home he owned with you, and he walked up the stone pathway. Had you taken care of the yard, keeping it all nice and neat? Or did you get Mingyu to do it, like Wonwoo said you could? You had always insisted that you could handle everything just fine, but Wonwoo had always believed there was no shame in passing the work onto someone else (especially someone who had offered) if you wanted to rest instead. In the end, it didn’t matter. The work had been done. 

Wonwoo unlocked the front door, quietly making his way inside. He set his bag down, stretching one final time before he started to put himself in order. Tennis shoes on the shelf next to your own, house slippers pulled out from where you must have put them while cleaning the entryway, keys back on their hook… It was nice to be home again. He had bought home new things to decorate your home with, but he’d unpack them from his luggage later. Wonwoo just picked his bag back up, and made his way to your bedroom together. He cracked the door open, smiling to himself when he saw you still curled up asleep. You still had time before you had to get up for work, thankfully. And he…

Well. As much as he wanted to stay awake longer, he needed a little more sleep, too. So he left his bag by the door and crawled into bed with you, leaving his glasses on the nightstand. He turned over, ready to curl up and fall asleep, only to stop and admire you. He’d tease you later for drooling in your sleep (you made fun of his bed head so, so many times by now—it was a love language between the two of you). He just reached forward, pulling the blanket back over you so you could sleep comfortably.

Yet you stirred awake right after, eyes searching for his own in the low light. “Wonwoo…” Your voice was hoarse and quiet, but he still heard his name clear as day. You tugged at his shirt, drawing closer as you curled up in his arms. Then he felt you press a sleepy kiss to the underside of his jaw before snuggling back in. “You’re home.”

He just held you closer, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m home,” he confirmed once your arms were around him. “Happy birthday, my love.”

taglist: @twancingyunhao@synthetickitsune@wonuziex@porridgesblog@staranghae @weird-bookworm @bangchansbae @laylasbunbunny @bewoyewo

[taesanluv3r]

sleeping beauty

park sungho x reader

established relationship fic, as requested in this ask! this is the cutest thing i've ever thought of TT it came to mind right before bed and i ran down my bunk bed to type it out in my notes app LMAO. sungho calls reader princess :3 lowercase intended, pls ignore any spelling mistakes/grammatical errors. enjoyyyy!

wc: 1,742

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖

"my princess...wherever could you be?"

park sungho sighs but laughs a little at his tendency to speak poetically like he were in a shakespearean novel. he's standing by the tallest tree in the local park, his fluffy hair blowing in the air as a gust of cool wind passed by him. he's been waiting there for over fifteen minutes past their meeting time. it was too out of the ordinary for his girlfriend to be this late. so where was she? where was the usually punctual yn ln?

another minute goes by and the boy decides he couldn't stand it anymore. worried, and hurriedly he begins to walk towards the direction of her house - maybe he'd meet her half-way, otherwise, he'd just have to give her place a visit.

it being the latter, sungho arrives at her front door. he knocks on it once, and then twice before he was greeted by her mother's surprised smile. "sungho! hello sweetheart, what brings you here?" the woman's voice was pleasant; she's quite fond of the sweet boy by the door. "hey mrs. ln, i was just wondering if yn was home? she was running a little late to our date...i got a bit worried, that's all" he, too, ends his sentence with a soft smile, similar to that on the woman's face.

"oh, why she just came back from work about an hour ago...haven't seen her since she went to her room! why don't you come in? it's getting cold out here"

the boy follows the woman in, closing the door behind him as he entered the cozy home. "that poor girl..." his girlfriend's mom speaks up again, peaking the guy's interest. "she's been so busy lately...all with work and college. hardly get's any sleep, that girl! good she's finally on a break, today was her last day of the term, see..." a light-bulb went off in his head at the woman's words.

that must be it, he thought, she must've fallen asleep.

after getting the permission, and excusing himself from the down-stairs living room, sungho begins to climb up the carpeted steps. he takes a left at the end of the short hallway, passing by many pictures of his partner's family before finally making it to her bedroom. polite as ever, the boy knocks softly on the door to let the girl inside know of his presence. only when he heard no response did he let himself in.

"hey princess..."

the nickname he had gotten so used to calling her fades out of his mouth, his lips closing quickly to stop any further noise. there she was - yn ln was fast asleep on the edge of her bed. it didn't quite look like a comfortable slumber however; the girl still had on all her work clothes, the bag she took with her to campus early in the morning slouched over on the floor leaning against her bed-frame as if she had just tossed it there. and her bed itself was a whole mess of its own. sheets unfolded, books and papers scattered all over, the remains of her make-up from when she got ready clustered on her bed-side table, right next to the piles of clothes that stacked up on the floor.

once again the boy sighs, he hadn't visited her home in a while - he had no clue, how much the love of his life had been struggling.

"oh princess..." he calls to her again, though the only sound that came out of her were silent snores. sungho scans the room once more, nodding as the gears in his head began to turn. he scrunches up the long sleeves of his blue knitted sweater, tucking the loose ends of his long-ish hair behind his ears.

first, he moved away everything that was on top of her bed over to the floor, making sure the slumberous girl had the room she needed to rest a little better. then, carefully, he bended down to lift her into his arms as softly as humanly possible so as to not wake her. his hands move down her body to unbutton her work uniform, removing it and tossing it where the rest of her laundry was. he does the same with her jeans, and the rest of her clothes. he stops momentarily to grab a t-shirt from her closet, helping her into it slowly. the boy moves her to the further right side of the mattress - her favourite spot. he drapes the pale pink blanket over her body, stopping right below the chin. he watches as she shifts unconsciously, her body sinking deeper into the covers. sungho takes a step closer, pressing his lips to her forehead and whispering softly into her ear. "sleep well, princess" she smiles, as if she were fully aware of his presence.

"now...where to begin?"

for the next hour or so, park sungho quietly roams around the girl's bedroom. he had put her papers away, placed her books back onto their shelf, hung her bag in the closet, and carefully closed the lids on all her beauty products, putting them down one by one in the separate sections of the drawer under her vanity. he takes a moment to breathe, and to look back at his sleeping beauty, still fast asleep.

then, he dives into the pile of clothes on her floor. he sorts them into piles of whites and coloured before stuffing them into her two laundry baskets that sat in the corner of her bathroom - while he was in there, he took it upon himself to pick up the chunks of her hair that clogged up the sink, wiping her mirror down with a damp cloth as well.

finally, he arranges the mess atop the TV stand, reorganizing her tiny action figures, and picking up the pictures that had fallen off of her wall collage beside the TV. he smiles as his fingers graze the surface of a particular photo-strip; it was from their very first date. he chuckles softly at the obvious awkwardness emitted on his younger face. sungho picks up a push-pin, placing the image on the empty spot it had been in before on the cork-board. he takes a step back, focusing in on each and every picture she had in the collection. his eyes glimmer a little, each photo provoking a different emotion. once again, he falls in love with her.

"su...sungho?"

the familiar voice of his girlfriend steals his attention. the boy turns around at once, meeting eyes with yn. "oh, you're awake!" he says, a smile creeping onto his lips. the girl reciprocates before letting out a yawn. she rubs one eye with the back of her hand, the other one tapping on the spot beside her, inviting him to come over. sungho giggles, but wastes no time in climbing onto the bed.

"what're you doing here-" she cuts herself off with a gasp, "did you clean my room?!" he laughs once more at the shocked expression on her face. "mhm...you were like fifteen minutes late to our date so i got worried and came over here" she gasps again, "oh no...oh, i'm so sorry, sungho! i must've fallen asleep when i got home from work and-" he interrupts her, "shh, don't even worry about it princess" his voice is just above a whisper. he looks deep into her eyes, his hand moving up to caress her cheek. the girl's face gets warm, a red-ish tint painting her complexion at her boyfriend's touch-y antics.

"and..." she begins to speak but stutters a bit, "and my room...you didn't have to clean it all, i was gonna do it tomorrow" he shakes his head, "nonsense..." he leans in to kiss her, their lips colliding ever so sweetly with each other. "...you deserve to rest, princess. i took care of everything for you, okay? so you don't have to stress" sighing, she nods. his hands are still pressed against her cheeks, and their faces so close to each other that their foreheads touched.

"i'm sorry i didn't show up before...that wasn't part of the plan"

they laid down now, his back against the plush bedding and her head on his chest, moving up and down slowly with his every breath, and some netflix show playing on the TV. he shakes his head again, "i told you to stop apologizing, yn..." she laughs, "you know i can't help it sometimes" they didn't speak much after that, just embracing the warmth that came from each of their bodies. his slender fingers danced into her hair, the same way her own ones twirled against his abdomen.

she scoots up suddenly, nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck. yn places but the lightest pecks against his skin, feeling the goosebumps that formed all over him. she stops to look at him, examining every crease on his face, every crevice, every slight movement. sungho turns his gaze away from the television, face-to-face with her again.

with no words exchanged, the couple melted into each other once more. she had moved to sit on his lap, each of her hands on either side of his broad shoulders. his own gripped onto her waist beneath her shirt- not in any way that was suggestive at all, he just wanted to be in contact with her skin. in fact, this whole moment was wholesome more than anything else.

"sungho" she sighs, catching her breath. "what is it, princess?" he asks, just as breathlessly. "thank you" he smiles, "anything for you..." the boy trails off, carefully flipping the girl over so that she laid below him. sungho holds himself up by an arm, the other one smoothing over her hair and stopping by her chin. yn can't help the butterflies that swarm through her stomach.

they switch positions again, back to the one they had been in before; her head hidden between his shoulder and his jawline, his arms wrapped tightly around her.

"i love you" she says all of a sudden, not quite coherently as a yawn took over her voice. the weight of her body against his got heavier, as if she had fully succumbed to his embrace. "i love you more..." he replies, laughing slightly when he turns down to see her fast asleep all over again. park sungho leans in to kiss her once more, even when she wasn't awake, a blush grew onto yn ln's cheeks.

"...my sleeping beauty"

the end.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖

aaaaaah i loved writing this so much. ily bf sungho TTTTTTTTTT hope u guys enjoyed this. as usual, feedback and reblogs r very appreciated! tysm for reading :3 love, kona.

[slut4thebroken]

That Night.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Jason Todd x Wayne!reader

Summary | Jason missed yet another date, but this time it was your breaking point.

Warnings | angsttt, emotional neglect?, break ups, Jay is just a lil stupid but we love him, fluff, comfort, Dick is the older brother I wish I had smh

Words | 3k

Notes | Not saying I wrote this because of a personal thing I’ve been going through with a friend… but I wrote this because of a personal thing I’ve been going through with a friend.

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

You sighed and dropped your purse onto the couch, then flopped down beside it. This was the third date night he’s missed in a row. What makes it infinitely worse is that this was your anniversary dinner. 

A year. An entire year you’ve been understanding, supportive… but all that’s done is make him realize that you’ll tolerate that behavior. So it got worse and worse. It started with showing up late to things, or having to cancel but getting you flowers and promising to make it up to you. Now though, half the time he doesn’t even remember that he forgot. 

With a heavy breath, you bent down to unclasp your heels and toss them to the side. You felt stupid. The original plan was to meet there, rather than both of you leaving together, since he needed to do something beforehand. That should’ve been your first warning. But you still had faith he'd show up. In fact, you had faith for about 45 minutes before paying for your wine and leaving, getting looks of pity from staff and customers alike on your way out. 

He also hasn’t planned anything for the past couple of months. It was always you. Honestly, part of you thought he’d forget he even had a girlfriend if it weren’t for you trying to plan dates or dinners or just spending time together. But on the off chance that he could actually show up, he usually had to leave early. 

You’ve been trying so hard to make this work, but you’re getting tired. You missed the boyfriend you had a year ago— the one who made you a priority, who took you on a date at least once a week. And you know that if it were earlier in the relationship, you would’ve left by now. But you love him more than anything so you tried to fight and make it work. But it was only you trying, so it was doomed from the start. 

Breaking up on our anniversary would be pretty poetic, you reasoned, trying to make the terrifying thought a little less scary. You got up to get another glass of wine, then sat back down on the couch, thinking. 

You weren’t sure how much time had passed before the front door was opening and closing quietly, but your glass was long empty by now and if you weren’t so anxious, you would’ve fallen asleep. 

“What are you still doing up?” He asked, looking at you in surprise since you’re usually in bed when he gets home.  

“I need to talk to you.” You said quietly, clearing your throat and adjusting your position on the couch. 

“Okay… That sounds awfully ominous.” He chuckled nervously, taking a seat next to you. “Why are you so dressed up?” Any doubts you might’ve had instantly disappeared because of that one innocent question. You swallowed thickly and looked at your lap, trying to wait until after you at least said it to start crying. 

“I can’t do this anymore.” You did your best to speak clearly, even as your voice started trembling. 

“What?” You’ve never heard him sound so caught off guard. 

“I- I’m breaking up with you.” You forced out, taking a deep breath. But the worst of it wasn't done yet. 

“Baby,” He reached for your hands but you gently pulled them away.  

“Please don’t make this harder for me, Jason.” Not Jay. Just Jason. 

“I don’t understand.” He said quietly, hands going back to his own lap. “Can you please look at me?” You bit your lip and took a deep breath, trying to prepare yourself to see his face so that you wouldn’t change your mind. When you looked up, his brows were furrowed as he examined you. 

“Can you at least tell me why?” A tear escaped your waterline when you heard the way his voice quavered. 

“Seriously?” You scoffed in disbelief. “Why do you think?”  

“I don’t know! I-“ He cut himself off when his gaze focused on your dress and then on your heels near your feet. “Fuck- oh fuck. Baby, I- I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t be. It’s just repetition compulsion.” You offered a rueful shrug. “Dating a vigilante with no time for a personal life was my own fault, I should’ve realized it would’ve been the same as being Batman’s daughter.” 

“No- no, princess, please. Just- let me make it up to you. Please.”

“Jay, please don’t.” You whispered. 

“Baby, c’mon, please let me try.” 

“Do you even remember why we were going on a date tonight?” You snapped, eyes filling with more and more tears the longer he remained silent. “It was our anniversary.” You said quietly, brushing away the tears falling down your cheeks. “I’ve put up with this for almost a year because I loved you and I wanted this to work so badly, but I can’t do it anymore.” You all but whimpered, averting your gaze. 

“Loved?” He said through a breath, making you sigh. “You don’t love me anymore?” 

“I— I don’t know…” You do still love him. But admitting that would make it harder to walk away. 

“Oh.” You chanced a glance at him and watched the way he rapidly wiped the tears from his cheeks, trying to keep his composure. “And there’s nothing I can do to fix this?” He croaked, not able to look at you.

“You’re not going to give up the mask anytime soon, so no, Jason.” You said quietly. 

He was the one who left that night, saying he was going to stay at Roy’s to give you space. He didn’t come home the next day either though. You spent the entirety of that time either crying or sleeping. The amount of messages on your phone— that made your heart break just a little bit more every time you realized it wasn’t from Jason— was getting overwhelming so you turned it off, just wanting to be sad in peace. But that peace was interrupted on the second day after that night. 

You groaned at the knock on your door and continued laying on the couch, hoping they’d leave. But they knocked again, more urgently this time. Letting out a heavy sigh you forced yourself to get up and open the door. 

Dick’s expression went from irritation to confusion to complete pity in a matter of seconds. 

“Can I come in?” He asked and you just shrugged in response, then walked back to the couch, letting him close the door. “I was going to ask if something happened with Jason but based on your general appearance and the state of your apartment, I’m guessing the answer is yes.” 

“What do you want, Grayson?” You sighed, watching him sit down next to you. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked softly. 

“We broke up. Is that what you want to hear?” You snapped, looking away from him as you bit the inside of your cheek. 

“That makes sense actually. Are you okay?” 

“What do you mean that makes sense?” You asked, looking back at him with furrowed brows. 

“…Red Hood,” He almost seemed hesitant to say his name, “has been significantly more… violent, the past two days. Bruce and I thought something might’ve happened. We didn’t think it’d be this though.” You scoffed and rolled your eyes. 

“Of course he is.” You spat bitterly. It always used to hurt knowing how much harder he fights for his reputation and the people for Gotham, than for you. You felt like the other woman most of the time. “Will you let my dad know I’m probably going to stay at the manor for a couple weeks until I can get a new apartment?” At least he wouldn’t ask as many questions as Dick. You weren’t looking forward to Alfred’s unwanted, but very accurate, input and guidance on the situation though. 

“Sure… So it’s really done then?” He asked tentatively, testing the waters. 

“I’ve put up with this kind of behavior enough from my dad. But at least he never forgot any important dates. So yes, it’s really done.” He was silent for a moment, probably trying to piece together what date Jason forgot. 

“Anniversary?” 

“A year.” You confirmed, almost apathetically. 

“Jesus.” 

“Yep. I’m the one who planned the dinner and made the reservation, which he forgot about. He also didn’t get a gift, like we both decided we’d do.” 

“I’m sorry, kid.” He frowned, placing a hand on your shoulder. 

“It’s fine. It’s been like this for a while. That night was just the final straw for me.” You shrugged, trying not to give into your emotions. His hand remained on your shoulder and you bit your lip as it started trembling. 

Why does this have to hurt so fucking bad? Maybe you should just get back together because at least that pain was better than this. This pain made you want to cut your heart out of your chest to get a break from the constant ache you were feeling. 

You let out a choked sob and Dick pulled you into him, letting you bury your face in his chest as you cried. You clutched onto his shirt and tried to calm yourself down, to focus on his warmth and the way he was lightly rubbing your back. But it all reminded you of Jason. The way that he used to hold you when he was actually home for longer than ten hours a day. 

“Is it me?” You whimpered, trying to take a deep breath, but having it waver as you let out another sob. 

“What?” 

“Am I— am I just not as important as the rest of Gotham?” You choked out, making him pull back to look at you. 

“Hey, don’t say that. Bruce never really got the hang of the family-vigilante balance. Even right now with Tim he’s still struggling. And as for Jason…” He reached up to lightly brush the tears from your face as he frowned. “It’s a learned behavior. Trust me, I only unlearned it after Kory threatened to fly me into space because of it.” You let out a quiet chuckle, the feeling of humor feeling weird mixed with the heartbreak you’ve become accustomed to. “And even then, I still struggle with it. My point is, he loves you so much. I’m sure if you threaten to fly him into space he’d try to fix it.” 

“I don’t know… I’ve been trying so hard for months, Dick, and I’m so tired… I just can’t.” 

“You’re not the one who needs to try.” Right. You didn’t think about that. Would it really be worth it though? Old habits die hard after all. “Look, you don’t have to take my advice, but I’d give him another chance. The second he starts slipping back into his old ways though, it’s done. But at least let him try to fix it. You might be surprised.” You let out a heavy sigh and looked down, playing with a loose thread on the sleeve of your hoodie. 

“You’re probably right. I’m just scared, Dick.” You said quietly. 

“I’ll make you a deal. If I’m wrong and he fucks it up again, I’ll take your place at any charity galas or events Bruce hosts for a year.”  

“A year?” You asked, eyebrows raised in surprise. 

“A year.” He nodded. 

“You know that’s like at least five right?” You smiled. 

“That’s how confident I am.” 

“Fine. But only because I want to get out of all those events.” You both knew that you were hoping for the opposite outcome though. You wanted him to try— to be better. You wanted to be important enough for him to want to change. 

Pls come home when you can.

Causal enough. But your heart was fucking racing. 

You cleaned up around the apartment, then took a shower and changed into some clean clothes before texting him. Part of you was absolutely terrified. What if he doesn’t even want to try? What if you make a fool out of yourself? The only pro would be getting out of going to events for a whole year, which was enough for you to just send the text anyway. 

You were sitting on the couch when the front door quietly opened, the scene feeling eerily similar to that night. The door closed softly and his footsteps were even softer. He stood in the living room, hands in his pants pockets, and you studied him, frowning at the darkness of his under eyes. 

“Do you want to sit?” You asked, when he just stood there. He nodded and tentatively moved to sit on the couch as far away from you as possible. 

“I’m not sure where this is going so I don’t exactly know what I should say…” He admitted sheepishly. 

“I don’t want to stay broken up.” 

“You don’t?” He asked with wide eyes. 

“No. But if we get back together, things need to change. I’ve felt second to Gotham my entire life, I don’t need that in a relationship too. I’m not asking you to give it up completely, but I’m tired of being the second priority.” 

“I’ll give it up.” He said suddenly. “If you want me to, I will… I just need you. Without you, I need the mask and I don’t want to be that way. I like who I am with you— you make me better.” 

“You don’t need to do that, Jay.” You said softly, trying not to let the butterflies in your stomach consume you. 

“Maybe not, but I would.” He moved closed, then hesitantly reached for your hands, waiting for you to pull them back again, but you never did. “With you, I’m not the angry little kid using this to escape my emotions or the angry, traumatized zombie hell bent on revenge. I’m just Jason— just Jay.” 

“Did Roy help you rehearse that?” You chuckled, trying to bring the attention away from your blushing cheeks and flustered demeanor. 

“He called me crazy when I practiced it— made a bet that I wouldn’t be able to last a week without it.” He laughed quietly with you, then brought your hand up to softly kiss your knuckles. “But these two days were the worst pain I’ve ever felt— I’d honestly take a crowbar over this any day.” 

“Oh my god- don’t say that.” You giggled, lightly slapping his arm, your blush intensifying. 

“It’s true though. Every word. You want to settle down, get a nice little house in the suburbs with a white picket fence, maybe a dog and some kids? I’m game. I just need to be with you.” 

“Woah there, cowboy. You need to propose before you start talking to me about being a suburban family with a dog.” 

“Is that your way of saying that if I proposed, you’d say yes?” He teased, but you could tell he was trying to play it off and not seem like he was genuinely asking. 

“Probably, to be honest.” You shrugged, nonchalant. The answer was yes though. If he proposed, you’d say yes before he could even finish asking. 

“Good to know. I’m not getting your father’s blessing though. I’d say it’s out of respect for you as an autonomous woman in the 21st century, but it’s more just out of spite.” 

“I figured.” You chuckled. “But seriously, Jason, I’m not asking you to give that up. If we do decide to settle down and have kids, that’s a different story— there’s not a chance in hell I’m continuing the cycle of an emotionally and physically absent father, so you better be ready to drop it all in a heartbeat.” 

“What about… guys night once a month where Roy and I get together and beat the shit out of some bad guys for old times sake?” You narrowed your eyes at him, but couldn’t hide your smile. 

“You drive a hard bargain… but fine. Guys night once a month and that’s it.” 

“Yes ma’am.” He grabbed you and effortlessly placed you onto his lap. “I love you.” He murmured, placing a soft kiss on your neck to hide his blushing face. “More than anything. And I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” You said quietly, wrapping your hands around him and placing one on the back of his head to play with his hair. 

“It’s not okay though.” He said, pulling back. “Part of the reason I love being with you is because you never put up with any of my shit. You always used to call me out, never let me walk all over you.” He reached up and lightly pushed your hair behind your ear. “So I- I didn’t realize that anything was wrong— I’m not trying to make excuses and it shouldn’t be your burden alone to tell me to get my act together, but every once in a while, if you’re noticing a pattern you don’t like, please don’t just put up with it.” He cupped your cheek as his eyes bored into yours in an almost hypnotizing way.

“I love you so much and I’d do anything for you. You deserve so much more than being someone’s second priority and I’m sorry that I haven’t acted like it.” You gave him a small smile, trying not to get nervous and distant because of the affection— another thing you have your dad to thank for. 

“I love you too.” You said quietly. “Thank you for the apology, I appreciate it.” The corners of his lips turned up and he leaned forward to give you a quick kiss. And to think, only yesterday you were content to wallow in self pity and sadness, accepting the fact that you tried as hard as you could, but somethings just aren’t meant to be. 

“Dick was right.” You suddenly realized, making his expression turn into one of confusion. “God- he’s going to hold this over my head for the rest of my life.” You groaned, leaning forward so your head was in the crook of his neck. 

“What was Dick right about?” He asked, trying to sound amused, but the confusion was clear in his tone. 

“That you’d change and just need me to threaten to fly you into space to remind you to keep your act together.” He snorted a laugh, but you could tell he was still very confused. 

“Yeah that sounds like Dick. I can’t say I’m too upset about it though, since he got you to change your mind.” 

“Don’t ever tell him that.” You warned. “His ego does not need to get any bigger.” 

“Trust me, princess. That’s the last thing I want.” The chuckled, placing his hands on your hips. 

me 🤝 not knowing how to end one shots

[hannamoon143]

Tired- beabadoobee

Han jisung with "Tired" from beabadoobee, for the fall series

Genre: Angst

Warnings: su?cide, depression, unhealthy eating habits, crying

Word count: 766 w

a/n: We r starting into the fall series with this angsty drabble, inspired by „Tired“ by beabadoobee. Hope yall like it. Soon other members will follow, with more angst and also  some good fluff ^^pls give me some songs tho, I need some more🙏🏻 (just write into my inbox) Have a cozy fall, now take your fluffy blanket, a hot cocoa, and read<33

It was freezing. The cold autumns breeze was seeping into your bones. The rooftop was empty. It felt like there was only you, your thoughts and the clear night sky in this world. Well that was until you heard the door creak open behind you. You didn’t have to turn around, there was only one person that would be searching you up here. You heared han’s quick footsteps approaching and then he grabs you by the shoulder, pulling you back a bit so you turn around to him. He looks at you, his breath coming out in little white clouds. „Why are you up here again y/n?“ His voice was quivering, both of you knowing the answer. You just looked at the citylights around you again.

„You could have called me y/n. I told you before that you can call, text or even facetime me when you can’t sleep.“ He spoke, his voice urgent. He made a little pause, probably expecting you to say something. „Is it the sound of your own thoughts keeping you up again?“

You stared at the stars and the moon, so beautiful, so perfect, but so far away you couldn’t reach them. You let out a little hoarse chuckle, at wich han looks at you a bit irritated. You know he hates when you are sarcastical. But this time, your words aren’t. No, you don’t have the energy for your snarky comments.

„Maybe it’s time to say goodbye Hannie.“ You still didn’t look at him, your voice was calm and your gaze in a small smile, looking somewhere far away from here.

Han let’s out a shaky breath and stares at you. „Y/n, stop saying shit like this and let’s go home okay? You can come to my apartment and you can sleep in the one sweater from me you love so much, and we can cuddle alright? I’ll let you sleep in my bed, and we can listen to my records that you always want to listen to.“ He desperately spoke, gripping your arm. He didn’t want to hear your words, no he just couldn’t believe you were serious.

You remained quiet, gaze just calmly elsewhere. It frustrated han. It frustrated him you were like this, that you wouldn’t let him help you. „Come on y/n! Don’t be like that. Don’t speak in this calm voice with this neutral face, when we both know you want to cry, to scream, to punch something. Don’t bottle it up y/n. Please, please talk to me!“ His voice grew loud and desperate. He was scared. Scared because this wasn’t you. He felt like you were fading slowly somewhere else, and it scared him so fucking much. He didn’t notice the tears running down his cheeks. He wished it was you who cried. But you were just looking all neutral, like your mind was in a deep, numb slumber.

He didn’t think and wrapped his arms around you from behind, his tears dropping onto your sweater. He wanted to actually drag you into his apartment and just make you understand what you were doing to yourself, and that he wanted to help you more than anything else, when he felt your slim figure in his arms. This wasn’t you. This was a girl, only skin and bones, with seemingly no emotions. He buried his face deeper in the crook of your neck, and whispered: „Were you even eating at all…“ More to himself than to you. You kept being quiet.  Wouldn’t it be poetic if the last thing you saw on this world were the moon with it’s beautiful little stars around it?  

„I’m just getting pretty fucking tired.“ You said. Your voice was clear, yet so far away. Han was sobbing now, his arms remaining around you, mumbling things to try and comfort you, or maybe even himself. You heard a few words and sentences between his sobs. „No that’s not true. I love you, please i can help you, please let me i-… This is not you, you just need some rest and….and…“ You smiled at the moon. You were realeasing his trembling arms, and before he could react you stepped closer to the edge. He wasn’t able to stop you anymore. And oh, how poetic, that the last thing he saw of you, was a smile, pretty but tired like the moon. And you, you saw the moon, and it’s stars, before you gently closed your eyes. „Bye my love.“ You whispered, before the cold ground hit you.

taglist: @0omillo0 @lina-linny @darqlys @onementally-unstabel-kid

[suzannahnatters]

Let Your Knights Weep

One of the big things I've had to train myself out of when writing medieval historical fiction?

The stiff upper lip.

This used to really bewilder my editor, who for some time attempted to nudge me away from having my grown men weep and wail and blubber, but for me it's an essential part of the setting. Whether in grief or fear, medieval people did not hold things back.

Here are some of my favourite quotes to explain.

First, a couple from two great 20th century medievalists:

CS Lewis in his Letters put it this way:

“By the way, don't 'weep inwardly' and get a sore throat. If you must weep, weep: a good honest howl! I suspect we - and especially, my sex - don't cry enough now-a-days. Aeneas and Hector and Beowulf, Roland and Lancelot blubbered like schoolgirls, so why shouldn't we?”

Dorothy Sayers, in her fabulous Introduction to her translation of THE SONG OF ROLAND, speaking of Charlemagne discovering Roland's body on the battlefield:

Here too, I think we must not reckon it weakness in him that he is overcome by grief for Roland’s death, that he faints upon the body and has to be raised up by the barons and supported by them while he utters his lament. There are fashions in sensibility as in everything else. The idea that a strong man should react to great personal and national calamities by a slight compression of the lips and by silently throwing his cigarette into the fireplace is of very recent origin. By the standards of feudal epic, Charlemagne’s behaviour is perfectly correct. Fainting, weeping, and lamenting is what the situation calls for. The assembled knights and barons all decorously follow his example. They punctuate his lament with appropriate responses:

By hundred thousand the French for sorrow sigh; There’s none of them but utters grievous cries.

At the end of the next laisse:

He tears his beard that is so white of hue, Tears from his head his white hair by the roots; And of the French an hundred thousand swoon.

We may take this response as being ritual and poetic; grief, like everything else in the Epic, is displayed on the heroic scale. Though men of the eleventh century did, in fact, display their emotions much more openly than we do, there is no reason to suppose that they made a practice of fainting away in chorus. But the gesture had their approval; that was how they liked to think of people behaving. In every age, art holds up to us the standard pattern of exemplary conduct, and real life does its best to conform. From Charlemagne’s weeping and fainting we can draw no conclusions about his character except that the poet has represented him as a perfect model of the “man of feeling” in the taste of the period.

OK, now let's dig into some quotes that I found just in Christopher Tyerman's Chronicles of the First Crusade and Joinville's Life of St Louis:

Truly you would have grieved and sobbed in pity when the Turks killed any of our men....

As for the knights, they stood about in a great state of gloom, wringing their hands because they were so frightened and miserable, not knowing what to do with themselves and their armour, and offering to sell their shields, valuable breastplates and helmets for threepence or fivepence or any price they could get....

When Guy, who was a very honourable knight, had heard these lies, he and all the others began to weep and to make loud lamentation....

They stayed in the houses cowering, some some for hunger and some for fear of the Turks....

Now at vigils, the time of trust in God’s compassion, many gave up hope and hurriedly lowered themselves with ropes from the wall-tops; and in the city soldiers, returning from the encounter, circulated widely a rumour that mass decapitation of the defenders was in store. To add weight to the terror, they too fled…

In the course of that day’s battle there had been many people, and of fine appearance too, who had come very shamefully flying over the little bridge you know of and had fled away so panic-stricken that all our attempts to make them stay with us had been in vain. I could tell you some of their names, but shall refrain from doing so, because they are now dead.

I could go on looking for quotes in all the other medieval literature I've read, but that would be beyond the scope of this Tumblr post.

In the meantime, this leads me to make some comments on how trauma was perceived.

In Jonathan Riley-Smith's The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading, the author discusses the mental breakdowns suffered by the first crusaders during the second siege of Antioch, which caused many of them to flee at the moment of direst need:

In these stressful circumstances it is not surprising that the crusaders were often very frightened. At times, indeed, they seem to have been almost paralysed by a terror that they themselves could hardly comprehend. … When the crusade was bottled up in Antioch by Kerbogha's relief force it was gripped by such blind panic that there was the prospect of a mass break-out and on the night of 10 or 11 Juney 1098 Bohemond and Adhemar had the gates of the city closed. It is worth noting that many of those whom later chroniclers, writing after the events in comparative comfort in Europe, vilified for cowardice and desertion seem to have been treated more charitably by their fellow-crusaders, who must have understood what pressures they had been under.

--

In conclusion: the way we feel about things today in the English-speaking isn't necessarily the way people felt about things in the past (and this goes for other cultures, real or imagined, too). I'm continually catching myself writing people with stiff upper lips and emotional reservations, and having to remind myself that the culture was different back them. If a grown man wanted to weep, he could. That's a good thing. (Oh, and my medieval historical fantasy? Check out the Watchers of Outremer series on Amazon or wherever books are sold!)

[starry-bi-sky]

I'm slowly becoming obsessed with the childhood friends au and it's mostly bc of something you said in the tags of an ask lol. you mentioned that they weren't soulmates they were something better. that they were two balls of yarn they batted around until they were intertwined, that they chose and continue to choose to be as close as two souls can be.

it's so poetic, the idea that fate has nothing to do with it. they looked at each other and said this is it, that's the one. It makes me think of so many different quotes but here's just a few. Hozier "lay me gently in the cold dark earth, no grave can hold my body I'll crawl home to her (him)" or like patroclus saying that if Achilles were to die that "all things soft and beautiful would be buried with him" and poor Danny grieving so long and so hard because "what is grief if not love perserving?" when you're in love with someone, that person is the lighthouse of your universe and to lose them is to be thrown to a tempestuous sea.

and thinking of their reunion makes me feel a little crazy too cause I see what you've been plotting and it just makes me think of how their relationship is going to be at first. like here's a person that you love so deeply and it's been so long since you've seen them and you've both changed since. will they click back together seemingly effortlessly? attached at the hip for a bit because they're both/or one is scared of being separated again? or will there be some friction for a while while they try to realign their pieces to fit together, to figure out what's different and what's practically the same? "you are a language I am no longer fluent in but still remember how to read"

sorry for rambling, I love them your honor.

🫵 DONT YOU DARE APOLOGIZE FOR RAMBLING I LOVE GETTING RAMBLING ASKS. AND SAME.

There was this one sound on tiktok that I heard that reminded me of them, and I just went and found it, and it goes: "I would recognize you in another lifetime entirely in different bodies, different times, and i would love you in all of this. Until the very last star in the sky burnt out into oblivion." and the first time i heard it i literally thought "this is CFAU Danny and Jason"

AND YEAH THEY JUST. I love devoted characters, i love when characters are so deeply devoted and loyal to each other its like you can't imagine them being anywhere else but at each other's side. That wasn't wholly my intent when I first came up with CFAU last fall, but god I am not complaining about how it turned out. My favorite part of the chapter 1 rewrite is making sure Danny's devotion to Jason was reciprocal.

god those quotes. they're so accurate too. yeah. i thought about this au once in the context of a soulmate au, and just couldn't get behind it. It made their whole dynamic felt cheapened, like of course they're soulmates; it was destined. When no, it wasn't. They made it that way.

(If the two of them were somehow transported to a universe with soulmate marks, they would not have matching symbols. That's okay, Danny and Jason don't need them to be. They'd pick up a tattoo gun or a pen and make their own. They wouldn't call it a soulmate mark, just a them mark.)

("Why should I share my soul with some schmuck I don't know? I want to share my soul with you.")

yeah. their reunion is. ! about as exactly as intense as it needs to be :]. They've both changed so much, and they're both scared of being separated again. Jason purposely stayed away from Amity because he knew he couldn't keep away if he didn't. Being back together again is like having a piece of them returned.

SPEAKING OF QUOTES. Here's one:

I don't believe in the death that you're bringing The reason I'm living is you Wherever you go That's where I'll be Even if death tags along, I don't mind It's still you and me I'll never leave you alone

"Death's At My Door" - The Outsiders Musical

[hannahssimblr]

Days slink by, a haze of heat, blank, blue skies, the lazy buzz of insects, the trickle of a fountain. We enjoy the sights, eat the food, take a trip to Pompeii to wander on ancient, cracked stone. Crumbling pillars, sun worn brick, frescoes of decadence, excess, figures draped in togas, languishing about. Through glass enclosures we view plaster casts of Vesuvius victims with solemnity, feeling perhaps self righteous in our thoughtful sobriety while other tourists laugh and take photographs of themselves. 

The sunburn that follows feels almost poetic. At least that’s what Astrid says. Like the pain we feel is only a whisper, a ghost of what those poor people went through. Sometimes she says things like this to me, just, like, on the bus, or something, with such a serious face, and I’m forced to think of Jen. Jenny Smythe, laughing at the sad poetry kids in their thick, ugly shoes, waxing lyrical, interpretations of Plath’s work to the point of extreme awkwardness. What would she think of all this? Of the things I listen to, and in fact, actively indulge, without laughing at all. Without pointing out what may actually be hovering perilously close to the line of ‘honestly, a bit stupid’. “Well, yes, that’s a good point. I would have never thought of that,” I’ll say, and in so doing, allow it to continue. 

Mornings, I’ll wake, normally alone, and make breakfast, sometimes delighting in plucking a fresh orange from the tree outside, digging my thumbs into the flesh, eating it segment by segment in the garden, basking in the view while Astrid swims, or reads, or speaks to someone on the phone, fragments of conversation, Danish, floating through the foyer. Strange sounding language.

It twinges, still, the intimacy thing, like a sprain, as does the conversation we avoided the morning after. I don’t internalise, I compartmentalise, make a choice to not think about what it means; a young couple, five months in love, two gorgeous, fit, sensual bodies, and one, luxuriating in the bath upstairs, while the other masturbates in the shower, dodging the water. The hot, burned skin of his neck. 

Silvio and Suzana, of course, are still a factor of our afternoons and evenings. Trips together, meals, drinks, lounging beachside. Them, tongue kissing, practically dry humping on the sunbeds while Astrid reads a book and applies, methodically, punctually, on the hour, factor 80 sun cream to her tattoos. 

I hate them, actually. Loathe their very existence, there, touching each other, cooing into one another’s faces like infants. Can I do that for you, baby? What do you need, baby? That drink looks so yummy, can I try some? You’re so cute, no you, no you, no you.

There’s an understanding, a fact not lost on me, that I don’t actually hate them. Only their love and their affection. Why should they have it? What have they done to deserve it? Why not me? Et cetera. 

Astrid, when she’s feeing social, is not socialising with me, but Suzana. There by the shore, laughing like that, while I’m stuck with Silvio, trying to talk to me about Formula One racecars or something. Lewis Hamilton? Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of him, I think. Going out with the hot one from the Pussycat Dolls. 

He’ll always throw some comment in about his girlfriend, too. Like, “Look at her there, isn’t she gorgeous?” Like, yes, objectively, I suppose, but why are you asking me? 

Sometimes, for no reason, I’d like to punch him, but I picture it happening like a cartoon, where my fist would go kind of inside his head, turning his face inside out, and it’d take a second or two to pop back, like rubber. The reality would be like punching Fitzy on the rugby pitch in sixth year. When I flung myself at him and pretended it was an accident. “How’s your Chinese girlfriend?” he said. “The lads were saying you smell like fried rice.” I felt his nose crunch under my knuckles. It was weird. Blood on his face, up my arm, and when he collapsed onto the pitch with a groan, the exhalation sprayed a fountain of blood up my jersey. A gruesome victory. 

If I did that to Silvio, for what? Not being racist, for annoying me. How would that look? An intrusive image comes, him, clutching his face, blood pouring between his fingers while everyone screams: There’s a violent maniac on the beach! Like, no. I’m just a nineteen-year-old boy on holidays, and I’m very bored. 

Imagine the financial implications. The teeth alone. Teeth. I squint my eyes as he talks to me. It’s actually more like one tooth. One huge, horseshoe shaped tooth wedged into his gums. Uncanny. Ringing my dad, like, hey, I broke someone’s veneer. Singular. No, no, not the normal ones, but, like, one huge grotesque slab, the ones they put in animatronics. Do you have those in stock at the clinic? 

Late evening, one night after saying goodbye at another bar, we take the seafront route back to the villa. We can see it from here, lights in the windows yawning from the mountainside, Astrid’s heeled sandals clacking on the pavement. She’s going on about Sorrento. Why did we book Sorrento, anyway? An extra thousand euros for two nights, all because Elias said to her it was nice. Two extra nights spent being acutely miserable, when I could have done it for free in Berlin. Maybe she will invite Silvio and Suzana, too, as a fun joke. Ha ha, Jude, you thought you saw the last of them, but here they are! In Sorrento this time! 

These thoughts carry guilt. She walks ahead of me now, in a short dress that makes her body look sensational and the cruelty of life seem monumental. She’ll break up with me, probably, after all this, when she has squeezed the last she can from me. Used my money, sucked out my dignity. I flinch outwardly at that. Its viciousness shudders down my arms and out of my fingertips. This is the kind of thought to be ashamed of. An ugly thing. I never saw myself like them, those boys you’d get stuck with at school, their contempt for girls who didn’t like them. Stupid bitch, they’d say. She’s rotten anyway. Wouldn’t touch her if she begged.

Ugh. 

“Astrid.”

She stops, turns. The expression of surprise suits her face, makes her lovely. I move to kiss her.

Slippery satin under my hands, the silk of her hair over my arm. She’s warm and real. Lips soft and inviting.

“No, come on,” she’s saying. “Let’s just go back to the villa. I want to finish my book.”

“Astrid.”

“What?” Already, she’s leaving. 

“Come back.”

“Why?”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

She stops. “There’s nothing.”

“There is. You hardly let me touch you anymore.”

“Oh, Jude, please. We are in public.”

I look around us, vacant, cobbled streets. Cafes and shops shuttered. The perfect silence of night. “Sorry, what? You didn’t want to kiss me in front of all these people?” 

A sound. Short, dismissive, and indignation surges.

“Why do you do that? You just brush me off and act like I’m a burden.”

“Oh, stop. Honestly.”

“Like that. See? You just did it.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. You make me feel like I’m not worth speaking to.”

She huffs and stomps toward me, her arms crossed over herself. “Come, please. We can talk back in the villa.”

“We won’t. You won’t talk to me there. I know you’re just going to read in the bath for two hours until you think I’m asleep, and then creep into bed when you know I won’t pull the moves on you”

“So, you want to do this here?” She tosses her hands. “Standing in the street.”

“Please.”

“You’ve done this on purpose,” she says. “You kissed me here because you wanted to start an argument.”

“That’s bullshit,” I say, though maybe that is what I did. “It doesn’t matter anyway, does it? Here we are. I just want you to talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Preferably about what’s gone wrong, or what I’ve done to put you so drastically off me.”

She scoffs. 

“We haven’t had sex in weeks.”

“Is that the only thing you think about?”

“Well, it’s not, actually, believe it or not, but it’s been on my mind pretty regularly, seeing as recently I’m not doing it at all. Out of nowhere, too, like you switched off the fucking tap.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re so cold,” I cry, surprised by a swell of emotion. “I hate this, how I’m trying to talk to you and you stand there like that, like a robot or something. It’s like you’re punishing me. You won’t even tell me what I’ve done. Can you imagine how that feels?”

She hesitates, eyes flicking to the ground. “No,” she says. 

“Well, tell me so I can be sorry for it.”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“You don’t.”

“No,” her eyes flicker to mine, an unexpected uncertainty in them. “No. I really don’t know.”

Along the shore, the waves hiss through pebbles. The clunk of wooden shutters somewhere, drawing in over a window. 

“I’m confused too,” she says. “I don’t know why I feel this way, and I wish I didn’t.”

“Because you don’t fancy me anymore.”

Lips open, close, and her hand comes to her neck, blotchy, I see. Pink, abstract blobs like the ghosts of bruising. Like months ago now, when I bit her there. Haven't done that for a while now, as it involves being close. Access to her neck. “It’s normal for a relationship to have periods like this.”

“It’s never been like this for me.”

“Never?”

“No, I–” I sigh. The past: Never asked about, never offered. “My last girlfriend, you know, from school. We were constantly at it. It wasn’t a good relationship, in so much as we fought all the time. She was a bit volatile in her own way, but in… you know, the sex department, things were good. I liked it with her.”

“How long were you together?”

“About eleven months.”

She nods. “Maybe it’s different for me.”

“Well, what about you, then, and your, um, your other boyfriends?”

Her eyes flash in the moonlight. “I’ve never been with another man for as long as I’ve been with you.”

“What?”

“No, never. This is the longest. The steadiest thing I’ve had. I met you and I thought you were so cute; that maybe my life would be calmer with such a nice person.”

I blurt it: “But you were engaged.”

“Excuse me?”

“Last year, you went to Paris with a man. He asked you to marry him.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know. Someone told me months ago. Everyone knows.”

She stares, a light wind rippling across the hem of her dress. “Alright, well, it was meaningless. I said yes for fun. I didn't intend to actually marry him. It was like a play, and we were the actors. I hardly knew him at all. It was a thrill, and he was exciting for a while.”

“And me,” I say, foolish. “Am I exciting?”

She says nothing. A wrenching feeling in my chest.

“How was your sex life with him?”

“Don’t ask questions like that.”

“Well, there’s my answer then, isn’t it?”

“Jude, I–”

“What did he do for you I don’t? I do everything you say, I swear. At this point, I barely think about myself. I’m just,” I clench my fist, wanting to tear the front of my hair. “I’m just trying to make you happy, and it seems like the more I try, the further away I push you. That’s so confusing to me.”

“You are just… I do love you. Okay? You’re a kind person.”

“What do I have to do? Do I have to put you on the back of a motorcycle and whisk you away to Paris? How about Vegas? Would that be your taste? Lose all my money in a casino and marry you in a little Elvis chapel? Does that make you horny?”

“No, obviously not. That's tacky.”

“Then tell me what.”

“You’re…” exasperated. “You’re so nice. I know, and I’m thankful. You always do what I want you to do, but… I want you to do something else.”

Sharply. “What?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to have to tell you.”

“I don’t get you at all, Astrid, to be honest.”

“You should just do whatever you like to me.”

“I already do. What I like is making you happy.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “It’s…”

Frustration is fading into numbness as she trails off. “Am I getting this? You want me to do what you ask, but at the same time, you don’t. Now you want me to do whatever I like with you, but not if that involves doing what you ask.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“You think I should want something else?”

“Maybe.”

“Tell me.”

She’s struggling, eyes darting around, settling on nothing. “Well, what about the things men say to each other, or think on their own, but would never ask a woman to do? Isn’t it what you all secretly desire? To take a beautiful woman and disrespect her?”

“Ah, so you expect me to hit you across the face or something.”

It’s an outrageous thing to say to her, and my voice sounds loud, bellowing it through the streets in indignation. I imagine people inside their houses, the windows cracked, and listening. “He wants to hit her,” they’re whispering. “A crazed man. Someone help that poor girl.” 

“If you ever thought it would turn you on, I’d like to think you’d hold me down and do it.”

In the stunned silence that follows, she doesn’t waver. I reel back, abhorred.

“Have other guys done that to you?”

“Sometimes.”

Actual repulsion, then. A wave, like I might throw up over the pier. “Well, that makes me feel fucking sick, then.”

“You think I’m sick.”

“No, those guys are. They’re scum.”

“Fine, then pick something else.”

“Something else? Something worse than that, is it?”

“Anything you’ve ever wanted.”

My head buzzes, the sound of my own breath in my ears. Of course, I’ve had fantasies, things I’d like, but never admitted to. What about the things in my head when I’m having sex? The words that make me certain biblical hell is not real, for if it were, God would cast me down there for the crime of thinking them. Impure. Does she want me to say them out loud to her? But doesn’t it turn me on a bit, the imagined freedom of speaking them? The whole dirty dialogue, out loud, like, yes, this is what I think of you. This is how you look to me when I have you like that. This is what I’m doing to you. Tell me you like me doing it, and so on. It’s theoretically possible to say those things, but looking her in the eye and doing it...

“I’m only nineteen,” I say, my voice tearing. “Can you not just let me be nineteen for a while and have sex normally? You’ve clearly done all of this extreme stuff, and it freaks me out, to be honest. I can’t live up to that. Maybe we can work up to it, but this feels too sudden. Like, it’s jarring me. You assume I have all these secret fantasies about you and I’m holding back, but I’m not. I just love you, and I think you’re beautiful and I want to kiss and make love to you and talk afterwards in bed. That’s basically all.”

I don’t know how to read that look on her face, but there’s a feeling in my chest. A piece bored out of it, leaving behind something hollow. 

“Well,” she says, chin high. “That’s okay, then.”

“Is it okay?” I feel it is not okay, in fact, at all, but she’s already turning her back. “Astrid?”

“We should go back to the villa. My feet are hurting.”

A long, dreadful silence. “Alright,” and a finality in that.

We don’t walk together, but ten feet apart. Her ahead, the sound of her shoes, the moon rising, becoming full. The beauty of Amalfi, hills, sea, warmth in the air. I try to hold this; The way it feels, while I remember how it felt before. It wasn’t this way. Never had to be. Here I am wondering, in misery, if this is it. Adulthood. My parents, her parents, me and her. My life, a thousand times this, over and over again.

Beginning // Prev // Next

[sahisan]

★ summary: kuronushi x fem!reader. shibari with kuronushi. 300 followers special.

☆ cw: nsfw. shibari. praise (poetic praise exactly (or smth like that (i tried))). nushi is nice once again. use of 'slut' twice. use of petnames (songbird, darling). creampie. 1133 words.

☾ a/n: this is 300 followers special fic! thank you all so much for this number, ily all.⁠·⁠´⁠¯⁠`⁠(⁠>⁠▂⁠<⁠)⁠´⁠¯⁠`⁠·⁠. also REBLOG PLS IM SHADOWBANNED༎ຶ⁠‿⁠༎ຶ

a shaky exhale leaves your mouth as you watch kuronushi's hands - fingers firstly - tie the red ropes of shibari along your body. he glides them along your porcelain skin, cupping both of your bare breasts with the rope, making a perfect knot exactly in between your tits, then heading lower.

the only sounds are your occasional breaths and rustling of the bedsheets, or the sound of him tightening the knots all over you.

he hears how your breath hitches as his lips fleetingly hover over the skin on one of your breasts, and he grins, basically feeling the heat radiating from your figure. you gulp as kuronushi finishes with the ropes on your chest, his face now inches away from your own, and he begins to wrap the red ropes around your neck. you struggle to stay still, but since his thigh is right under your bare sopping cunt, you can't help the urge to grind slightly on it, desperate in getting any sort of friction since he's been on wrapping you in the silk ropes for what felt like ages for you.

one of nushi's hands stops you abruptly, holding your hip tightly enough to interrupt your little doings. "be still so i can drink you in with my eyes." he says into your ear sensually, voice a quiet whisper that sends shivers down your spine. you pout slightly, but stop your movements and try to stay still. he laughs quietly. "what a perfect pout you have."

after a few long moments, you decide to speak up quietly, voice a tad bit raspy. "are you done yet, nushi?.."

"just a bit more, my songbird. a few more knots and..." he replies, coming to tie another unit on your already tied hands to fixate them to the rope that goes from your neck. "there, all done."

you sigh in relief - but it's not really relief when your body is bound by all these red ropes. kuronushi made sure they're not too tight and not too loose.

you feel his hot breath right on your lips, his eyes staring into yours with a grin as the pads of his fingers trace lines on the skin on your back, and you let out a shaky exhale. his gaze moves to your mouth - your lips, exactly.

"your lips remind me of sakura petals. so soft and perfect for kissing." he murmurs, as he leans in to kiss you, pushing you back onto the mattress to finally pin you to the bed.

nushi's poetic phrases never fail to make you blush.

—

you whine when, in-between his slow and deliberate thrusts, kuronushi buries his face in the crook of your neck, sucking and nibbling on the skin there as he murmurs the best praise you could've ever heard in your life; that same praise mixed with the poetic phrases from his haiku.

"you're such a treasure..." he whispers, a soft whimper leaving his mouth as the tip of his cock presses onto your cervix, making you moan a loud "nushi-i!.." when breathing out. "so irresistible when i have all the control like this."

his hand glides under your waist, letting his fingers brush against the red ropes that hold your wrists together - his hand creeping lower to hold your lower back with his palm. you arch your back at his touch, making it easier for him to thrust a tad bit faster as he continues to make your skin blend in with the color of the ropes.

"your body- hhah- is a work of art... that i can't stop admiring." he whispers, letting our a small, shaky exhale as he feels the walls of your cunt clenching around his length.

"n-nushi- don't stop.." you mutter, quiet whimpers leaving your lips each time he thrusts his hips forward, bringing you closer and closer to your orgasm.

you wish you could hold him by his shoulders, bring his torso closer and closer until there's no air between your bodies, leave marks from your nails on his back all over, tug on his hair as you sloppily kiss his lips again and again, tongues intertwining together-

-but you're tied. by the damn shibari ropes that you're hopelessly tugging on with your hands and wrists, trying to get closer to him - but no avail.

"someone's trying to escape, huh?" kuronushi whispers, lips now biting on the shell of your ear as he watches you bite your lower lip.

" 'm not- just- ah!.." you moan out loud as he proceeds to thrust into you a bit more roughly now, picking up the pace. you silence yourself by slightly gritting your teeth and biting your lip yet again.

"tsk, no, my darling, keep that pretty mouth opened for me. i want to hear each and every of those lovely sounds of yours." kuronushi chuckles, his thumb coming to rest on your lower lip, sticking it out from the hold of your teeth.

he watches as you comply, and grins. "what a polite slut. you listen so well." he praises, voice getting a dark undertone as his hips continue to keep their rhythm. "what, are you going to cum, sweetheart?" he laughs, a tad bit mockingly, bringing his other thumb to your clit, massaging it to help you with your orgasm. your lips can't keep sealed anymore as you let out little whimpers and whines that start getting more and more uneven when you feel that the tight knot in the pit of your stomach is about to explode.

"nushi, nghh- yes, yes, gonna cum.. please, don't stop..." you mutter, eyelids closing as your body starts to writhe in the hold of the red ropes to get more of his touch.

"go on..." kuronushi taunts, his breathing a bit more erratic as he chases his own release too, thrusts getting more and more impatient at the feeling of your walls tightening around him. "cum on my cock like a good slut."

and that is when that knot inside you explodes. with a loud "nushi!" you tighten and clench around his length, cumming, writhing with your tied body, the shibari ropes adding more to all the friction along your skin. you hear his breath hitching as he feels you bucking you hips into his for a few more moments to ride out the aftermath of your release. a second after that, you sense kuronushi's seed spilling deep inside you, as he cums with a shaky, long whimper, burying his face in your neck as he bites the flesh there, making you squirm under him even more.

"oh... you're exquisite, my songbird." he whispers, breathing heavily in and out. "just as exquisite as the last rays of sun in sunset."

kuronushi will definitely write a new poem once you're both done, but now...

"one more, pretty please?"

[yourheart-inmyhands]

Hello, I'm the one who requested the Freminent and accidentally forgotten Zhongli with a S/o who has cute aggression towards them. If there is no issue could you also do the same for Zhongli, it's okay if not btw. (Also I loved the original with just Fremi)

hi hi! i'm glad to see you came back :D sorry for the wait, i usually end up writing late at night so i apologize for missing him the first time, here he is now though! i hope you enjoy :3c

Warning: this post contains yandere-themes, including obsessive behavior, mentions of starting forest fires, mentions of destroying cities, and other potential topics. Please read at your own risk!

Zhongli has seen a lot in his many, many years but this was… well this behavior was rather new to him. He had heard often the great lengths one would go to show their love and devotion to him back when he was still the Geo Archon, but to have his darling say they’d set all of Sumeru on fire was startling.

It isn’t to say he doesn’t like it, he’s quite flattered by it all, but you can expect constant reassurance from him that you aren’t actually going to do this. You- you wouldn’t actually start a forest fire, would you? Zhongli needs that little reminder every so often that you aren’t actually plotting such things, just using them as examples for expressing your intense feelings towards him.

Wanting to share in this cute behavior of yours, Zhongli starts vocalizing his love and affection for you as well. Instead of mimicking your cute aggression though, he uses historical quotes and references. You don’t always get them, but the delighted smile on his face whenever he says them to you, following your cute aggression comments is enough to have you falling in love with them anyways.

“I love you so much I could knock down all of Liyue with my bare hands.” Zhongli smiles at your comment, an adoring look on his face as his hands come up to gently cup yours. His thumbs brush over your cheeks, a shimmer of love in his eyes as he stares at you.

“Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, Did my heart fly at your service.” Zhongli’s words are smooth, falling from his lips in the same poetic manner they were written and memorized. Loving you comes easy to him, something that seems ingrained in his being as much as breathing has become. You make him feel human, make him feel like he can be soft and tender like one. Around you, Zhongli feels like he can love.

A lot of times his quotes sorta go over your head and that’s ok, he’s happy to repeat them as many times as you need or to sit down and explain what they mean to you. It just gives him a reason to spend even more time with you, something of which he adores.

If you ever showed deeper interest in any of his expressions of love, do know he would be more than happy to share whatever literature he found them in. Going through old books, reading and acting out long-forgotten plays, what was once a key token of history that now sits dusty on the shelves, he adores doing it all with you. Zhongli is such a hopeless romantic when it comes to you, he just adores you so much and cannot stand to ever be apart from you for long.

[firefly--bright]

unearthed.

jean kirstein x fem!reader, modern a.u., buzzfeed unsolved a.u.

summary ; you dont know just how many watchful souls listen to you and jean speak, waiting, watching. maybe it's just you, but the prison air feels warmer. warnings ; mentions of violence, a little horror (? literally just the tiniest bit), talks of death. cringe humor. a/n ; happy halloween my beloveds. crazy that halloween and diwali were on the same day. kinda poetic lowkey. im DEAD TIRED so ykw that means! happy fireflyfic day! (and happy diwali to those who celebrate :)) taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable , @zombiefiedskeivy

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿

The prison wasnt eerie, which should’ve struck you as concerning. 

No, rather, the opposite, the fact that it was a little too comfortable, a little too lived-in to be considered ghostly was what you found…weird. Or maybe it was jean’s presence next to yours, the coldness of the air masked by his warmth and stolen jacket perched over your shoulders that made the air feel a little more breathable.

Connie and marco are huddled over the camera, speaking in hushed whispers - some technical jargon that your brain is too tired to recognize. 

Jean shifted from beside you, adjusting his own coat - not stolen - and thumbed the straps over his chest that snuggly held a smaller camera so it fit better over him. He cleared his throat when he caught you zoning out, “know your lines?” he asked, a prompt for you to speak your mind. 

You smiled cheekily, looking at him under the dim, sole flashlight. “By heart. Scared, jean-boy?” 

“Dont call me that on camera, please,” he says, eyes screwing shut when you shine your light straight into them. 

“Have i ever embarrassed you? You do that to yourself more than i do,” “okay that’s…intentional. It helps with the character im going for.” you snort. “Damsel in distress?” he scoffs, “i had to save you last time, remember?” “that was just an excuse for you to hold my hand, you can admit it. The cameras arent rolling yet,” you tease, bumping your shoe with his worn-out converses. He lets you. There isnt much he doesnt let you do to him. 

“Alright, cameras are gonna start in three…two.. One!” marco’s voice is characteristically calming, even at a higher pitch.

 

Your shoulders stand straighter as you look into the lens, placing the flashlight right under your chin. “hello, watchers! Welcome back to another episode of Unearth - a series where we try to gather evidence of the paranormal to see who wins - a believer,” you say, pointing the light under jeans chin briefly before settling it back under yours, “or a skeptic.” “it’s not a competition,” “right. Of course not.” you say, winking into the camera. Its jean’s turn to speak, his voice a low baritone, and you can see his breath becoming foggy into the now november air. “We are here today at the Marley Prison, rumored to be the host of seventy percent of the state’s most wanted criminals since the early eighteen hundred's. And we’re standing infront of it now and it’s fucking creepy,” “right, and it was also incredibly overcrowded, so-” “-so just, a terrible place to live in.” “yeah, but they killed people,” “...right. Most of them.” “i’ve heard it smells like shit,” you say, almost forgetting that this might get broadcasted, but jean’s eyes on you seemed to have that effect. forgetting the size of your own beating hear, forgetting where you were, melting away any proof of life except his.

He smirks, looking straight at the camera once more. “Right, that’s why i have-” he pulls out a small spray bottle. From what you could read, the text flashed, “FLOWER POWER!” and your smile turned into a laugh. “- this air freshener right here.” “right. That’ll protect us.” “if i get possessed i’d want.. It to smell, like-” “-like flower power-” “right.” now the both of you are laughing, shoulders shaking.

“Great. Let’s head inside, guys,” marco says, smile on his face, and eren puts the camera down to view what he had gathered. 

“After you,” jean says, his shoes scruffing against the harsh stones underneath, spreading his arm infront of you as a guide.

“Pussy,” you muttered, making him sputter.

-

“Alright,” you say, settling on the cold hard ground. Cell number 509, holding the last inmate of the entire prison who passed away in the very same, cramped room. Only a mattress and a sink to keep him company, a small, hand-sized window on the wall opposite to the door, meant to be locked at all times. 

“Dangerous people in this place,” you say, mostly to yourself. Your partner was on the ground floor of the vicinity, in another building entirely, investigating by himself. You decided to split up to see if that might spite any spirits to act, planning on asking questions to the different people that were barely alive, living in the space so freely disturbed. The camera crew were also downstairs, waiting on the two of you to be done. All you had was an old walkie-talkie that connected to jean’s. 

“You there?” his voice - filled with static and concern - reaches the confines of the prison cell. “Yep. where are you?” you ask, sitting in the middle of the floor, pulling your knees up to your chest, your flashlight flickering. “Im at the uh… that punishment place.” “ah. Im in Dean Cooper’s cell.” “oh,” he says. “Why dont we just use our phones for this part?” he asks, a beep following him. You smile. “I dont know, actually. Do you- should we?” “yeah that’d be.. I mean, better communication. Audio..quality - there are so many bugs here,” he speaks as you switch your phone on, dialing his number. He picks up not even a second in.

“Okay, can you hear me better?” he asks, and you rest your back against the thick wall. The door - heavy and cold - is fully closed so you could get a better experience, the full creeps. You nod, knowing he cant see it. “yep. Its crazy that people had to live like this,” you speak, holding the microphone part of your device close to your mouth, his voice on speaker. Something alive to fill the walls, more than your own presence. “Yeah. well it’s crazy that they committed so many crimes, honestly,” “i know.” 

You’re supposed to be filming. Your camera is rolling already and youre supposed to be speaking to a presumed dead person but a holy one is roaming downstairs without you and all you have is his voice as proof. “Hey,” jean calls out, and you thank good network reception and technology to have his voice be so clear, without cuts, real against your hand. “Im at the uh… what’s it called? The place where they could talk to their loved ones right now.” “ah,” “it feels weird.” a beat of silence. “Weird how?” you ask, your voice quiet. 

“Like-” theres a shifting sound at the end of the line, followed by a slight creak. “- weird in the sense that… i dont know, like, people still loved and cared for quote-unquote bad people,” 

You hum. Your head now also rests against the wall, too unaware to keep it up, too comfortable to find your own muscles. “I dont know. You’re always better with the words and shit.” he says, and you give him a small laugh. “Words and shit?” “yeah like, you know what to say.” “i mean, these people are dead, jean, theres a real small chance they can even hear us.” “i know, but like, even to alive people.” its almost 3 am, your phone says, and your heart increases in size, a little too comfortable against your ribcage. 

Have you ever felt that before? the muscle that’s supposed to be contained in a confined space now opens itself up and you have no choice but to let it. It grows, bigger, until youre body is tattered and all that remains as proof is your heart, big and timid, still beating, waiting for jean’s eyes to look at it. You havent. You wonder if any of the people half-alive in this place have. 

“I mean, love is alot of patience,” you start, your fingers fiddling with the end of your jacket. A stray piece of thread. You hear him humming in agreement and continue, “maybe they just… couldnt say it. How many times have you been able to not say that you love someone, y’know? And then you get the chance to but then it gets lost in all the other unimportant things and maybe that… maybe that’s love. The unimportant things.” you say. Your fingers feel funny, tingly, hearing his voice saying something at the end of your sentence. Youre too caught up to say something important as a reply.

So you settle. Listen. “Like, imagining this place alive… y’know. Like not in a creepy way but in like… it’s - like so much time passed, and so much was said here.” he says. His voice holds importance in your hands, and you trace shapes into the side of your phone with your thumb as if its the back of his hand and you’ve taken it in yours, cold and patient, unimportant. Tracing shapes that cant be seen. He hears them though. It’s in every pause he takes, every breath he hears on your end of the line and he wonders if you know how your alive-ness makes him braver than the night. Brave enough to know that speaking is something to be accomplished, that you’re listening.

 

He stares at the glass window in front of him, sitting on the chairs that prisoners used to sit on with hope in their eyes. At least, that’s how he imagines it. Theres a small hole in the window, enough only to catch a couple breaths and silenced sentences and he can only imagine how the other person mightve felt, seeing their loved one behind a blurry and unkept screen.

“Im not going to empathize with them, obviously, but, i feel like… i mean, obviously this place was built to be inhumane. The fact that they even included that section of the prison, though.. I dont know. it's kinda nice.” you say, and he closes his eyes to pretend youre in front of him. Its not that hard, in all honesty, because your voice fills his ears and he’d rather listen to proof of the living - with her shoe kicking his, with her voice teasing his shrieks - rather than the minute but present proof of the dead. He knew someone - barely alive souls, watching - had to be listening to your conversation but he also knew that he was listening to it too and he’d rather commit to the cold of your familiar hands than the unfortunately lived-in warmth of this place.

“It is.” he agrees, his chin tilting up, his shoulders relaxing. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone, microphone to his lips with the speaker on. He wasnt alone. His phone’s screen is blurry and unkept, but he wasnt alone. 

“Y’know that’s what i find kind of… i dont know, comforting? About like, something this hopeless. That, like.. There’s a recreational room that they had. Like the option was there for them to sit down there and talk, maybe. I dont know how that wouldve gone-” you say, voice ending in a self-aware laugh, making him smile, “-but it was there, right. Same with this communication room…thingie. Like the option of loving is there.” 

Your voice floats against the walls of the room, touches the glasses separating him and the world, before coming back to him. His chest feels funny, more aware that it’s there. Not just as an organ and something trivial that helps him breathe but now as something larger than himself. Something less candid, hidden under layers of clothing and skin built to be thick, raised to be soft, and it almost lays there, in front of him, inhaling the sound of your voice like it’s a new source of oxygen. And it grows. Alive.

“Option of loving,” he echoes, eyes now fluttering open and looking at the expanse of the tattered ceiling above him, spotting shapes. Option of loving. “Like even now there’s like.. Im sitting here, and there’s notches on the wall. Like the… four standing lines and then a slash through them. Like the hope of getting out isnt gone. Its… cool how humans just do that.” you say. He clings onto every word, his own little prayer against the dark, unsaid but important. Option of loving.

He looks back infront of him, staring at the glass window again. Theres gunk in the corners of it and spiderwebs claiming it as their home in a place as haunted as this. “And even if i dont… believe in ghosts it’s like…cool to think about in the sense that, i dont know, everything is a proof of life. Y’know?” you ask, ready for confirmation knowing that he’d provide it to you. Anything you’d ask.

“Thats… i didnt see it like that,” he admits, “i mean i just saw it as like… confirmation that dead people are dead and that if there’s an afterlife we have to chose a right way to live, something we’re proud of, so that we dont regret it when we’re… dead and roaming the halls, waiting to be found, yknow?” “like grief.” you answer, and he shifts in his seat, getting a bit more comfortable. He nods, knowing you wont see it. “Yeah. kind of.” “that’s…poetic. We should start a podcast-” “-shut up,” and both your voices are broken up by laughs, short and warm and proof of being alive and roaming the halls, waiting to be found.

There’s a dog howling in the distance. No light in the room that you’re in, barely any air, coolness of november flush against your skin despite your layers. His voice holds you, a little blanket, cocooning you around yourself. “Hey, you’re supposed to come find me,” you say, reminding him of his task of peering into the halls, asking ghosts and bugs to come closer to him. Whatever’s alive or half-dead or half-alive or half-already-living. “And you’re supposed to play twenty questions with your hot date,” “i think he’s pretty cold, actually,” you say, he laughs. Another shift in fabric, another creak - he’s gotten up from his place on the chair, now warmed, soon to be claimed by the prison’s musty air, but for now it’s there. Fully alive. 

“My battery’s gonna die.” he says, voice a little solemn, his footsteps squeaking against the floor, rubber on hard cement. “We have walkie-talkies,” you provide, your voice full around it’s edges with your own smile and jean almost asks why youre smiling, but refrains. He’ll ask when he finds you. Or maybe he’ll tell you he’s in love with you. Or maybe the words will get lost under all the other unimportant things that he has to say to you. 

Or maybe that’s just what love is. The unimportant things, layered, hidden, chest and heart, large, warm, growing. 

[horoscope1078]

Pau sat in the corner of the locker room. His head hanging low as he fidgeted with his phone. His teammates Hector and Lamine were chatting animatedly nearby but Pau wasn’t really listening. His mind was somewhere else, specifically, on you. He had been crushing on you for months now but he just couldn’t work up the courage to tell you how he felt. Every time he thought about confessing his nerves got the best of him and he chickened out.

He let out a heavy sigh, catching Hector’s attention.

“Yo Pau, what’s up with you?” Hector asked tossing his towel over his shoulder as he walked over to him. “You’ve been quiet since training ended.”

Lamine who had been joking around with Hector moments ago joined them. “Yes man. You look like you’ve got something on your mind. Everything alright?”

Pau looked up at his friends, hesitating for a moment before speaking. “It’s this girl…”

Hector and Lamine exchanged a knowing look. “Ah... the girl. We’ve heard about her before” Lamine teased raising an eyebrow. “Still haven’t told her, have you?”

Pau shook his head feeling his face heat up. “No. Every time I get close.. I just.. I don’t know.. I freeze up. I want to tell her but I don’t know how to do it without making a fool of myself.”

Hector leaned against the lockers, crossing his arms with a grin. “Man.. you’re overthinking it. Just be confident and go for it. Girls love confidence.”

Lamine, however seemed to be more excited about giving Pau some advice. He rubbed his hands together, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Alright alright.. listen up. I’ve got the perfect plan for you. It’s simple. Write her a love letter.”

Pau blinked confused. “A love letter?”

“Yes man!” Lamine said nodding eagerly. “It’s old-school, romantic. Girls love that kind of stuff. You write something like ‘Dear crush, you light up my world like the stadium lights on game day. Every time I see you, my heart does a bicycle kick.’ ”

Hector snorted shaking his head. “A bicycle kick, really?”

Pau couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, I’m not sure that’s the right vibe Lamine.”

Lamine crossed his arms looking proud of himself. “Hey.. I’m just saying, it’s poetic. It’ll make her swoon.”

Hector rolled his eyes as stepping in with his own idea. “Forget the love letter. You need to do something bold, something that’ll get her attention for sure.” he thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Got it! Challenge her to a penalty shootout.”

Pau stared at Hector, half-amused and half-confused. “A penalty shootout? Seriously?”

“Yes! Hear me out” Hector said clearly excited by his own idea. “You invite her to the field, you both take turns shooting penalties and if she wins, you tell her your secret, you’ve been in love with her all along. If you win, same thing. Either way, you’ve got to confess. It’s a win-win!”

Pau rubbed his face with his hands, laughing but also groaning. “Guys.. I don’t think I can confess my feelings through a football match.”

“Why not?” Lamine piped up. “Football’s your thing Pau! It’s how you communicate with the world.”

Hector nodded in agreement. “Exactly. Make it fun. Girls love a guy who can make them laugh and doesn’t take himself too seriously.”

Pau chuckled, feeling a little better despite their ridiculous ideas. “Ok.. but what if she’s not into football? What if she doesn’t want to kick penalties against me?”

Lamine waved him off. “Then we move to plan b. Serenade her.”

Hector’s eyebrows shot up. “Serenade her? With what Lamine? You’re not gonna tell Pau to sing, are you?”

Lamine grinned unbothered by the scepticism. “Why not? I bet Pau has a decent voice. All he needs is a guitar and a few romantic lines. Something like ‘Girl, you dribble through my heart like Messi in his prime.’ ”

Hector burst out laughing, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re killing me man. Messi in his prime? Pau, please don’t do that.”

Pau leaned back, laughing so hard his sides hurt. “Yes.. I think I’ll pass on the serenading idea.”

Lamine pouted though there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “Fine fine. No singing. But seriously man, you’ve got to do something. The longer you wait the more you’re going to psych yourself out.”

Hector nodded clapping Pau on the shoulder. “Yes bro. Just be yourself. Talk to her like you always do but maybe.. y’know.. throw in a compliment or two. Tell her how you really feel but don’t overthink it.”

Pau sighed feeling grateful for his friends even if their ideas were totally out there. “You guys are ridiculous but thanks. I think I just need to figure out the right moment and go for it.”

Lamine leaned in with a grin. “And when you do, remember.. ‘bicycle kick of the heart.’ ”

Pau shook his head laughing again. “I’ll keep that in mind, Lamine. I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”

With his friends by his side, Pau felt a little more confident even if he wasn’t ready to challenge you to a penalty shootout or sing about dribbling hearts just yet.

[loves0phelia]

Hello

I have this writing where we read the pov of Matt and it is sort a love letter to Y/n. We read about his thoughts about her, how much he loves her and it is very poetic and lovely perhaps even a bit sad. Let me know your thoughts 😊

Letter

Summery: The request but sad ++ (oops)

Words: 809 (it's small sorry)

Warnings: spelling mistakes, and it kind of doesn't make sense in some parts

A/N: listen to LOML by Taylor Swift while reading and thank you for the request xxx

“I’ve always heard that love is blind. I used to think I understood what that meant, that I could grasp the irony of it all, given my circumstances. But then you came into my life, and suddenly, the phrase took on a new meaning—one I never expected.

It's in the way you move through my world, unaware of the light you carry in my fire-filled sight. I can’t see it, but I feel your warmth in the air when you’re near. Your presence makes me feel something I've never experienced.

You make me wish I could see, not to take in the world around me, but to truly see you—the way you smile when you think no one’s watching, the exact colour of your eyes when they light up and the way you look at me. I wish more than anything to be able to feel your love through a simple glance.

I spend so much time running through shadows, but with you, it’s different. With you, I don’t fear the darkness; I embrace it because it brings me closer to you. Your body against mine, your laughter and simply you being you pulls me to you and I can't help it. If I could, I would stay with you forever.

Sometimes, it feels wrong to be so attached to you when I promised to give my full attention to making this city a better place. Because I know that if you asked me too I would drop everything to be where you are. Even if it meant abandoning what I've built and cherished. You are worth more than anything.  You’ve intertwined yourself into my soul.  I am not me without you.

Every time I close my eyes, it’s your face I see, your voice I hear, your touch I crave. You are my calm in the chaos, the one thing that makes all the noise in my head fade into silence.

But a heartache comes with loving you, an ache that I can’t ignore. It’s the knowledge that I’ll never fully deserve you, that the darkness I carry will always be a shadow over your love. I wish I could promise you a life without fear.  But all I can offer is my heart—battered, bruised, but still beating for you through any ups and lows

You are the light in my darkness, the reason I keep fighting, even when it feels like there’s no fight left in me. And even though I know I’ll never be the man you deserve, I will love you with everything I have, for as long as I can.

Yours, always, Matt”

The small paper containing Matt’s braille written note, crumbled in his fist as he stopped speaking. His voice echoed in the large church and the only other sound that could be heard were the sniffles and cries of your loved ones. Foggy, Karen, and your family. 

His fingers tightened around the folded piece of paper in his hand once again.

As he reached the casket, he paused, his breath catching in his throat. The reality of it all hit him with a force he wasn’t prepared for. You were gone. No amount of whispered promises or desperate prayers would bring you back. 

With trembling hands, he unfolded the letter, the words written across the paper now seeming so small compared to his grief. He had poured his heart into those lines, trying to capture the love, the regret, the sorrow that consumed him. But now, standing there, he felt as though nothing he could say would ever be enough.

Gently, he placed the letter on top of the casket, his fingers lingering for a moment as if he could somehow reach you through the wood and metal as if you could feel his touch one last time.

“I love you.”

Kneeling beside the casket, Matt rested his forehead against it, his hands clutching the sides as if it were the only thing keeping him from collapsing completely. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m so, so sorry…”

The church seemed to close in around him, the walls pressing down as if they were trying to suffocate the life out of him.

Matt stayed there, his heart breaking until the silence of the church was too much to bear. With a final, trembling breath, he stood, his fingers brushing over the letter one last time before he forced himself to turn away.

He knew that he would never truly leave you behind, that you would haunt him in the quiet moments when he was alone, and that your memory would be both a comfort and a curse. But for now, all he could do was walk away, leaving behind the only woman who had ever truly seen him—the woman he would love until his last breath.

[sundrop-writes]

if Draco walked in on you changing...

Word Count: 1360

Harry Potter Masterlist

Warnings: I have no clue when this could fit onto the general Harry Potter timeline (and tbh I don't think it does); this features the 'arranged marriage' trope; the reader is a rich pureblood (but there is no indication that the reader looks down on muggleborns the way that the Malfoys do); there is no mention of which pureblood family the reader is from, so there is no indication of her race; the reader is mentioned to be afab/has breasts and wears dresses; mentions of house elves/use of house elf labor; Draco is very cocky and entitled in this; there is some dubious consent because Draco looks at the reader while she is undressed without her consent, but she doesn't fully care; Draco calls the reader 'darling' and 'love'; the reader's parents are discussing the arranged marriage with the Malfoys without her consent; passing mention of the reader and Draco having kids together; the reader is definitely attracted to Draco and denying it. I believe that's everything.

A/N: Can you tell that I'm obsessed with the arranged marriage trope when it comes to Draco?? Yes? No? (Well you're gonna be able to tell that even more if he wins the other poll - which he probably will, and that oneshot about him is the one that I post.) I just love the idea that because he's not the best person, the reader would be forced to be in proximity to him, and she would bring out his more likeable side over time. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this! Eventually, I want to do this trope/reaction with all the characters that I mainly write for. (And maybe more, like Neville and Ginny.)

...

The past week of your life has been nothing but a hectic chaos, and you were simply trying your hardest to get through it. 

Your parents had travelled such a long way to ‘catch up’ with their old school friends, the Malfoys, some fellow purebloods that they hadn’t seen since graduating Hogwarts when they were all teenagers. This meant you had been a ‘guest’ at Malfoy Manor for the past week - seven straight days filled with nothing but fake smiling, bragging about your accomplishments, in detail (for your parents’ sake), being shown off like you were some trophy out of their case. You hated it. 

You didn’t think you could handle sitting through one more evening dinner or afternoon tea, hearing them all wax poetic about the ‘good ole days’ while their insufferable son stared at you from across the room. But, as you kept telling yourself, you could go home soon. You could soon go back to your regular life, your own house with walls that weren’t decorated in depressing dark shades - a place with a sprawling rose garden that you missed so dearly. 

Tonight, you just had to get through dinner. 

And then, you could fake some kind of illness and be left alone in the large, comfortable (if entirely dark and dreary) guest room that they had put you up in for your stay. 

Currently, you were racing around that room, wearing nothing but your black stockings and heels, and your jewellery, looking for your perfume bottle to spray some on your neck and chest before you put on your dress and attempted to go through the hassle of zipping it up on your own. You knew that the Malfoys had house elves that you could call upon, but you were really only comfortable with your own elf, Peplum, being the one to dress you. And she was back home because your mother and father didn’t allow her to travel. 

You finally found the perfume bottle and sprayed a few good pumps of it over your neck and breasts, and put one on your inner wrist for good measure. Then you took a moment to bask in the scent because you found it so enjoyable - a nice moment of calming peace from the annoyance and mental strain you had been put through during the past week. 

When you heard the door creak on its hinges, you thought you had been mistaken. 

“My goodness, what do we have here?” 

The sound of someone speaking caused you to jolt, practically jumping out of your skin, and you rushed to cover yourself - the only available covering being your own arms. You turned your back to the door, wrapping your arms around yourself to keep your chest covered, knowing that you looked entirely foolish wearing black tights that went up to your waist, black underwear, and heels - with nothing else. 

Naturally, Draco thought that you looked like a sex dream come to life. 

He could think of nothing sexier than a woman wearing black stockings. So naturally, seeing you topless while wearing those - it caused a stir in his pants that he had to concentrate on for it not to turn into a troubling hardon. He did wish that you weren’t wearing the underwear, though. 

“Don’t cover up on my account.” Draco smirked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pantsuit (partially as a measure to hide any stirring of his cock). And then he simply continued to stand there, not taking his eyes off the round curve of your ass for even a moment. 

When he spoke again, it was only then that you knew who was there, and any shock pulsing through you at the fact of someone just waltzing in faded away in favour of pure annoyance grinding against your nerves. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You barked, glaring over your shoulder at him. “Knocking was invented for a reason!” 

Draco always found your anger attractive. He found that he liked you angry and topless even better. 

“It’s my house. I don’t have to knock.” He shrugged, sounding as entitled as ever. 

You sighed so hard at this it practically came out as a growl under your breath. Even if you liked the heat in his eyes as he looked you over, even if you found him to be somewhat attractive - that pattern of entitlement made him impossible to put up with. 

You had grown up pureblood, and definitely wealthy, but you absolutely had more humility than someone like him. 

“That is so not true!” You screeched back, entirely insulted by this notion. “Knocking is a basic courtesy that your parents should have taught you!” 

“Whatever.” Draco sighed, seeming entirely unconcerned with the social faux pas of walking in on you partially dressed - he didn’t rush to apologise or even bother to look away. “When we’re married, it won’t matter. I’ll get to look at my wife as much as I want,” 

He said these words with a filthy greed grinding against the back of his throat, the expression on his face disgustingly satisfied. He raked his eyes across your body once again, drinking in every bit of you like he was truly entitled to you. 

You turned around then, your neck aching from craning to look at him. You still had an arm covering your breasts, but his eyes definitely stuck to the puff of your cleavage that was leaking out around it. You would have yelled at him, called him a pig for staring so hard - but cared less and less about his staring as you got caught up on his words. 

“‘When we’re married’?” You echoed back, the words entirely strained on your voice. “Are you okay? Have you been snorting the Floo Powder or are you usually this out of touch?” 

Draco chuckled then, and titled his head slightly as he looked at you - it was distinctly condescending, like how someone might look down at a small child. Like he thought you were the one who was truly out of touch. 

“Darling, are you really that daft?” He asked slowly. “Do you really not know what this trip is for?” 

“What?” You croaked. 

Now, you were truly confused. 

“Our parents didn’t just feel like ‘catching up’ out of the blue. They’re trying to come to some sort of agreement. They’re match-making us. You know - bonding two powerful pureblood families.” He explained. 

“Oh… oh god.” You sighed. It all made perfect sense. The ‘hush hush’ lunches that you weren’t allowed to sit in on, the insistence from your mother that you ‘bond’ with Draco, her questions about if you wanted to have children or not when you thought that was distant years in your future. “I am gonna kill them!” 

You moved to storm out of the room, wanting to give your parents a stern talking to for not warning you about this. But - 

“You’re still naked, love.” Draco chuckled. 

You felt a flush of heat run through you - you wanted to say that it was from embarrassment, and not the wonderfully teasing nickname, and his cutesy tone. But you had other things to focus on than your non-attraction to Draco Malfoy. 

“Ugh.” You turned back around sharply and grabbed your dress off the bed, and after you stepped into it and aggressively pulled the straps up over your shoulders, you struggled to reach behind you and even begin to pull the zipper closed. 

You froze instantly when you felt Draco’s cool fingers brush against the skin of your lower back as he grabbed onto the zipper and then nimbly did it up for you. His touch was surprisingly gentle, and you told yourself that the shivers down your spine were from his cool touch, and not because of any underlying (very annoyed) attraction toward him. 

“Might not be so bad.” Draco breathed against your neck, causing more goosebumps to form on your skin. “Being married to you.” 

You felt an argument bubbling under the surface - but you saved that energy for the ensuing fight you were bound to have with your parents. Instead, you simply scoffed and rolled your eyes in response.