#manuscript fragment

[upennmanuscripts]

Ms. Oversize 33 is featured in the video loop for THE MOVEMENT OF BOOKS, an exhibit about all the ways that books move. Ms. Oversize 33 is notable because of its... wait for it... large size! It's a section (5 gatherings) from the middle of a choir psalter, in order for liturgical use. Originally the manuscript would have been held upright in front of a group of singers, so they could all read it at the same time. You can watch the whole loop on YouTube!

Ms. Oversize 33 🔗:

The Movement of Books Video Loop 🔗:

The Movement of Books exhibit information 🔗:

[muspeccoll]

Sometimes our #ManuscriptMonday posts are beautifully preserved specimens, and sometimes they're survivors that have persisted for centuries against all odds. This is one of the survivors.

After they outlived their usefulness, many medieval manuscripts were cut up and recycled into book covers, binding reinforcements, and even linings for clothing, shoes, and musical instruments. Parchment is durable, flexible, and expensive to produce, so it makes sense that people found ways to reuse it instead of merely throwing it away.

Reuse of Hebrew parchments like this one, however, can bear witness to both medieval recycling practices and religious persecution. This fragment is from tractate Menachot, part of the Talmud, which was subjected to confiscation, censorship, and public burnings in medieval Europe starting in the thirteenth century. We don't know whether this specific fragment was taken from its community by force, but many like it were.

Some medieval Hebrew texts are all but lost, known today only through surviving fragments. Read more about "The European Genizah" in a recent article by Simcha Emanuel in Tablet magazine.

Tractate Menachot, 33-34. Part of a very large 3-column manuscript of the Talmud, in Hebrew, Tractate Menachot, 33-34, Ashkenazi, presumably Germany, approximately thirteenth century, red stains. University of Missouri Digital Library.

[thesixthduke]

[404-found]

Can You Trust the Manuscripts?

One of the oldest skeptic digs is this, “We’ve got so many manuscripts and so many translations, how can you know what the originals even said?” Really? Tell that to the piles of papyrus and parchments that put every other ancient text to shame. “The words of the LORD are pure words; as silver refined in a furnace on the ground, purified seven times.”— Psalm 12:6 We aren’t fumbling in the…

[gothicseverance]

The fragment, manuscript, letter, ruin, dream.

—Gaps and Gothic Sensibility

[biology-geology-beaches-india]

The science research manuscripts of S. Sunkavally. Page 115.

[yiddishlore]

Fragments like this feel like they’re taunting me…

[averythepirate]

It is the only surviving fragment of a lost medieval manuscript telling the tale of Merlin and the early heroic years of King Arthur's court. In it, the magician becomes a blind harpist who later vanishes into thin air. He will then reappear as a balding child who issues edicts to King Arthur wearing no underwear. The shape-shifting Merlin – whose powers apparently stem from being the son of a woman impregnated by the devil – asks to bear Arthur's standard (a flag bearing his coat of arms) on the battlefield. The king agrees – a good decision it turns out – for Merlin is destined to turn up with a handy secret weapon: a magic, fire-breathing dragon. 

[artifacts-and-arthropods]

Child's Writing Exercises and Doodles, from Egypt, c. 1000-1200 CE: this was made by a child who was practicing Hebrew, creating doodles and scribbles on the page as they worked

This writing fragment is nearly 1,000 years old, and it was made by a child who lived in Egypt during the Middle Ages. Several letters of the Hebrew alphabet are written on the page, probably as part of a writing exercise, but the child apparently got a little bored/distracted, as they also left a drawing of a camel (or possibly a person), a doodle that resembles a menorah, and an assortment of other scribbles on the page.

This is the work of a Jewish child from Fustat (Old Cairo), and it was preserved in the collection known as the Cairo Genizah Manuscripts. As the University of Cambridge Library explains:

For a thousand years, the Jewish community of Fustat placed their worn-out books and other writings in a storeroom (genizah) of the Ben Ezra Synagogue ... According to rabbinic law, once a holy book can no longer be used (because it is too old, or because its text is no longer relevant) it cannot be destroyed or casually discarded: texts containing the name of God should be buried or, if burial is not possible, placed in a genizah.

At least from the early 11th century, the Jews of Fustat ... reverently placed their old texts in the Genizah. Remarkably, however, they placed not only the expected religious works, such as Bibles, prayer books and compendia of Jewish law, but also what we would regard as secular works and everyday documents: shopping lists, marriage contracts, divorce deeds, pages from Arabic fables, works of Sufi and Shi'ite philosophy, medical books, magical amulets, business letters and accounts, and hundreds of letters: examples of practically every kind of written text produced by the Jewish communities of the Near East can now be found in the Genizah Collection, and it presents an unparalleled insight into the medieval Jewish world.

Sources & More Info:

Cambridge Digital Library: Writing Exercises with Child's Drawings

Cambridge Digital Library: More About the Cairo Genizah Manuscripts

[reveriebae]

When the Dream Ends, You Begin

pairing(s) : poem writer! Wooyoung x reader

word count : 4877

summary : He dreamed of her—tied in silk, dripping with sin, whispering his name like a curse. Then he met her. And nothing has been soft since.

genre : smut

warning(s) : Explicit smut, surreal dream-to-reality tension, bondage (soft & rough), orgasm control, oral (m & f receiving), overstimulation, name calling (Angel), light dom/sub themes, desperate begging, possessiveness, obsession, cumplay, marking, slightly feral!Wooyoung, praise & worship kink, unholy levels of filthy poetic language (kinda). Let me know if I missed anything!

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐smut under the cut 🪐

He’d only meant to nap for a minute. A break from the manuscript he’d been struggling with for weeks—the one with the heroine he couldn’t quite figure out.

But somehow, somewhere between the ink-stained pages and the weight of exhaustion, you slipped in. And once you did, there was no room for anything else.

It started with your voice—soft, sultry, curling around his ears like velvet. Then your touch, gentle at first, ghosting along his jawline, down his chest, leaving sparks in its wake. His breath hitched. The dream blurred, pulsed. You weren’t just some figment—you were here. Realer than anything he’d ever written.

Wooyoung lay sprawled across a couch that didn’t belong in his apartment, shirt undone, flushed to the tips of his ears. And you? You were straddling his lap, body bare and glowing in golden light like you were made of the damn sun itself. Every part of you was warm, soft, perfect.

His fingers trembled as they dug into your thighs. “Fuck,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You're not even real, are you?”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Maybe not. But I feel real, don’t I?”

God, you did. You moved against him and he choked, head falling back. Your hips rolled slow, a taunting rhythm that made his cock throb beneath you. Every brush of your slick heat had him unraveling, desperate.

“Shit—Angel, you’re gonna kill me,” he groaned, hands clutching your waist like lifelines. “You feel so fucking good. Too good.”

You smiled, eyes half-lidded, voice honeyed with mischief. “But you like it. You want me to ruin you, don't you?”

He nodded without shame. “I want everything. Every fucking inch of you.”

You gave it to him—grinding down harder, your moans melting into his skin like sin. And Wooyoung—sweet, sinful Wooyoung—just took it all, praising every inch of you with breathless desperation.

“Look at you. So fucking perfect,” he panted. “Made just for me, huh? You feel like a dream because you're mine.”

Your nails raked down his chest as he bucked up, chasing the high he couldn’t believe was his. Your name fell from his lips like scripture—over and over, until he was almost delirious with need.

He came hard, jaw clenched, hands trembling, voice cracking as he gasped your name like it was his salvation.

And then—

He woke up.

Sheets tangled. Sweat slick on his skin. Cock still twitching, soaked in his release.

But his hand reached out, searching the empty space beside him.

“Fuck... I need to write this down,” he muttered, breathless.

Because now you weren’t just a character.

You were his obsession.

The dream didn’t fade.

Not like the others.

Wooyoung had tried to shake it off—wake up, shower, drown himself in coffee and deadlines. But it clung to him. Like your phantom touch was etched into his skin, like your moans were trapped in his ears, like your voice—that voice—was scribbled into the margins of his mind.

“Made just for me…”

God. His fingers tightened around his pen every time he remembered how you’d said it, how you’d felt. His notebook was filled with messy sentences, scratched-out lines, and fragments that didn’t make sense to anyone but him.

"She rode him like a symphony—soft, loud, and breaking him open in every beat."

"Angel. That’s what he called her. Not her name. Just the way she felt."

He didn’t know why he called you that. Angel. It had spilled from his mouth like instinct—like he’d said it a hundred times before.

But the weirdest part? You felt… familiar.

Not just in the way dreams sometimes make strangers feel known. No. It was deeper. Like he’d seen you before. Like he knew you. Maybe your laugh. The curve of your lips. The way you said his name—not Wooyoung, but Baby, like it belonged to you.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t place you.

You weren’t a girl he’d dated. Not anyone he’d seen recently. But the memory of your weight on his lap, the honey warmth of your skin, the fire in your eyes—it was seared into him. Every night he lay awake wondering, stroking himself slowly as flashes of that dream played like sin in his head.

He whispered Angel into his pillow, cheeks flushed, pulse pounding.

And then one night, three days after the dream, he caught himself doodling again in the margins of his journal.

A quick sketch—just lips parted, eyes half-lidded, sweat-damp collarbones. And then he blinked.

No. He had seen you before.

He couldn’t place the name. But the way you felt—your presence—it mirrored someone from the edges of his life. A girl he’d met briefly. Maybe just once. Maybe more. But now?

You were everywhere.

Every poem he wrote tasted like you. Every night he touched himself, it was your voice in his head. His hands weren’t enough. They never would be.

Because Angel had ruined him.

And he had no idea who you were.

---

It was supposed to be a quiet evening.

Wooyoung had agreed to speak at this writing workshop mostly out of guilt—his editor’s friend ran it, and he hadn’t been out in days. Maybe the fresh air would help. Maybe reading something out loud would get him out of his head.

But the second he walked into the room, he knew he was fucked.

You were already there.

Sitting in the middle row, notebook in hand, legs crossed just the way he remembered them—like the dream had taken a snapshot from this exact moment. Your head was tilted, brows slightly furrowed, and your lips—those damn lips—were caught between your teeth like you were thinking too hard.

No. No no no. It can’t be her.

His heart stuttered. Palms suddenly too warm. He blinked once. Twice. But you didn’t disappear. You were real, down to the little necklace nestled at your collarbones. The same skin he’d kissed in that dream, the same thighs he’d gripped while you rode him raw. His cock twitched—right there in the middle of the goddamn workshop.

He sat down two rows behind you, trying to breathe.

Your voice echoed in his head. Not your real voice, not yet, but the way it had sounded in his dreams—dripping with need, whispering filth in his ear like poetry.

"You want me to ruin you, don't you?"

God, he did. Again and again until his name was hoarse in your throat.

But now? You were here. And he didn’t even know your name.

They called for introductions, but Wooyoung barely registered the others. He was staring at the back of your head, imagining your hair fisted in his hands, your moans muffled by his neck, your nails dragging down his spine.

Focus, he told himself.

But then you spoke.

Soft, confident, thoughtful. You talked about writing romance. About vulnerability. About how the right words could make someone feel everything. His eyes fluttered shut for a second. That voice. That fucking voice.

He could smell your skin again. Taste your sweat. Feel your heat grinding down onto him. His throat went dry.

He didn’t even hear your name.

Just one word pulsed in his brain: Angel.

That’s what you were in his dream. That’s what you still were.

He swallowed hard, knuckles white around his pen. And as the group laughed at something you said, his cock throbbed in his jeans like a threat.

He wasn’t going to survive this.

You were real. You were here. And Wooyoung had already come thinking about you three times since Tuesday.

The workshop ended in a blur of applause and chatter.

Wooyoung didn’t remember what he said when it was his turn to speak. His mouth moved, sure, and people nodded, but his thoughts were a mess of dream-slick memories and the real you sitting just meters away—breathing, smiling, existing.

He watched you tuck your pen behind your ear and slide your notebook into your bag. Watched your fingers—slim, delicate, the same ones that had clawed at his chest in that filthy, glorious dream.

His pulse drummed in his ears.

Just say something, he thought. A line. A joke. Anything.

He stood up, took two steps forward—and froze when you turned.

Your eyes met.

You blinked, slow and curious, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of your lips. Like you felt something too. Recognition. Or maybe heat.

His mouth opened.

You tilted your head, brows raised, waiting.

But his brain short-circuited. Because how the fuck do you tell a girl, “Hi, I’ve been jacking off to you ever since you starred in the most vivid wet dream I’ve ever had, and now I’m spiraling”?

So he panicked.

Cleared his throat. Nodded. Said, “Nice… talk.”

Nice talk? NICE FUCKING TALK?!

You gave a polite little smile and turned back to your bag.

He wanted to die.

He turned on his heel, muttering curses under his breath as he walked toward the exit, heart pounding with shame, humiliation, and a still very inconvenient hard-on.

But just as he reached the door, he heard your voice behind him—smooth, calm, just a little amused.

“Hey. Wait.”

He stopped like you’d yanked his leash.

You walked up beside him, cocking your head slightly. “You okay? You looked like you’d seen a ghost in there.”

He laughed—more like choked. “Something like that.”

Then you smiled. Slow. Knowing.

And in one goddamn moment, everything snapped into place.

“I know you,” you said quietly. “Kind of. Not really. But… have we met before?”

His breath caught. His skin lit up.

Because there it was—that same curious tilt, that same gentle dominance from the dream. Like you were the one with control now.

You stepped a little closer, eyes locked on his. “Or maybe you just look like someone I’ve been dreaming about lately.”

Wooyoung’s jaw clenched. Blood rushed south, hard and fast.

You leaned in, just enough for him to feel your breath on his neck.

“Tell me,” you whispered. “Have you been dreaming about me too, baby?”

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

But the way his hands curled into fists, the way his throat moved as he swallowed hard, and the way his eyes flicked to your lips like a sinner to the flame—told you everything.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Not because of the dream this time.

Because of you.

Because of the way you’d looked at him right before you walked away—like you knew. Like you’d already had him once, and you were just waiting for him to admit it.

Wooyoung replayed it all in his head. Your voice. Your scent. The way you leaned in so close his skin still tingled where your breath had touched it.

“Have you been dreaming about me too, baby?”

Fuck.

He didn’t even know your name. But now he was addicted.

—

You met again the next evening.

Same writing workshop. Same room. Different energy.

You wore something simple—black top, a skirt that swayed when you walked—but it may as well have been fucking weaponized. He felt it every time you crossed your legs. Every time you licked the tip of your pen. Every time you didn’t look at him, like you knew he was staring.

And he was.

He couldn’t help it. He was wired tight, strung up, achingly aware of your every move. He hadn’t written a single thing since last night, but his hands twitched with the memory of how your body had moved in his dream.

The way you’d whispered filth while grinding against him like you owned him.

And now here you were again, two seats away, scribbling neatly while his brain fell apart.

“Class dismissed,” the host called. People stood, gathered their bags.

You stayed seated. So did he.

For a moment, silence stretched between you.

Then, softly, you said, “Walk me to my car?”

He didn’t trust his voice. Just nodded and followed you out, heart punching his ribs.

Outside, the air was cool. Your steps slow. The parking lot was mostly empty—just a few flickering lamplights and the faint hum of city noise.

You stopped beside your car, turned, leaned back against the door—and looked up at him.

He stood a foot away, hands jammed in his pockets, trying not to look at your lips.

But you smiled.

“Still not gonna ask my name?”

He smirked, voice low. “You sure you want me to know it?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He took a step closer. “Because if I know your name, I’ll never stop using it.”

Your breath hitched—just slightly.

Then, softly: “Maybe I want to hear it from your mouth.”

Wooyoung’s throat worked.

“Then tell me.”

You leaned in just enough, the tip of your shoe brushing his. Your voice dropped, sultry and dangerous.

“Or maybe you’ll just keep calling me Angel... like you did in your dream.”

He froze.

Eyes locked on yours. Caught. Breathless.

You whispered, “Told you I’ve been dreaming too.”

He stepped in now, close, his chest almost touching yours.

Low. Hoarse. Desperate.

“Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

You tilted your chin, lips barely parted. “Why would I ever stop you?”

His eyes flicked down.

To your mouth.

To your throat.

To the way your chest rose like you were bracing for impact.

And then he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice like smoke.

“Next time, Angel… I’m not waking up.”

It happened the next night.

Your texts had been short. No need for flirting. No teasing. Just your address and one line:

“Don’t be late, baby.”

He wasn’t.

Wooyoung knocked once before you opened the door, wearing nothing but an oversized shirt that definitely wasn’t yours—black, wrinkled, probably stolen from a past hookup, but tonight it belonged to him.

Because the second he stepped inside, your hands were already on his chest, dragging him in, pulling him down.

No small talk.

No hesitation.

Just mouths crashing together in that desperate, hungry way that says I’ve already had you in my mind a hundred fucking times.

He groaned when your lips parted for him—finally—and his hands dropped to your waist, gripping hard, like he still didn’t believe this was real. Like he needed to memorize every curve before you vanished again.

“God, you’re—” he started, but you cut him off with your teeth at his throat.

“Dream about this, baby?” you whispered, tongue dragging slow up his jaw. “Or do I feel even better than you imagined?”

He choked on a laugh, breathless. “Worse. So much fucking worse.”

You smiled, smug, and pushed him toward the couch.

He let you.

Let you shove him down and climb on top, knees bracketing his thighs, fingers already working at the buttons of his shirt like you had a damn mission.

And you did.

Because Wooyoung wasn’t allowed to lead this time. No—you were the dream now. You were the one who had haunted him for days, and now you were going to remind him exactly why.

“You kept calling me Angel,” you murmured, slipping his shirt off his shoulders, nails dragging over warm skin. “Sounded so sweet for someone who came in his sleep.”

He flushed, lips parting, hips twitching beneath you.

“You knew?”

You smirked. “You moaned in your sleep after that first workshop. In the back of the room.”

His face went scarlet.

You leaned in, nose brushing his. “Wanna hear what it sounded like?”

Then you moaned—soft, breathy, filthy. “Angel, fuck, don’t stop—”

He grabbed your hips with a growl, thrusting up against you through denim and heat.

“God, you’re evil,” he rasped.

“I’m everything you begged for.”

And then you rocked your hips—slow, deliberate, dragging your center against the bulge in his jeans. His head dropped back with a curse, fingers digging into your thighs like a man possessed.

He’d imagined you like this a thousand ways.

But reality?

You were hotter, slicker, meaner.

You moved like you knew he’d melt for you—and he did. Beneath your fingers. Beneath your hips. Beneath your fucking voice.

“You’re gonna let me ride you just like in your dream,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “Only this time, I’m not leaving when you wake up.”

His breath hitched.

And then you kissed him again—slower now. Deeper. Tongue sweeping his like a promise.

And just before you pulled back to strip his pants away, you whispered:

“Good boys don’t come until I say so.”

He whimpered.

He whimpered.

And you smiled like you were home.

You didn’t let him touch.

Not yet.

You straddled him on the couch, body warm and lithe above him, but when his hands reached for your waist, you tsked softly and leaned in, your breath ghosting over his lips.

“Nuh-uh, baby,” you whispered, tone sweet and laced with danger. “You’ve already touched me in your sleep. Now you wait.”

His brow furrowed. Breath shaky. “Wait for what?”

You smiled.

Then you pulled silk from your back pocket—long, black, smooth as sin—and held it up between two fingers.

“For me to say you can.”

Wooyoung stared. Chest heaving. Cock hard and twitching in his jeans.

Then he swallowed.

Nodded.

You made quick work of it—pushing his shirt the rest of the way off, guiding his arms up along the backrest of the couch, and tying his wrists tight. Not painful. Just enough that when he instinctively pulled, the knot held.

Helpless.

Yours.

“Comfortable?” you asked, running your fingers down his stomach—slow, teasing, cruel.

He let out a shaky breath. “No.”

You leaned in and licked his bottom lip.

“Good.”

Then you unbuttoned his jeans.

Slowly.

Unzipped him with two fingers, one knuckle dragging lightly over the bulge beneath his boxers. He shuddered—hips jerking, throat dry.

“Fuck—please—”

You looked up at him through your lashes. “You begging already, baby?”

“I’ve been begging since Tuesday,” he panted.

God, he was so pretty like this. Chest rising fast, lip bitten raw, arms pinned and useless while you made a mess of him.

You slipped your hand beneath the waistband—fingers wrapping around his cock—and he gasped, head falling back, wrists tugging instinctively.

But he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t stop you.

Couldn’t touch you back.

He was completely, deliciously at your mercy.

And you were merciless.

“You keep dreaming about me like this?” you murmured, pumping him slow and tight.

He whimpered.

“Wanna hear it,” you whispered against his jaw. “Tell me what I did to you. Tell me how I made you come.”

He was shaking.

“You—you were riding me,” he gasped. “Hard. Hands on my chest. You kept—kept talking, saying all this filthy shit—fuck—and you kept clenching around me like you wanted to ruin me—”

You cut him off with a wicked kiss, deep and hungry, and just as his hips bucked to chase your fist—you let go.

He cried out—needy, feral.

“No—please, I—I was so close—”

You wiped the glistening tip of his cock with your thumb and brought it to your mouth. Sucked slowly. Deliberately. Eyes locked on his as he moaned.

“Next time,” you whispered, straddling him again, grinding your bare heat over the wet head of his cock through your panties, “you’ll beg with your tongue.”

He groaned, wrists pulling hard at the silk.

“But first,” you said, rolling your hips slow and deep, “I’m going to ride you tied and helpless, just like you wanted.”

Then you hooked your fingers into your panties and slid them off, tossing them aside like an afterthought.

And when you sank down on him in one, perfect stroke, hot and wet and tight—

Wooyoung’s head snapped back with a broken sound.

You were his dream.

But this was real.

And you were going to ruin him completely.

You didn’t ride him to please him.

You rode him like you wanted to end him.

Slow at first—grinding, teasing, dragging yourself up until only the tip of his cock remained inside, then slamming back down so hard the breath left his lungs in a shuddering gasp.

Wooyoung’s hands were clenched in tight fists, wrists yanking at the silk, every nerve in his body on fire.

His head dropped forward, sweat clinging to his skin, jaw slack as he watched you move—breasts bouncing beneath your shirt, your cunt milking him like it had a mind of its own.

“Angel—fuck—Angel—please—” he choked out, thighs trembling.

You didn’t slow.

Didn’t stop.

You leaned in, mouth grazing his ear, voice like sex and smoke.

“Keep begging.”

He whimpered. Obeyed instantly.

“Please let me come, please—I need it—need you so bad, I’m gonna fucking lose it—”

You clenched around him hard.

He cried out.

“Not yet, baby,” you purred. “Not until I say.”

And then you sped up.

Your pace turned brutal—punishing—riding him so rough the couch creaked beneath you, slick sounds of skin and desperation filling the room. His cock throbbed inside you, twitching, straining, desperate for release.

But you were relentless.

One hand gripped his throat lightly—just enough to make his pupils blow wide, dizzy with the pressure—and your other hand slid down to where your bodies met, rubbing your clit fast and filthy as you moaned right into his ear.

“Feel how wet you make me, baby?” you whispered, grinding down hard. “Your cock fits so perfectly—like you were made to be fucked and left aching for me.”

“Fuck—fuck—” he gasped, thighs shaking violently. “I can’t—I’m gonna—I’m—”

You pulled back. Looked him dead in the eyes.

And said, low and wicked:

“Don’t.”

He screamed.

Not loud. Not angry.

Just this raw, wrecked little sob as he tried—tried—to hold it in, his whole body trembling beneath you like he was on the edge of death and heaven at the same time.

He was crying now—just a little.

Silent tears, eyes blown wide, cock twitching with the kind of ache that bordered on insanity.

And you loved it.

You soaked in it.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” you whispered, brushing your lips over his tear-streaked cheek. “All broken. All mine.”

He nodded—fast, desperate, unable to speak.

You rocked your hips deeper, clenching hard, and finally—finally—whispered:

“Come for me, baby.”

The moment those words hit him, Wooyoung snapped.

His whole body arched, a wrecked cry ripping from his throat as his cock pulsed hard inside you, cum spilling hot and helpless, thick ropes shooting so deep you swore you could feel it in your throat.

You kept riding.

Soft now. Slow. Making him feel every twitch, every spill, every whimper that followed.

“Look at you,” you murmured, kissing the corner of his lips. “Dreamt of me for days just to end up begging and crying while I used you.”

He was wrecked.

Hair sticking to his forehead, lashes wet, mouth open like he couldn’t remember how to breathe.

But his voice—soft and hoarse—came out like prayer.

“Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He was still trembling when you untied him—arms sore, chest heaving, face flushed and damp from sweat and tears. His cock was twitching even after he came, twitching inside you, because you were still seated there, still milking him gently, cruelly, like you wanted to pull a second orgasm straight from his soul.

“Fuck,” he panted, blinking up at you with wet lashes. “You—you’re not real.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips over his cheek, your hand sliding into his hair.

“I’m very real, baby.”

Then you licked his ear.

And whispered—

“Now show me how much you missed touching me.”

That’s all it took.

Wooyoung snapped.

His arms flew around you, flipping you down onto the couch with a growl so low it sounded almost feral. His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding beneath your shirt, tearing the damn thing off with zero patience.

“Fucking evil,” he hissed, mouth crashing onto yours, tongue filthy and demanding. “You broke me.”

You grinned against his lips. “You begged for it.”

“I’ll make you beg.”

And then he slammed into you again—no warning, no gentleness, just raw, ravenous need. You gasped, legs flying up to wrap around his waist, nails digging into his back as he fucked into you like he wanted to carve his name into your body.

“Think you’re the only one who can ruin someone?” he growled, hand sliding between your thighs to rub your clit hard and fast. “You think I didn’t dream about making you cry for me?”

“Fuck—Wooyoung—”

He grinned.

“That’s right, baby. Say my name now.”

He pinned your wrists above your head—tight—body moving like a man possessed. His hips snapped in fast, deep, almost brutal, and your body arched up into him with every thrust, a mess of sweat and moans and filthy, wet, slapping sounds.

“You’re not leaving this couch,” he growled. “Not until I’ve filled you again.”

“Please—”

“That’s right, Angel,” he groaned, thrusting so deep your breath caught. “Beg me now. Beg me to come. Beg me to stuff you so full it leaks down your thighs.”

You were shaking.

Mind blank. Legs trembling. Body hypersensitive from earlier.

And he kept going.

Faster. Deeper.

Rutting into you like he was trying to brand your soul.

“Gonna fuck you so full you’ll still be dripping tomorrow,” he panted. “Wanna see it—wanna watch it leak out of that tight pussy while you’re sitting in my lap, looking so pretty and ruined and mine.”

You broke.

Back arched, thighs clamping around his waist as your orgasm hit like a fucking bomb, exploding through your body in white-hot waves, your moans turning to sobs as you clenched around him—

And that was all he needed.

With a growl, Wooyoung buried himself inside you, cock twitching violently as he came again—hot, thick, endless—filling you up until it was dripping down your ass onto the couch, until you both collapsed, bodies shaking, breath ragged.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just slumped over you, face buried in your neck, whispering your name like a broken prayer.

“…fuck, Angel.”

“…I’m gonna marry you.”

---

You woke to heat.

Gentle at first. Soft.

Like a dream.

Warm lips pressing to your inner thigh, slow fingers dragging up the curve of your hip. You blinked blearily, brain still wrapped in fog, only to find Wooyoung kneeling between your legs, bare chest glistening, eyes locked onto your cunt like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

He looked wrecked. Unshaven. Smudged with sweat and sleep and lust.

“Baby—what are you—”

He didn’t answer.

Just slid your legs apart and buried his face between them.

Your gasp turned into a moan—then a whimper—as his tongue dragged over your folds, slow and wet and deliberate. He licked like he loved it. Like worship. Like penance. Like he wanted to spend the rest of his life tongue-deep in your pussy just to say thank you for ruining him.

“You taste like me,” he murmured hoarsely, lips glistening. “Fucking perfect.”

His hands pressed your thighs open wider, holding you down as he sucked your clit into his mouth—hard. You cried out, hips jolting, legs trying to close from overstimulation, but he held firm.

“Don’t run,” he whispered darkly. “You took my control last night, Angel. I’m taking my time now.”

And fuck, did he.

He made a mess of you—tongue working you open, fucking into you slow and deep, licking through the cum he left inside you like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. You were dripping. Squirming. Begging.

And he didn’t stop until your thighs were shaking and you were grabbing fistfuls of his hair, pulling him tighter into you as you came on his tongue with a shattered sob.

When you collapsed, limp and panting, he kissed the inside of your thigh one last time and crawled up beside you, arms pulling you into the warmth of his chest.

“Next time,” he whispered against your temple, “I’m tying you up.”

You laughed weakly. “Greedy bastard.”

He kissed your hair. “Yours.”

And with his arms around you, legs tangled, your skin still sticky with sweat and sex and sweet aftershocks—you finally drifted off again.

No dreams this time.

Because reality was so much better.

"She sat on him like sin— like velvet and venom, soft thighs and a wicked smile, the kind of woman gods built temples for and then burned to the ground.

He begged with his mouth full. Cried with her fingers in his hair. Came with her name on his tongue and guilt nowhere in sight.

She wasn’t a dream anymore. She was destruction dressed in skin. His ruin. His muse.

And he’d let her break him again. Gladly. Willingly. Over and over until his bones remembered how her name felt in the dark."

[physalian]

How to make your writing sound less stiff part 2

Part 1

Again, just suggestions that shouldn’t have to compromise your author voice, as I sit here doing my own edits for a WIP.

1. Crutch words

Specifically when you have your narrator taking an action instead of just… writing that action. Examples:

Character wonders/imagines/thinks/realizes

Character sees/smells/feels

Now not all of these need to be cut. There’s a difference between:

Elias stops. He realizes they’re going in the wrong direction.

And

Elias takes far too long to realize that it’s not horribly dark wherever they are

Crutch words are words that don’t add anything to the sentence and the sentence can carry on with the exact same meaning even if you delete it. Thus:

Elias stops. They’re going in the wrong direction.

I need a word in the second example, whether it’s realizes, understands, or notices, unless I rework the entire sentence. The “realization” is implied by the hard cut to the next sentence in the first example.

2. Creating your own “author voice”

Unless the tone of the scene demands otherwise, my writing style is very conversational. I have a lot of sentence fragments to reflect my characters’ scatterbrained thoughts. I let them be sarcastic and sassy within the narration. I leave in instances of “just” (another crutch word) when I think it helps the sentence. Example:

…but it’s just another cave to Elias.

Deleting the “just” wouldn’t hit as hard or read as dismissive and resigned.

I may be writing in 3rd person limited, but I still let the personalities of my characters flavor everything from the syntax to metaphor choices. It’s up to you how you want to write your “voice”.

I’ll let dialogue cut off narration, like:

Not that he wouldn’t. However, “You can’t expect me to believe that.”

Sure it’s ~grammatically incorrect~ but you get more leeway in fiction. This isn’t an essay written in MLA or APA format. It’s okay to break a few rules, they’re more like guidelines anyway.

3. Metaphor, allegory, and simile

There is a time and a place to abandon this and shoot straight because oftentimes you might not realize you’re using these at all. It’s the difference between:

Blinding sunlight reflects off the window sill

And

Sunlight bounces like high-beams off the window sill

It’s up to you and what best fits the scene.

Sometimes there’s more power in not being poetic, just bluntly explicit. Situations like describing a character’s battle wounds (whatever kind of battle they might be from, whether it be war or abuse) don’t need flowery prose and if your manuscript is metaphor-heavy, suddenly dropping them in a serious situation will help with the mood and tonal shift, even if your readers can’t quite pick up on why immediately.

Whatever the case is, pick a metaphor that fits the narrator. If my narrator is comparing a shade of red to something, pick a comparison that makes sense.

Red like the clouds at sunset might make sense for a character that would appreciate sunsets. It’s romantic but not sensual, it’s warm and comforting.

Red like lipstick stains on a wine glass hints at a very different image and tone.

Metaphor can also either water down the impact of something, or make it so much worse so pay attention to what you want your reader to feel when they read it. Are you trying to shield them from the horror or dig it in deep?

4. Paragraph formatting

Nothing sticks out on a page quite like a line of narrative all by itself. Abusing this tactic will lessen its effect so save single sentence paragraphs for lines you want to hammer your audiences with. Lines like romantic revelations, or shocking twists, or characters giving up, giving in. Or just a badass line that deserves a whole paragraph to itself.

I do it all the time just like this.

Your writing style might not feature a bunch of chunky paragraphs to emphasize smaller lines of text (or if you’re writing a fic on A03, the size of the screen makes many paragraphs one line), but if yours does, slapping a zinger between two beefy paragraphs helps with immersion.

5. Polysyndeton and Asyndeton

Not gibberish! These, like single-sentence paragraphs, mix up the usual flow of the narrative that are lists of concepts with or without conjunctions.

Asyndeton: We came. We saw. We conquered. It was cold, grey, lifeless.

Polysyndeton: And the birds are out and the sun is shining and it might rain later but right now I am going to enjoy the blue sky and the puffy white clouds like cotton balls. They stand and they clap and they sing.

Both are for emphasis. Asyndeton tends to be "colder" and more blunt, because the sentence is blunt. Polysyntedon tends to be more exciting, overwhelming.

We came and we saw and we conquered.

The original is rather grim. This version is almost uplifting, like it's celebrating as opposed to taunting, depending on how you look at it.

—

All of these are highly situational, but if you’re stuck, maybe try some out and see what happens.

*italicized quotes are from ENNS, the rest I made up on the spot save for the Veni Vidi Vici.

[upennmanuscripts]

Today’s #FragmentFriday is this printed book (published in Rouen around 1508) bound with fragments from 2 leaves of a 13th-century copy of the early encyclopedia De proprietatibus rerum, probably written in France. It's not unusual to see fragments in binding, but it is interesting to see the leaves folded instead of being trimmed. (UPenn LJS 395)

🔗:

[sahisan]

fem reader. nsfwish. is this an anaxa version of dirty talk... and he also worships you. man is so down bad.i swear i had like two free hours and a vision.

"you’re glowing," anaxagoras says.

you blink. you are—the soft shimmer under your skin has been going rampant as of late.

he stands.

and when he walks toward you, it’s with the pace of someone approaching an artifact no one else has been permitted to touch.

you don't speak as he kneels before you, still standing against a shelf filled with the scripts you sorted out earlier in the day, purposeful, and places a hand at your hip.

then both hands.

then his mouth.

you exhale like you're being unmade.

and as his tongue traces patterns only he seems to remember, as your fingers twist into his hair, as the sharp edges of your composure begin to peel back ever so slightly, just with this, he speaks.

no, he recites.

"there is no divinity more cruel than that which inspires silence in the hearts of the celestial, for in that silence burns longing—and longing, unspoken, is the birthplace of worship."

you intake a sharp breath, barely holding onto yourself, a hand braced against the shelves behind you. his voice doesn’t falter.

"to approach the sacred is not to touch, but to know. to taste knowledge is to surrender to it. and to surrender to her—she, of moonlight and collapse—is to find within destruction the shape of paradise."

your thighs tighten around his shoulders. you don't remember a single manuscript that said this.

your breath stutters.

his tongue doesn’t stop. neither does his voice.

"the one who descended with no herald, who bore the grief of falling like a crown—she is not to be pitied, but praised. for even undone, she remains... formless divinity. the mind bends not to light, but to her."

it's a soft, broken sound that leaves you next. your hands slide down the shelf, trembling.

he presses further.

"tell me what you feel,” anaxagoras says softly between phrases, lips never straying far from reverence.

you can't answer. your throat constricts around the truth of your feelings, suffocating.

so he takes that, too, and continues.

"the laws of reason fracture where she treads. every theorem collapses under the weight of her. and i—logic-bound, oath-sworn—i kneel not as skeptic but as supplicant, for what else is left before a truth this blinding?”

your knees nearly give.

he holds you up with one arm around you thigh, the other anchored to your hip.

"you are glowing," he murmurs, more breath than voice now.

you sob, soft, stuttering, fingers gripping the back of his neck, glimmering veins shining too brightly.

you know what he’s doing. taking everything from you, peeling back layers you didn’t even know existed.

and you let him.

and when you fall apart on his tongue, you don't have to say anything. he doesn’t need you to. you're lost in him, lost in the rhythm of his devotion, in the prayer that is his voice.

and anaxagoras just keeps reciting, as if the words are a lifeline that he needs to help live past another night.

"she is not the echo of divinity, but its original form, fragmented into flesh. and i will worship her until silence speaks—"

you can’t speak. tears gather faintly at your lashes, remnants flickering just faintly under your skin like the last pulse of a falling star. he sees it. knows it.

he keeps his mouth on you, and doesn’t stop until you're nothing but divinity, undone and cradled in his logic.

he hums against your skin as your trembling calms down , finally looking up into your very soul.

"—and kneel before her until my knees bleed, and call it knowledge."

his hands are steady. your glow is not.

and then he bends again.

to worship.

[cuties-in-codices]

i was hoping one of y'all would know 😭

astronomical illustrations

from an astronomical-astrological codex for king wenceslaus iv. of bohemia, prague, shortly after 1400

source: Munich, BSB, Clm 826, fol. 13v-25v

[bloodmoonmary]

to love me is to suffer me, ethel cain.

not strong enough to be your man . . . the pages of mary graham's life rustled like unfinished manuscripts scattered across a oak desk—each chapter etched with the peculiar patina of a mind too restless for conventional narratives. she had emerged from rural silences, that peculiar child who pressed wildflowers between kant's critiques and traced latin conjugations in the condensation of kitchen windows. the countryside had shaped her in negative space—the absence of crowds making her hunger for stages, the solitude sharpening her tongue until it could flay pretensions with a single murmured syllable.

at sapienza, she moved through lecture halls like a specter in elbow-patched tweed, her brilliance a carefully contained fire. philosophy taught her the architecture of thought, but it was the act of writing—that alchemy of spilling ink until it coalesced into meaning—that became her true vocation. her notebooks bulged with fragments: a villanelle scribbled during a metaphysics seminar, character sketches of strangers observed from café windows, the occasional furious margin note about plato's glaring blind spots. when she came to metropolis for journalism, it was not for credentials but for the raw material—the city's pulse providing counterpoint to her natural reticence.

the daily planet newsroom never quite knew what to make of their most anomalous intern. she appeared like a sudden weather change—vintage blazer sleeves shoved to her forearms, hair perpetually escaping its pins—dissecting municipal corruption with the precision of a poet parsing meter. clark kent learned to keep extra pens in his desk drawer after finding her gnawing thoughtfully on a borrowed biro, her marginalia spiraling into existential asides. when acting roles found her (never sought), she approached them as anthropological studies—stepping into fictional skins with the same intensity she brought to peeling back the layers of a news story.

her solitude was neither accidental nor tragic, but a deliberate ecology

she grew up in a world of filtered light—not quite a prison, not quite a sanctuary, just a carefully constructed dome where the violence of baltimore streets became muffled shadows against the glass. her parents (hannibal with his surgeon’s precision, will with his fractured empathy) had built it for her, a gilded isolation where tutors came and went like seasons, where knowledge was poured into her like wine into a crystal decanter. she didn’t mind. the other children outside seemed loud, messy, their games crude compared to the crisp pages of her books.

her cousins were her first and only playmates—rough boys with scraped knees and laughter like barking dogs. she tolerated them, sometimes even led them in games that bordered on cruel, her quiet voice spinning rules too complex for them to follow. they adored her anyway, drawn to the way her stillness felt like a dare. but real friendship? that came later. for years, it was just her and the books, the way they whispered secrets without demanding anything in return.

then there were the dreams. they came like unwelcome letters—vivid, insistent. a teacup shattering before it slipped from the maid’s hands. the exact shade of a storm that wouldn’t arrive for weeks. she never spoke of them, not even to hannibal, though sometimes she caught his gaze lingering a second too long, as if he could smell the premonitions clinging to her like perfume.

adolescence cracked her open. suddenly, the dome felt less like protection and more like a bell jar. she cut her hair asymmetrically, wore mismatched socks on purpose, let her wardrobe become a rebellion of silk and safety pins. the other girls watched, whispered, then flocked to her—not despite her strangeness, but because of it. she curated friendships like an art collector, drawn to the ones with sharp edges and dangerous laughter, though she herself never touched the pills they passed like candy, never let a boy’s hands wander too far. she wasn’t afraid. she just knew the cost of surrender.

high school was a performance. she played her part—straight a’s, polite nods at teachers, the occasional sarcastic quip that made her friends gasp-laugh into their hands. but her real life happened elsewhere: in the library carrels where she kissed a girl from her philosophy class, in the thrift store dressing rooms where she pieced together her identity one vintage blazer at a time, in the quiet of her bedroom where she read until dawn, her parents’ murmured conversations downstairs a lullaby.

when the sapienza acceptance letter came, she didn’t hesitate. baltimore had been a prologue. rome awaited, ancient and hungry, and she was ready to let it devour her whole.

ib to @kerryshifts and @girlberrie 💖

[carb0n-m0n0xide]

Heya!!! :3

Hey guyss :D the name’s Carmen but yall can call me Carm, Carbon, Carb0n, Carmon, and anything related :>

Some quick things- i am a 16 yr old Christian, artist, writer, and local madwoman 😋 i got INTP-T on the personality thing, have diagnosed DMDD, suspected Autism and probably depression 😬 Currently working on a story under the tag "#Fragments" or "#Fragments wip" if yall wanna check it out

more things on me in the drawing tee hee

✨ Some links~ ✨

Tag list if yall wanna join!!

OC MASTER POST!!! I need to update it :,<

My socials and such

How to make cool texts tee hee

Old intro

My cat!!! My son -v-

Writing by me!

[under cut- alt blogs and mutuals]

✨ My Alts ✨

I have… too many. But i REFUSe to remove them TvT

@carb0n-m0n0xide-backup @carb0n-m0n0xide-072 @rat-detector-72 @will-wood-detector @quotes-0ut0f-context @carb-the-autistic @imagine-getting-your-blog-stolen @spilling-my-guts-to-you-guyss @carb0n-coated-manuscripts @png-hoarder @whumpous-dumpous @carmens-dolls @is-it-sister-approved @not-ellis-east @cautiousbuilder @baldazzled-will-wood @m0th-lovers @83-official @reaction-pics-official +2 unlisted ones

✨ My MOOTS!!! ✨

Check em all out!!! Yall are all so cool omg omg ily guys too much you have no idea!! Thank yall for making life so amazing ❤️❤️❤️

@sunflowerrosy @lwkjsfloating @likeadeadbattery @the-ellia-west @bees-with-a-camera @homelessnerd @bamboozled-08orange @theweirdbox123 @d0rky-0utfits @dixidin @potatoeperson33 @theultimaterewatcher @hg-sweethearts @curious-apricot @vesanal @vic-11037 @corinneglass @inspirationallybored @seastarblue @catnykit @gekowo @daringcrafter @kneecapwindchimes @aieroartstudios @ask-pyramid-steve @iburntcurlyfries @holyvulture @daexplodingstudios @extrasillystars @sunflowers-and-scales @j-denyourlocaljackofmanytrades @elronthemage @write-with-will @overwhelmedfernfrond @yolbert @geminiagentgreen @outofpawket @everest81 @cottoneeahhhhh @fallingstar-rainbow @tacticalsp @whatifieatedpaperlol15 @pastellbg @isthenapoleoncute @thebookishkiwi @monotonebird @pyromaniacbibliophile and ANY OTHERS I FORGOT IM SORRY BUT I LOVE YA ALL!!!!!

Thats about it!!! Remember gang,

ILY GUYS!!! ❤️❤️❤️ YOU ARE ALL LOVED SO SO SOOO MUCH!!!

And have a WONDERFUL day/night!!

Sincerely,

Carmen.