#midnight poem learning

[ashstfu]

read literature. be present. make love. make tea. write a poem. cry. watch a sappy movie that makes you want to throw things at it. paint your nails. cook something. call your best friend. learn an instrument. wonder. take a bath. go for a walk. lie down on the grass. listen to the entirety of ur favorite album from 2016. take pics of sunsets. ponder. shamelessly dance in your room. curl up on your bed. make endless wishes to the stars twinkling in the midnight sky. think about nothing. think about everything. think about things so hard that you barely remember what happened moments ago and why you’re feeling the way you do

[emmth]

Guys like you know how to make a girl feel special. You say all the right things at the right time. You look like you actually think I'm extraordinary. And for a second there, I allow myself to believe in the illusion. Even if it's all a lie, for that one second I want to feel special.

But it's scary, isn't it? Too many "just a second"s, and suddenly I become a naive little girl.

Do you like having that power? Making me blush with just one stupid look? Do you enjoy making me addicted to you and your words. After all I longed for so long to be someone's special.

It's not real though. For you at least. It started as a joke for me too, you know? A bit of fun won't hurt anyone, will it now?

I never learn from my mistakes. For guys like you it stays that way, just some running joke. But my stupid mind always takes it too far.

And when the jokes are no longer funny for you, you move on. Live goes on. You probably don't even think about me

But me? I stay there for so long, rebuilding myself peace by peace. Promising to never fall for fairytales.

Will I ever learn?

Maybe... maybe this time, just this once, it's real for you too? Maybe I actually mean something to you? Maybe....? Maybe you won't forget about me like some toy you played too much with and got bored of?

No, I won't ever learn....

[cherryswisherz]

FORGIVE vs FORGET

♱CONTAINS: told from narrators pov. lottttsss of plot soz lol. jaliyah and juju finally come together. no more standing on business, evb weak inna knees. smut: eating, fingering, filthy mouths ♱NIYAHSPEAKS: yall been waiting for this one. happy pride !!! ♱♱♱

when juju and jaliyah saw each other again, it wasn't because juju showed up at jaliyah's house demanding to have a conversation. it wasn't because they just so happened to be at the same club.

juju had essentially told her nothing, but at the same time it was enough to drive jaliyah absolutely fucking insane.

she didn't know what the girl meant when she said they were 'bigger than that'. how could they be bigger than just fucking when it was all they'd done together for four months.

they didn't hangout anymore. they never talked about anything other than sex. there were no more deep conversations where they spilled their souls all over each other.

and it was all on juju. she'd been the one to put the distance between them less than two months after this whole thing started. she'd been the one to stop calling. she was the one who stopped answering text messages, and she was the one who went to that fucking party and slung her arm around a random.

it was all her, and yet she felt that their relationship surpassed all norms and it didn't matter how poorly she treated jaliyah. because they were bigger than that.

it was bullshit.

that was what jaliyah kept telling herself for an entire week. she played that conversation on a loop in her mind.

she thought about their friendship before the sex, the way they spoke with each other, the way they'd look at each other.

she went over every time they'd slept together. they way they'd touched. every kiss, every word shared in humid ecstasy.

jaliyah understood why she felt they were more. how she confused the definition of their relationship and allowed herself to thing they could be anything other than fuck buddies.

when they were just friends, juju had a way of making her presence known. she hardly spoke, but everyone knew she was there, and to move accordingly, especially when it came to jaliyah.

when jaliyah and her ex broke up, juju was there. she answered every phone call, listened to every rant, read every shitty heartbreak poem, soaked in every tear. she had a violent look in her eyes when she heard what went down between the two, and it returned every time the former relationship was brought up.

the first time they'd had sex, it was like they were speaking a language that only the two of them knew. it was powder soft lips and strong grips and wanton noises.

every time after that was the same. neither women had ever felt uncomfortable or degraded or anything other than praised. in the bedroom, they didn't feel like fuck buddies, they felt as committed to each other as anyone could possibly be.

so yes, jaliyah understood how she'd crossed the wires and confused her role in juju's life.

what she couldn't wrap her head around, was if juju felt that they were more than that, why did she treat jaliyah the way she did?

why did she fuck other girls? how could she ignore her? why did she act like jaliyah came last on her long list of priorities?

it didn't make sense.

if juju felt even a sliver of what jaliyah felt, she wouldn't intentionally do her the way she did.

for a while, jaliyah chalked that whole conversation up to juju trying to get back in her pants, and her confusing ass declaration was yet another form of manipulation.

she'd fallen for it countless times, but she swore she was done with the forgiving and forgetting shit. there was only so much she could forgive, and she found forgetting to be impossible.

and she was adamant in her stance on wanting judea rather than needing her. she avoided her like the plague. she filled the boredom with puzzles and pinterest. she silenced the noise with the poor financial decision of airpod max's in the shade 'midnight'.

she'd built a routine, she'd learned a life completely different than the one she'd known for years.

she wouldn't use the word happy, but jaliyah was content.

sure, she had to catch herself going to call juju in times of boredom. or in times of distress. she resisted the urge to call juju when she couldn't figure out why her wifi was fucking up, or when she couldn't figure out why her food wasn't tasting right. when that ache between her legs was nearly unbearable, she wanted to cry as she opened the top drawer in her nightstand, because she knew a much more effective method would come running at the click of a button.

jaliyah learned that she'd depended on juju watkins more than she'd originally realized. it didn't scare her, or anger her. no, it hurt her. she'd hurt herself by allowing herself to lean on someone under the false assumption that eventually, that person would lean back.

it never happened. juju operated alone, and she had the entirety of her life. she'd never allow herself to vomit out her feelings, or be vulnerable. she'd never admit that she needed anything from anyone. she was born with her shoulders back and her chin up, and she would die that way.

how stupid was jaliyah to think she'd be the one to crack the code?

so she sat in her apartment. alone. bored. losing her fucking mind.

when india otto called her in the wee hours of the morning, jaliyah almost didn't answer. she and otto were good friends, but they were friends via juju. isolating herself from juju meant isolating herself from juju's friends, who she'd adopted as her own as well.

but something told jaliyah, pick up. you need someone. you need something.

and so she did. she hit the green button and slid the phone to her ear. you'd have thought this was a life altering phone call with the way she breathed out hello?

"hey, liyah." her voice was high, like she was shocked to hear jaliyah's voice.

"hey, otto."

"i was just calling to see um-" she cleared her throat. "to see if you were coming to the game tonight?"

"I wasn't plannin on it." jaliyah stirred in her seat on her couch. "why?"

"oh just cuz, ya know..."

jaliyah really didn't know. she hadn't been to any games since the start of the season. she didn't know where her 12 jersey was- or any of the teams merch for that matter. she clicked not interested on every tiktok relating to women's basketball.

she wanted nothing to do with any of it.

"nah, i don't know." she spoke softly but there was firmness there that let otto know that it was in her best interest to explain what the hell she was talking about

"it's ju's first game back."

she got cleared. was jaliyah's immediate thought. she felt relieved to know that juju had made a full recovery. she wanted to spit at herself for it, but she was relieved.

she still didn't understand what that had to do with her, though.

"...so?" she scrunched up her face as if her indifference could be seen. "we not cool no more."

"well, yeah, i know." otto spoke fast, and jaliyah could practically hear her nodding her head a mile a minute. "I know that, but I just thought you'd wanna be there... still." that last word came a full two second after the first part of the sentence. she sounded disappointed, defeated almost.

jaliyah said nothing because she had nothing to say. a few months ago, she would have been there. she would have put on her best fit, and spammed her Instagram story with live updates from the comeback of the century.

but things were different, and now she wanted to leave LA as a whole just to escape the buzz juju's return would inevitably create.

"she's really fucked up about it. ken says she like- fucked up the whole apartment."

objectively, jaliyah knew that she shouldn't care about whatever the fuck juju had going on. it wasn't supposed to matter that she was nervous about playing again. it wasn't her business. not anymore.

but of course, she still wanted the woman. her heart cracked a little as she listened to otto talk about judea's borderline manic behavior.

she told herself that she was gonna stay strong, stand on business. she told otto she wasn't going, hung up and turned on a movie.

their movie.

Love and Other Drugs was always jaliyah's immediate form of distraction, but she'd fucked up.

she thought about that first time. the way she'd folded into juju on the very couch she was curled on.

the way they'd looked at each other in silence for a second, telepathically asking are we really doing this?

it was understood that they were, in fact, doing it. after that, jaliyah never wanted to do it with anyone else ever again. and for a hot second, she thought juju felt the same way.

clearly she was wrong.

as the movie went on, jaliyah saw jake gyllenhaal chase anne hathaway down, telling her he was willing to be anything she needed him to be, no matter how angry she gets or how helpless her illness makes her.

if you applied that sentiment to juju and jaliyah's relationship, you'd obviously see that once upon a time, they'd been everything each other needed.

shoulders to cry on, hands to hold, punching bag to scream at.

jaliyah was reminded of the promise they'd made each other when this whole this began.

they were friends first.

and ultimately that's why she went to that game. she went because she was juju's friend, and she needed someone.

last minute ticket purchased, jersey found and fit thrown, jaliyah sat in her uber trying to ignore the part of her mind that told her to turn the hell around and let juju suffer.

the pettiest part of her wanted juju to feel utterly alone, because that's how she'd felt for so long.

by the time she reached galen center, jaliyah had nearly psyched herself out. but still, she found her seat. she'd never been to a game by herself. she never questioned if she was wanted there, or wondered what juju's reaction to her presence would be, but still she sat and waited for the team to run out of the tunnel.

the crowd erupted when juju's name was called. #12 returning. the prodigal player. freshman phenom. sophomore sensation. injured early in march madness.

it was like a stampede. everyone was stomping to the same rhythm, screaming her name. juju should have felt elated. she should have felt loved and missed and like she was back home.

but jaliyah could see it. the nerves. the pressure weighing her shoulders down. she was scared.

she looked in the crowd, scanning over her audience. they were all smiles and echoing claps but juju had a straight face. she blinked rapidly, her chest rising and falling at the same pace.

she didn't notice jaliyah at first, though she was near the front row. juju didn't catch her until the third time she looked over the crowd and when she did, she looked like she stopped breathing.

she smiled back when jaliyah's lips turned up and her eyes didn't leave hers as she climbed the steps. all eyes were on her, but juju fell into her anyway.

there was nothing nonchalant in that moment. her fingers dug into jaliyah's hips and her nose tickled the curve of her neck. they held each other for a while (probably too long for a public setting) and when they separated, jaliyah dug into her back pocket and passed juju a stick of spearmint gum.

"you're gonna be fine." she leaned up and whispered into the taller woman's ear. juju was towering over her and her lip was tight like she was holding something back.

"you sure?"

"i'm not just sure." jaliyah shook her head. "i'm HIV positive."

she was quoting south park in a rather serious moment, but ju smiled all the same.

"I miss you." juju hugged her again. "wait for me?"

"after the game?" jaliyah mumbled into her ear.

"mhm."

kennedy's voice was the reason they separated. "ju, coach g is trynna start the huddle, come on."

juju nodded once and tapped her fingers on kennedy's shoulder "aight."

and then she was gone. she didn't look back as she stepped down. she just joined her teammates and did what she did best.

juju's shots didn't start falling until the second half. she had to adjust to the pressure of a game, to the vibrations of the crowd under her shoes. she wasn't used to it anymore, and she hated herself for it.

thoughts that sounded like you aren't the same crawled into her brain through her ears and festered until she was literally air balling.

even her passes were off. her turnover rate was humiliating.

everything was going wrong and when the buzzer screamed that the second quarter was over, she hung her head low on the way to the locker room.

juju plopped on the bench, a towel and a gatorade thrown in her direction. she dug through her bag until she found her phone, looking for notifications from one person.

li why tf are they blitzing u in your comeback game aggressive ass bitches

ur not chewing my gum so u hate me

ok ur not doing teeewww bad but pls lock in

judea. airball is crazy.

2nd half is your turn make the most of it

juju didn't respond, just liked the last message and tuned into the pep talk from her coach. 15 minutes went by quickly and on the jog back to the bench, she dug the stick of gum out of her team jacket and shoved it in her mouth.

she turned around in her seat and found jaliyah, who was already looking at her.

she mouthed something like show them and smiled, lifting her head to the court. ju nodded and turned back around.

she was gonna show them. she was gonna make the most of it. win or lose she was gonna prove her point.

tip off went to the trojans, and the ball was passed to juju within 5 seconds. she shot the three... sank it.

she was jacking, defense was defenseing, three's were threeing, lays were laying. double teams became triples and that's when she knew she was back.

she still bricked every now and then, but she was hot.

she ended that game with 15. usc lost, but juju proved her point.

♱

the night had been a success. jaliyah was a nervous wreck in the passenger seat of juju's benz truck, but she was still proud of the woman driving.

she did what she had to do. she'd supported her friend(?) told her what she needed to hear, cheered her on even when she was failing.

and juju soaked it all in. she came back in that second half and reminded everyone of who she was.

jaliyah hadn't forgotten though. she never would, and maybe that was the issue. maybe that's why she was tapping her foot so fast the car rocked and twiddling her thumbs like a lump of anxiety.

the night had been a success, but it wasn't over, not by a long shot.

juju broke the silence. "so..." she drummed her fingers against the wheel. "we good now?"

this was what jaliyah was scared of. she didn't want her presence to be misinterpreted as forgiveness.

it was always forgive and forget with them. she hadn't planned to forgive juju but... she was in the damn car wasn't she?

"ion know." jaliyah answered. she felt unnaturally timid.

"then why you come if you was still mad?" juju's eyes never left the road but you didn't need to see her face to feel the confusion in her words.

"i'm not mad."

"so what are you?"

"ion know."

juju let out a huff and jaliyah could hear her grip tightening on the wheel and the car jerked a little hard when she made a left turn.

"well what do you know, liyah?" jaliyah didn't answer because she couldn't. she didn't know what she knew. "hello?"

she didn't know what to say. she knew that she wasn't necessarily mad with juju. she was more hurt than anything, but she wouldn't say that yet.

she refused to give out her vulnerability again. she wouldn't show her cards until juju did, so she asked the question that's been sitting on her mind since their last conversation.

"whatchu mean when you said we were "bigger than that'?"

it was so quiet you could hear the subtle rattle of jaliyah's bangles as she tapped against her thigh.

juju knew what she wanted to say, but she'd always been a woman of few words, so she didn't know how to say it without seeming like she was lame.

she wasn't the 'poor my heart and soul to you' type of person, but she had something to say.

"we're bigger than just sex." jaliyah sighed in irritation and juju raised a hand to tell her to wait a second.

she was getting there, damn it.

"you said we fuck, but it was never just fucking, liyah." juju sounded more invested in this conversation than jaliyah had ever heard before. "not to me, at least."

frustration invaded jaliyah's body. she was so lost.

had she missed the signs? did she sleep through the part where judea felt anything other than lust for her?

it wasn't adding up, but she could feel that ju wasn't lying. she knew ju wouldn't act like she felt anything because her whole brand was nonchalant final boss.

she'd never lie about feeling something, and she wouldn't admit to feeling it unless she absolutely had to.

she was telling the truth, and that knowledge vexed jaliyah even more.

she leaned forward in her seat, ignoring the burn of the seatbelt on her neck, "you're so fucking confusing bro." she gripped the low bun and squeezed, as if the slick back was the cause of the adrenaline.

"you just-" she pushed back and the passenger seat banged a little from the force. "you don't call, you don't text." she was getting louder, but not in a you're pissing me off way. it was more you're boutta feel everything i'm saying.

"you totally shut me the fuck out unless you wanna crack, and then all of sudden it's more than that." she turned so her back was pressed against the door, and she was fully facing ju who was turning her head every few seconds so she could see jaliyah.

"when the fuck have you ever conveyed that it was more, ju?" her fingers flexed in her lap. "that you felt more?"

"i always have." ju insisted. "or i've always tried to."

she knew that intent had nothing to do with impact. that just because she thought she was clear, didn't mean she was actually doing it.

she also knew it was impossible for her to have showed the way she felt when she was repressing it herself. she didn't want to admit to herself that she was worried about anything other than ball, much less to the woman she'd been infatuated with.

women make weak legs, and she wanted to punch herself in the face everytime she was happily distracted by jaliyah.

but still, she thought that her feelings were clear. she thought jaliyah should have known what she was feeling without her having to say it.

it was obvious that juju wanted jaliyah in every capacity. everyone knew it. she'd been clowned on for smiling at her phone, for not attending team outings because she wanted to hang out with jaliyah.

how the hell had she never seen it?

"WHEN?" jaliyah exclaimed.

juju said nothing. she just shook her head and manspreaded in the seat, one palm on her phone in her lap.

if they weren't in the situation they were in, jaliyah would have told juju to pull over in an empty parking lot and turned her every way but loose.

her hand was so tight against the steering wheel that her veins were mapped out in a distracting manner. she looked so pretty when she was thinking, but jaliyah couldn't fall for the fuck and make up spiel again.

she forced herself to lock in and remember the problem at hand.

"right." "so that is supposed to make me forgive and forget? i'm supposed to just fawn over you like a dummy? all because "you've always felt more"?

juju smack her lips and cut her eyes, "nobody's asking you to forgive and forget shit, jaliyah."

jaliyah hadn't realized they were at her apartment until the car stopped in front of her building. juju put the car in park and snatched the keys out of the ignition. she turned so they were eye-to-eye.

you couldn't cut the tension with a katana.

"what the fuck do you want me to do?" juju was talking fast with her hands and jaliyah didn't know what to do besides listen. she wasn't gonna miss the chance to finally know what the fuck juju was thinking. "i know I was shitty to you. i know i got caught up in all the basketball shit and i pushed you away. but i just-"

she inhaled and closed her eyes, calming herself down. she was starting to yell, and that wasn't something she did.

"i just thought you knew why. i thought we had an understanding, and i'm sorry i misread it."

juju felt like a fucking dork saying that, but she didn't even care.

she had to push through the embarrassment that came with vulnerability if she ever wanted to fix this shit.

she'd reached her last resort. she couldn't charm her way out of this one. it became clear weeks ago that jaliyah wasn't letting this one go. it was crunch time, move it or lose it and juju was not losing it.

she'd do and say whatever jaliyah wanted, and what she wanted was transparency. so, ju decided that in the name of transparency, she'd keep talking.

"but i can't keep going through the same shit with you, liyah." she leaned forward so she was almost leaning on the center consol. "like the always thinking i'm fucking someone else, or the shit with the party?" she pointed to the back of the car, like there was a visible timeline in the air. "i was being real with you when i said I didn't fuck that girl. i was honestly looking for you the whole time. and i can't keep repeating that to you. you just gotta know that i wouldn't lie to you like that."

jaliyah's mouth was salty with tears, because she felt so fucking stupid for actually believing this shit. she wanted to scream that ju was lying, that she was just trying to put the blame back on her.

but she couldn't because she knew juju wasn't. her mind told her to fight, but her gut told her to fold like a wet paper bag.

she compromised with the both of them.

"how am i supposed to know that?" her voice wavered, but she ignored it. "how do i just forget how you get- or got down before me?"

she was talking about the infamous juju watkins slut run of 2023. ju would never be able to come back from that, and she knew that. she couldn't ask jaliyah to just act like it never happened, like she hadn't asked her to lie for her, or like girls hadn't called jaliyah's phone asking for judea.

jaliyah had a front row ticket to juju's debauchery, and it was imprinted on her mind.

"you don't have to forget it. you should remember it and you should just trust that i wouldn't dog you out like that."

the tears had dried and it was like jaliyah had an epiphany. she thought about everything juju was saying. she wasn't telling her to forgive her, or to forget everything that happened. she wasn't telling her to do anything.

she was asking her to believe her. to give her another chance and trust that she would do better this time.

jaliyah didn't feel overwhelmed, or anxious. she didn't question herself when she made her decision.

"don't embarrass me, judea." she said. "don't make me regret this. ion even play these games, but i'm choosing to believe you because you're my friend and I know who you are at your roots. but dont. embarrass me."

"i won't." Judea smiled from ear to ear. she opened her door but before she moved to get out, she turned to jaliyah. "and i'm not your fucking friend."

it was declaration. that they were more than that.

that they were deeper than that.

♱

the light in jaliyah's room was soft, making her tawny skin glow. her eyes were half-lidded, giving her that look that had juju ready to pounce.

how the vibe had changed from we're on good terms again to i'm about to make you pur during the 45 second elevator ride up was anyone's guess. juju wanted to pinch herself to make sure wasn't walking around in a dream.

she'd just got jaliyah to realize that their relationship wasn't just about sex, and yet jaliyah was looking at her like she was about to alter her life forever in that room.

juju cleared her throat, pointing to the bed, "did you want-"

jaliyah cut her off "trust me when i say i want,"

juju's cheeks heated in a way that she wasn't used to. she kicked herself at her own internal response because she wasn't this person. this wasn't her first rodeo, and yet she was blushing like jaliyah was about to take her virginity.

deciding to take charge before her nerves go the best of her, juju covered the few inches that had been between them. when she reached for jaliyah, there was no resistance.

the fell together, mouths already parted to allow entry. jaliyah kissed like a storm, her touch laying claim until juju's mouth tingled. somehow, her hands had found a home on jaliyah's hips, tightening and releasing with each hit of arousal. juju's tongue slid forward, tangling with jaliyah's as she pressed until there was nowhere left to go and jaliyah's back hit the closed door. it was thrilling to have her so close again and juju wanted to take advantage of every moment.

"you are so fucking beautiful." she didn't mean to sound so breathless, but it was the truth. jaliyah was almost hard to look at. sometimes, juju found herself without words when she caught sight of the woman before her.

reaching up, juju cupped jaliyah's cheeks between her palms, enjoying their warmth. she brushed a thumb over jaliyah's kiss swollen lips. they were pillow soft, and it was damn near impossible to do anything but lean back in for more.

hands roamed and groans passed back and forth between their lips. jaliyah's hands gripped juju's tech jacket and but she took a step back to free herself from it.

something was triggered and before either if them could think, they moved frantically, stripping their clothes before falling back against the door together.

skin-to-skin was exactly where juju wanted to be, and she moaned when their nipples brushed, hard with arousal and standing up in twin peaks. she kissed a fiery trail down jaliyah's neck, savoring the warm skin that her tongue brushed. hands cupped the back of her head,not guiding but simply holding steady and juju smiled. she continued her path, placing sucking kisses in the valley between jaliyah's breasts before sliding over and covering one nipple with her lips. she tongued the dips and ridges, loving the feeling that was uniquely jaliyah. the breaths that rained from above her spurred on, and she sucked lightly to treat it's twin with the same fervor.

"jesus, ju." jaliyah pante doubt. her back arched up pushing into juju's touches until juju wasn't sure if she was even still touching the door. "so fucking good, baby."

juju shivered at the pet name before starting downward again. she had a destination, and he mouth watered just thinking about it. when she reached the dark curly hairs that framed jaliyah's pussy, she paused and took a breath.

it's been so long....

she gripped under one of jaliyah's legs and guided it up to her shoulder so she could have more space to work.

"shouldn't we move to the bed?" jaliyah huffed out, she went with juju''s motions resting the back of her knew on juju's shoulder. "i'm not trynna fall on you."

"i'd die happy." juju replied, eyes zeroing in on the only thing of importance in that moment.

the heat of jaliyah's core was almost as good as the taste.

key word: almost.

jaliyah's moan nearly made juju cum untouched. it would have been embarrassing beyond comprehension, and yet the thought had her juju pressing harder and faster, plunging her tongue between those heated lips as she chased the source jaliyah she wanted her more of that siren song.

"fuuck," one of jaliyah's hands curled around juju's shoulder, gripping it tightly as the other pulled her face closer. everything was wet and hot as her hips began to lift with each flick of juju's tongue. "that feels..." her head leaned back against the door with a thump.

with a smirk, juju leaned back, enjoying the shudder that followed her tongue sliding between soaked folds. "feels what?"

"why you stopping?" jaliyah's voice cracked on the last word, and juju had to fight hard not to laugh at how offended she sounded.

"you said 'that feels.' feels what?"

jaliyah started down at her for a second before her lips tipped up. "are you fishing for a fucking compliment while your face is actively in my vagina?"

juju shrugged, "need validation, i guess." she leaned forward with nonchalance and huffed over jaliyah's lips. this close, she could see the shine of saliva and slick on them, and she sucked her bottom lip to chase the flavor of them.

jaliyah chuckled before tracing fingers over juju's glossy lips. juju chased them, sucking a couple of them into her mouth and giving the same treatment she planned to continue once jaliyah told her what she wanted to hear.

"i can't believe i used yo think you were shy and innocent."

juju snorted. she didn't know what the hell about her gave shy and innocent but it was a laughable assumption.

"ion know what to tell you, but answer my question."

"fucking one track minded."

"only when i want something, and right now, I want you to finish your damn sentence so I can finish you."

jaliyah groaned an leaned her head back against the door before looking back down at juju. "it feels fantabulous. that's what i was gonna say. can you continue now?"

with a soft cough to hide her laughter, juju got back to it. she knew exactly what jaliyah was actually gonna say and in the back of her mind, she planned to exploit every unspoken praise but right now, she just wanted to see jaliyah fall apart.

"yes," jaliyah cried loudly, her grip on juju's shoulder tightening.

juju didn't plan on wasting anymore time. she hiked jaliyah's shoulder higher,s preading her more for her ravenous mouth. her tongue curled and darted back between her lips loving the way jaliyah's pussy trembled.

she was greedy for it. she wanted to devour this woman until she was nothing but a shell, and she was succeeding.

the nails scraping her back was her warning before jaliyah slapped a hand against the door behind her and arched again. juju didn't let up, thrusting her tongue forward until jaliyah's body jerked and she gently pushed juju's head away.

"damn, ju." jaliyah smiled wide as her eyes continued to flutter. juju helped guide her leg back to the floor. they were nowhere near done, but moving to the bed was probably for the best.

she stood up and smiled when jaliyah reached for her. they kissed again, jaliyah;s tongue darting forward as if chasing the taste of herself from juju's lips. juju opened and let get her fill as she guided them towards the bed. they fell on it, legs tangling until juju couldn't tell when she ended and jaliyah began. when fingers glided against her own slick lips, juju bit back a moan.

"you sure you didn't fuck someone else like that?" jaliyah asked, eyes hooded as she gazed at juju. there was a heat there the resembled an inferno. "i'm for real the only one?"

"been hooked since i had you." juju shook her head. when those fingers continued gliding lightly against her clit, juju did even try to hold in her gasp. she was swollen and sensitive and she needed it/ she let jaliyah push her leg up until she was spread enough for her to move.

"as you should." jaliyah's voice was thick, like molasses but her smirk had juju trying not to laugh in amusement.

"not too much." she slid an arm behind her head and looked down at jaliyah, who was peering up at her through her lashes.

"not enough, actually." jaliyah started. she slid a finger between the lips of juju's pussy before juju couldn't think of a remarl. her finger moved easily with the sticky juices that had accumulated from eating jaliyah like her last meal.

juju watched entranced as jaliyah lifted her hand her finger glistening with juju. without hesitation, jaliyah sucked that finger into her mouth, sucking and pulling her finger out again with a loud pop.

"liyah."

there was no other words left to say. juju reached, then pulled jaliyah to her and captured that filthy fucking mouth again.

"you're distracting me." jaliyah determined and before juju could pull her back into the kiss, she shifted down her body. she guided both legs onto her shoulders.

juju opened her mouth to speak but before she could get a word out, jaliyah's tongue lashed against her, parting the sea slightly as it slid up to her clit. a tight hum was the only noise she could make as pleasure washed over her.

"fuck," juju breathed out as she reached out and brushed her thumb over jaliyah's cheek. she could only hold on as jaliyah repeated her motion, slipping deeper as if trying to rearrange her from the inside.

juju's breaths came faster as she followed jaliyah's rhythm. wet sounds filled the room, hold for juju's moans of ecstasy.

she reached her other hand to to grip one of jaliyah's, squeezing tightly with each wave that crashed into her. she arched into her mouth, groaning deeply when jaliyah's tongue dipped into her. it was debilitating, and juju tossed her head to the side when a finger entered along with it.

"there she is," jaliyah exhaled, hot breath hitting juju's clit and making her twitch. "you like that?"

"yes," ju huffed out, "fuck, yeah."

"you love this shit," jaliyah said, her voice full of barely contained hear. it had deepened and slid over juju's skin lighting her up and pushing her to places she wasn't quite used to.

when jaliyah leaned back in, pressing her tongue deep again, juju cried softly before clutching the back of jaliyah's head as she tried to come apart.

time meant nothing. the night could have passed and juju wouldn't have noticed. all she knew was heat a burning pleasure as jaliyah swallowed her whole, her tongue moving with her fingers until juju didn't know what it was to be empty. when her fingers twisted, juju clenched and sucked in a breath and as much as she'd been trying to hold on, there was no way to fight her release when jaliyah's other hand left hers and brushed across juju's clit.

back bowed, juju lost all sense of reality. whited out, all she could hear was the muted sound of her own cries over the rush of blood in her ears.

when she finally collapsed back against the sheets, it took her a moment to realize she'd closed her eyes at some point. jaliyah was no longer down between her legs but instead leaning over her whispering good juju was, and how sexy she'd sounded when she came.

if not for having just had her brain leak out of her ears, juju would have said something equally tantalizing in responses. instead, her mother chose that moment to finalize whatever questions hung in the air.

"you bet not ever keep that shit from me again." she sounded like a smile as she pressed a kiss to jaliyah's lips. "we together forever, I hope you know that."

♱TAGLIST: @patscorner @fuddsgf f @mattslolita @thaatdigitaldiary @kmoneymartini @darkskinchristiandiorpostergirl @justliketoreadsowhat @pb524830 @pb524830 @sierrale8ne @numberonepartyanth3m @uwupaige @paigeluvvr @colorthecosmos444 @authentic-girl03 @makethemhoesmad @lovegalor333 @mrsarnold @sellasstories @avvwritesstufff @bueckersp @paxaz535 @thelightknight21 @paxaz535 @darlindayss @his-loss @dreatopia @naeswrrldd @his-loss @dreatopia @evry1luvzzae @bueckersverse @darlindayss @itsstavy13 @janaelalfysloml @bxeckersz @spcncershasting @iknowwhatyoutellyourfriends @giavonnii @rishofkf @thesexiestdomfem @hellokittyfeenie

[danieyells]

UPCOMING CARDS!!!!

The PC may have like a month and a half to live but time does not stop for her--Tanbata is here(in-game. tanbata isn't for another few weeks irl) and so are the story cards for this episode!!! And the Tanbata outfits are so pretty!!!

And of course the episode itself comes out in about 20 hours! They still no longer show the next episode's sprite information in the files so unfortunately I won't know what or who's in the following episode. But I'm sure you've come to expect that by now. But we do know the title at least! Anyway--cards!

Character Card: Firelit Wayfarer(「あたたかな灯の指す方へ」  "Pointing Towards The Warm Light") Skill: First Festival(「初めてのお祭り」  "First Festival") Fully Awakened Skill: Up-And-Coming Cowherd(「新進気鋭の牽牛」  "Up-And-Coming Altair" or "Young, Energetic Altair". "Altair"--or 'Hikoboshi'--is the name of one of the two pivotal stars in Tanbata.) Warding Card: Festival Night(「"お祭りの夜に」  "The Night Of The Festival")

Character Card: Yearning Altair(「誰が為の彦星」  "Altair For Whom?") Skill: Milky Way Admiration(「天の川への憧れ」  "Yearning For The Milky Way") Fully Awakened Skill: Footloose Cowherd(「マイペースな牽牛」  "Altair Who Does Things His Way") Warding Card: Fire Flowers(「灯の花が咲く丘」  "The Hill Where Light Flowers Bloom")

Character Card: Swirling Stars(「星と想いは波の随に」  "Stars And Thoughts At The Mercy Of The Waves") Skill: Shrine Ferryman(「本殿への舟守」  "Captain Of The Ship To The Main Shrine") Fully Awakened Skill: Serene Cowherd(「静謐なる牽牛」  "Peaceful Altair") Warding Card: Sweet Burst(「甘くはじける味」  "Sweetly Bursting Flavor")

Character Card: Unmade Wish(「心に秘めた願い」  "A Wish Kept Secret") Skill: Wish Trivia(「短冊のトリビア」  "Tanzaku Trivia" 'tanzaku' are long, narrow strips of paper on which Japanese poems are written vertically. On Tanbata it's customary to write a wish on tanzaku and hang it on bamboo.) Fully Awakened Skill: Swallowed Words(「飲み込んだ言葉」  "Swallowed Words") Warding Card: Support From The Sideline(「射的応援中」  "Shooting Gallery Support")

There's one more warding card Grand Entrance (「満を持しての登場」 "Long-Awaited Entrance") but the image of the card itself isn't in the files yet. Based on it being an SR and its position however it's most likely the story SR from last episode.

There's also a new cosmic bond! It's most likely just these cards, given it's clearly the cosmic bond for this episode.

Darkwick Cowherds (「ダークウィック七夕伝説」 "Darkwick Tanbata Tradition")

The next episode title is The Vanishing Homeroom (「神隠しホームルーム」 "The Mysteriously Disappearing Homeroom")! I guess this will be an on campus sort of mission, although it could easily be at a civilian school in Tokyo. . .and if it's anything like this one and the previous one maybe it'll be another inter-house squad.

Uuuh is that everything? Beside the stats I mean? I think that's everything! Feels like it's been ages since I did this many cards in one go @,@ Okay quickly wrapping up!!

Gacha is gambling! Banners rerun! I know how rough FOMO can be but it's okay if you don't get the units you want this first time around--they will always come back! If you're going to spend on the game please be sure to set limits for yourself and stick to them! Gambling addiction is real, so please seek help if you find yourself struggling!

My Japanese isn't very good! So please take my translations with a grain of salt.

Why don't you make a wish? You can learn how to make a tanzaku here. I've read that in Japan they're often set afloat on a river or burned at midnight/the next day, so once you've made it and let it exist in the world for a while, dispose of it how you see fit perhaps. It may just be a silly little activity but writing things out, putting them in the world, can be cathartic even if it does nothing else. It's important to do meaningless things and things for yourself sometimes.

Here are the stats! Good night, good luck with any pulls you make, and I hope this is a good episode!! 🎋🌌

[rel124c41]

LAST MIDNIGHT. floyd leech

MAKING MOVES, MOVING IN. floyd leech

DEFLOWERED. floyd leech

LAST MIDNIGHT. floyd leech

requested by: anon / cake details: red velvet cake (royalty AU) with buttercream frosting (mutual pining)

Third time's the charm is how the saying goes. If you last through the first and second tries, there is sure to be good fortune on the other side. All you have to do is see it through until you reach the metaphorical pot of gold at the end. However, by all accounts, the third time is not the charm for you. 

The deal is that you only get three nights. Nights full of ecstasy and delight, void of any punishments. Nights where you could live in the shoes of everyone else, nameless and chesired, void of your identity.

Your fairy godmother had raised up her spindly index, middle, and ring fingers. Skin peeling away to reveal jagged bone, she dropped each from right to left as she narrated how your temporary reprieve was secured for three blissful times until the last midnight passed. At the third break of dawn, you would depart from the prince you sought for company or she would collect your soul as punishment for a broken deal.

The first two nights were wondrous!

There are so many experiences that were virgin to you, that he opened up the gates to. The world previously known seems like a drop of rain in an ocean now. With the prince, you feel like you are on another planet entirely; he alters your gravity and messes with your perception in irrefutable ways. His presence is as life-changing as the diagnosis of a deadly disease or the birth of a newborn.

When you are on your deathbed and memories start to fade, sunken and molting into the mattress like fungus, you know that you will be able to perfectly and thoroughly recall these moments with him in your mind.  

Watching Floyd now, your hippocampus stores everything like a camcorder, passive and open. 

He is barefoot, hair askew, a damp white button-up clinging to his back. He is going around the shoreline of the beach to collect stones, expressing unrestrained displeasure or joy at the ones he picks up, cradling them in his palms like a squirrel trying to stuff as much food as possible in his mouth. He is the type of muse that would not be limited to one art medium; there would be sculptures, poems, paintings, and music in memoriam of him.

You can only record him in memory, like a souvenir shelved in your brain. It is impossible to banish the light smile off your features at the mere sight of him. 

“Shrimpy,” he calls, though your attention is already on him. You do not move until he starts to wave. Liking to physical evidence he wants your company. “Come here!” His gesturing causes a few stones to slip out his grasp.

No sand miraculously stains the expensive silk of your outfit. It must be a touch of fairy magic, allowing you to make your way over to the prince without having to worry about any annoying sediment ending up where it shouldn’t be. Just as you come shoulder to shoulder with him, grainy rocks are being guided into your hand.

“Ya ever learn to skip stones?”

“I cannot say I have.”

“After tonight, ya can say it,” Floyd grins.

Here it is — you observe and take a picture of the three stones in your hand, flat and smooth; they remind you of full moons — yet another experience he has the keys to. Before, you knew little of what was beyond the walls of your imprisonment. There is a younger version of you that could never fathom getting to see or smell the ocean. 

The prince nudges your shoulder, wetting the area. Seaweed hair is flopping over his eyes, dripping pins of water over his nose and stretching dimples. Earlier in his hunt, he dove into the briny waves to retrieve some of these stones, submerging and sliding yards away from shore before he emerged victorious, rock raised in the air, shouting his glee as you laughed on the edge of grass and sand at his ridiculousness. 

Skipping stones in hand, you laugh again, “I’ll be positively bragging about it tomorrow!” You have to keep this affair a secret, magic rules and all that, but you can still appease his ego.

“It’ll only be worth braggin’ about if you can beat me,” he challenges just as his left arm comes up in one snapping pitch. Your heart follows along with each bounce it does across the water. It finally sinks into the ocean at a grand twenty-eight. “Though, I don’t kn-ooo-w, I think I got ya beat, Shrimpy.”

Floyd’s fingers enclose around your dominant hand before you can respond. The touch is welcomed easily — after all, for the past two nights you have danced, played instruments together, and walked hand in hand to secret places — thus, you take the backseat, pupils like lens, to watch him maneuver two stones out of your hand so only one remains. 

He instructs you by starting with the position of “Ya thumb goes … here, and ya wanna put your index on the edge like this” and then, hands on your waist guide to move “Then, you wanna stand like this. And, start pullin’ your arm back to prepare to pitch it.” as he guides you into a demonstration of the throw, he adds pressure on your hand to ensure that “when ya let go, snap your wrist forward like that.”

“Like this?” You keep the stone in your hand, only miming your future throwing posture. 

“Like that, Shrimpy,” the prince affirms, beaming with pride.

Straightening up, you tighten your hold on your stone even though you are supposed to have a loose hold or risk messing up the shot. You do not want to disappoint him by being a terrible stone-skipper. Why does even the miniscule seem so important in his presence? 

It’s probably because he’s staring at you. 

His eyes are incredibly soft. He is giving you the kind of look that could translate to I’m happy to share this moment with ya. Though you told yourself you were going to absorb everything tonight, document it in your hippocampus down to the last color, you find it hard to raise your gaze and meet his burning stare.

So, you release the stone. It skips twice before drowning on the third. Plu-nk! 

“Damn, I thought I could,” you mumble off, jaded. You were expecting a better outcome.

“Hey, you skipped it,” the prince cheers with enthusiasm, smothering out your negativity. “I didn’t skip mine on my first try.”

“Really?” You find that hard to believe; he seems like a natural at everything he’s shown you, talent in his bone marrow.

“Really. Threw ‘em too hard each time. Got really frustrated and didn’t pick the habit back up ‘till I felt like it.”

Before you were temporarily released from your imprisonment, you had heard about the twin brothers. Heard about the left-handed prince with the attitude like a cloud, causing storms one minute or simply harmless fluff the next. He is volatile. Likely to change for the worse if circumstances bore or vex him. 

“Do you get bored easily?” 

You imagine he does, traveling through life on whims, never content.

“Nah,” he disagrees blatantly with your assumption. He skips one of his own stones, left hand as confident as ever. “I just get bored when I get bored.” 

With each jump across the waves, your heart beats rapidly. 

It isn’t such a sentimental sentence. Hell, he is outright disagreeing with you. But his words still plant a seed of appreciation for the time you two have spent tonight. No ties of obligation keep him with you; no sudden kinks have caused him to deviate from your side. It causes your eyes to slide to the sand, face burning with no sun to blame it on. 

You have to calm your skipping heart.

Later in the night, you are climbing back up to the edge where sand and grass intersect to head back to the castle with the souvenir conch shell Floyd has given you when he pipes up next to you, “Will I see you again tomorrow night?”

Neck snapping up, you look at him in muted surprise. Eyes wide and shiny. Smile slow to emerge but certainly emerging.

You really are so captivating. It’s why he’s been staring all night. Focused on you like an artist mapping out his still life sketch. 

He’s been thinking about getting commissions from those court painters to capture your likeness. Apprehensive at the possibility that you might just vanish into the dawn one of these nights, he’s been debating it seriously. Scared at the notion of never getting to get to see your face again. He can barely sit through the things – always shuffling his feet, biting different areas in his inner mouth, jittery all over – as they put paint to canvas. 

On a sympathetic level, he doesn’t want to put you through that. On a selfish level, he wants a museum, wall to wall, of portraits depicting you, the stranger he’s been lucky enough to see three nights in a row. 

Third time’s the charm, right?

Time has slipped between Floyd’s fingers like sand. He has been simply having too much time and forgot to mention earlier how he wants to return the exchange, to enter your world. 

The palace is s-ooo-o boring! But, it has been altered by your presence. Floyd has been a soaked match, unable to burn, until you came along. He is positive that your world, beyond his imprisonment, is just as captivating as you are. You are the key to his gates. 

God, you really are so beautiful.

But when you smile?

It could rival even the rising sun.

Floyd watches with a smile on his face —- awaiting your answer, as orange bleeds out onto the water and dawn starts to rise over the horizon — the light in your eyes dim before you collapse in a heap.

MAKING MOVES, MOVING IN. floyd leech

requested by: @clowning-constant / cake details: marble cake (NRC) with buttercream frosting (mutual pining) and sprinkles (specific to requester)

“Hey Sealie,” Floyd says, tone light but not entirely friendly.

He’s not exactly thrilled to see the little fur ball, but it’s not too bad to see him either. His presence implies the fact that you could be nearby. That knocks him just a little bit out of his funk.

The basketball ricochets off the backboard, not even close to the hoop.

Hm, not enough to knock him out of his funk completely.

“What’s up with ya,” he prompts, reaching out sideways to scoop back up his ball. The little dire beast is an interloper on Floyd’s Alone Time after he skipped out on his afternoon classes, so it better be worth his time.

Grim has been searching for the eel-mer for the whole day. Sevens, it shouldn't be so difficult to find someone so tall! Hunger pangs are gnawing on his stomach — he just ate maybe an hour ago — so excuse him if his next words,

“My Henchman wants ya to come live at Ramshackle with us!”,

don’t come out so elegant.

The basketball thuds against the backboard so hard that it looks and sounds like the plexiglass is going to break just down the center. It is also another shot missed.

“Na-aaa-ah.”

Any other time, Floyd would be tickled pink and about to burst into sea foam. 

He’s a bit too rough around the edges, all thuggish and gangster-esque, but he metaphorically kicks his feet like a schoolgirl at the mere mention of you. A grin wide enough to split his face would be emerging at the idea, him hosted up in Ramshackle with his Shrimpy; even if Grim’s words aren’t true, he would tease you to an early grave with the notion.

Instead, he reaches out his leftie, scoops up his bouncing basketball one handed, and dribbles it in front of him.

“Thanks for the offer, though.” 

Bang! Everything but net.

“Wha!”

It’s not what Grim is expecting at all.

Because, Floyd is always hanging around Ramshackle. Where it once started out as Malleus Draconia’s hole in the wall, the second years becoming third years and the graduation of the third years led to this natural transition of loitering and, quite honestly, trespassing to transpire!

Grim starts listing his very persuasive reasoning:

“Ya already have a toothbrush there!” Not that special, so do Deuce and Ace.

 “And, you’re over for dinner every other night.” Only because someone eats without limits unless there’s a big eel-mer blocking the fridge door.

“It would make everything so much easier if ya just moved your stuff into a spare room.” It would also lessen up the chores on Grim’s end. “Then, finally, my Henchman would stop talking about you so much!”

The shot that Floyd was lining up suddenly, hands held out, moving the basketball left and right to find the correct flight path, is suddenly realigned; all his attention arrows down to Grim.

“Shrimpy talks ‘bout me?”

Inside Floyd, a switch has been flicked. Grim can tell, animal instincts prickling his skin. It is especially evident with the way Floyd’s eyes shift, pupils dilating and the rings of yellow and olive shining like plugged in Christmas lights.

Grim is scrabbling to backpedal, weighing who’s going to fry his tail more — you or the immediate threat. “Well, they, um, they just talk. They talk about Ace and Deuce all the time. They complain about the Headmage. They name drop. They talk in general, so! Eek!”

The hard maple floor of the court ripples with the effect of Floyd’s bounce, deliberately aimed at Grim’s feet. With his height, it’s like an earthquake to the dire beast.

It resets him though, stops his yammering, s-ooo-o. 

“What kinda things,” Floyd drawls, all peachy-keen now.  That glowing yellow eye is like a sun flare.

“Well, just, uuum, just,” Grim’s stuck between keeping his Henchman’s secrets and keeping his head.

“If ya tell me, I’ll pack my stuff tonight.”

Which equals no more chores for Grim.

“They like how sweaty you get after basketball.”

Not exactly the most charming thing to be taken away from lengthy, lengthy talks but it’s the first thing that comes to his mind.

Floyd pauses like a buffering DVD, ball still in his hands. Not perturbed by the information in the slightest; he likes when you’re sweaty too, always playing tug-of-war with animal pleasure and human decency to not take a giant, sweeping lick from your clavicle, across your neck, and end at your ear. You doing P.E. is just as charming as you doing anything else.

“Reall-y, what a weirdo,” but his dumb grin says otherwise, “they’re always so squirmy ‘bout it,” he’s been punched enough in the ribs to know to stop draping himself over you when a game or practice is finished but now?, “Got anythin’ else?”

“Myah, I don’t know!”

Grim’s ready to turn tail. If you find out about just that one sentence being said, he’ll be doing dishes for months until his paws wash right off.

Floyd smells the hesitation in the water.

“C’mon, don’t leave me high and dry. Ya want me to move in right? Gonna need some motivation to help me start putting all my shoes in a suitcase.”

Well, now Grim’s not so sure about the whole moving in part. Floyd can definitely reach high up places for dusting, but he’s also Floyd Leech.

“Ya know, I think we’re too crowded in Ramshackle. Plus, all the ghosts haven’t been told about this yet. Squatter’s rights, and ummm… I’ll go debrief with them then I’ll come back to- y-ouch!!”

Held between Floyd’s hand is Grim’s trident-shaped tail. Crouched down to his height, the brute rests the basketball under his knee so it doesn’t roll away. He smiles a smile that is too toothy.

“Don’t ice me out, Sealie, c’mon. I just wanna hear what Shrimpy's gotta say. How about this, for everything you tell me, I’ll buy ya a jar of tuna.”

Floyd doesn’t fish — a little too existential for his taste — but he knows when he’s got them hook-line-sinker.

Grim shuffles on his hind legs but it is already clear by his pursed lips that he’s gonna spill some more stuff. 

Floyd listens, rapted, as both the double doors and Grim’s mouth open.

“My Henchman thinks you look real sexy when your cleavage is showing in your uniform!”

In such an empty gymnasium, the sound travels well.

“Grim!!”

“Shrimpy!” Floyd greets you jovially, letting go of your cat’s tail and standing up. He’s pleased as punch, ready for the entertainment of a lifetime.

His hand coming up to unbutton his third button is inconspicuous.

DEFLOWERED. floyd leech 

requested by: anon / cake details: red velvet cake (royalty AU) with edible flowers (fluff) and citrus glaze (smut)

It all starts with him insulting your father. 

A bizarre thing. 

However, you cannot help that it has you biting down on your index, lungs quivering with concealed laughter as deeper and deeper, this fearless jester twists the knife of comedy into your father’s stomach. Insults about his latest failed crusade, jabs directed toward his growing weight, and well-timed criticism about his inability to rule a kingdom. One joke has you contorting in your seat, throwing an arm over your face and squeezing tight into your chair with bouncing shoulders and quivering legs. He leaves you gasping for mercy, stop! stop! hehe!, as your grin spreads ear to ear. 

He is perhaps the only man in the world who can achieve such a feat. Gasping for mercy that is.

For your own pride, you would like to say you do not how this situation came to be. You would pledge to the court that your jester is a disguised fae, seducing you with witchcraft and making you do unholy things. Usually, there is more sense in your head; Floyd happens to suck it all up with a straw, a vicious butterfly on top of a delicate flower.

Sex in the botanical gardens? Surely, you should know better. There are only so many flowers to cover the scent, only so many plants to cover the sight, and nothing to cover the sound as you gasp wantonly.

“Fuh-Floyd! Ah – augh. Fuh-Fl–!” When you throw your head back, it bounces off the gazebo’s floor. Tears prick like thorns in your eyes. “Ehhh–Enough. I … eugggh.”

“One more. One more.” Floyd encourages, looming over your body. He kneels between your thighs, straddling around the right thigh while the other shakes and seizes over his left thigh. Relentlessly, without a shred of any mercy, he pumps himself into you.

You cannot see it given the ruffles of silk and taffeta that flow from your waist. Your tailor would be double-over from a heart attack if he knew you allowed his masterpiece, designed specifically for today's upcoming tea party, had been shoved aside by Floyd’s hands like those intricate laces were nothing more than lousy wrapping paper to get to the valuable present underneath. 

You had told Floyd, pulling the hair underneath his monk cowl like horse reins to get him to pay attention, to be careful but you think you heard a tear all the same. The absolute brute.

However, his brutish attributes are usually what calls you back to him. It is certainly brutish now. The girth of his cock oscillates back and forth like a wild pendulum, pulling himself back only to return with added vigor in each thrust. His pressure suffocates you like he is atmospheric. He is the air you need to breathe in a way. 

To be drowned in him is an eudaimonia summit that you can only reach with his help.

As if reading your mind, Floyd bends down closer to you. Balls slapping hard against your leaking pussy, sending juices ricocheting into a messy puddle around your combined sex, he leans down to get a better look at your face.

With the way you two are positioned, there has mostly been constant eye-contact between the two of you. You love his face. This is the hardest part of being in love and needing him like oxygen. When his nose crunches as he laughs, when his eyes gleam as he looks, even the miniscule flop of his tongue as he talks and talks, it makes everyone else seem ugly.

His handsome face leans down to grin at you; you choke out a loud, bashless moan. On the gazebo floor, you press your check down hard, jaw hanging open involuntarily and eyes squeezed tight as his cock gives a particular hard punch to just the very gated edges of your cervix.

To be under his gold eye feels like being burnt by a sunbeam.

Floyd plants a tiny garden of kisses on your face, moving from forehead to cheek to ear to chin to nose to lip. Mouth already limp, he meets no resistance when he sticks his tongue into the embrace. You try to kiss back as well as you can with your soul being fucked from your body.

He is so greedy. Knowing exactly which way to slip past your defenses with a correctly timed joke, he managed to go from simply his knuckles up inside, from his tongue lapping up the first orgasm, to have you contorted beneath him, trying not to burn out from your third.

Hummingbird heart going wild in your chest, you lift your head up to engage deeper into that kiss. Sliding and mashing tongues together as your genitals do the same in a much more lubricant setting. Sevens, you feel like a swamp down there, drenched enough by bodily sweat all over but rivers soaked on your inner thighs. 

Floyd adjusts your position, slowing down his thrusts, resting your spine on the gazebo and sliding back in missionary. Air breezes underneath the skirt of your dress. He leans up to his full height as he guides your legs around his waist. 

He’s making these hisses with teeth between his grunts. His stomach clenches with each strained effort to keep in his noises. He’s usually so loud?

“Buh-Bite your index finger.”

You don’t even get to move your hands, the right one curled into your chest and the left one limp above your head, before he plows into you like a drill. 

Phap, Phap, Phap, PhapPhapPhapPhapPhapPhap —!!!

Your legs literally shake like they’re trying to come off, rattling bones going crazy. Eyes saucer wide, you go noiseless, mouth open in an O. It’s a telltale that you’re going to start grunting like a pig, moans spilling out an involuntary volume as your orgasm hits the top and crests downward.

He falls into you in a millisecond, chest to chest, orgasm starting to arrive at the top, one white droplet leaking out before the flood, and kisses you as hard as he can. 

It’s more like jamming his lips against your teeth and cracking his skull against your skull, but it is over-washed by the warmth of him spilling into you, deep and fast. Before you can start, Floyd bites your lips together quite unceremoniously and breathes hard through his nostrils. Euphoria hits you both, his cum squirting and your hole milking. Still, the both of you are silent beyond heavy, thunderous breaths.

His hips do phantom thrusts, weak ones that are lingering sensations, as you flutter around him like a suckling mouth. Fuuuck. You feel like buoyant jelly, limp and warm, both of your hips rolling lazily and slower into each other with passing moments.

“Did you hear that?”

“I think it came from this direction.”

“It better not have. We have to set up the chairs in the gazebo for the tea party.”

Whatever ease those three orgasms did, those voices undo them in an instance. Your head snaps towards Floyd, who pulled back on his elbows to rest his face in the lifted cleavage from your bodice. You feel his smile against the top of your breasts instead of seeing it, watching his rise and fall with each volcanic punch of your oxygen-deprived lungs.

To be his is a daily struggle.

[msriri030]

A Dream-Filled Love

Hyugo x reader

Summary: Hyugo wrestles with feelings he was never meant to have. Torn between loyalty and longing, he learns that sometimes the deepest love is the kind never spoken. one side loved with bitter end. I am sorry

Hyugo knew it now. Knew the truth clawing its way up from the depths of his chest:

His heart had started calling out for you.

But it was pointless. You were with his best friend, Sol. Loyal, fearless, devoted Sol. The kind of man who would burn the world to ash for the ones he loved. And Hyugo had no doubt—if Sol ever caught wind of betrayal, he'd make sure Hyugo never had the chance to regret it.

Still… Those sky-blue eyes of his kept drifting toward you. When Sol wasn’t around. When you laughed. When you touched his arm casually. When you handed him a cookie from a new recipe you’d tried—smiling, just for him. He would eat the whole batch like they were sacred offerings.

He didn’t know when it started. Maybe it had always been there, subtle and buried beneath loyalty. It was supposed to be another casual hangout—him, you, and Sol. He was used to playing the third wheel. It didn’t used to sting. But now… every little moment twisted the knife.

So Hyugo tried to deny it. Bury it. Excuse it.

He told himself it was just admiration. Just comfort. Just loneliness. But it wasn’t. And the truth haunted him in silence.

These days, he could feel it—dangerously close to being exposed. Maybe Sol saw the way his voice softened when he said your name.  Maybe you noticed how he lingered a little too long in your orbit. But no one said anything. No one had caught him yet. Still, he kept giving himself away.

Little excuses to touch your hand during games or laughter. Stupid reasons to challenge Sol to chase you in mock fights or playful competitions—just to see you run, to see you smile. To feel like he was part of it.

Part of you. But he wasn’t. And he couldn’t be.

So he smiled. He played the part. While guilt and longing hollowed out the space behind his ribs.

“I don’t think Sol loves me anymore, Hyugo…”

Your voice came out quiet, uncertain, barely carried by the rooftop breeze—but it hit Hyugo like a blade sliding between his ribs.

He blinked, caught off guard, though he shouldn’t have been. He’d planted this. Not directly—never directly—but over time, in whispers and half-truths, in subtle questions that made you wonder. It had started with innocent deflections, but now the doubt had bloomed full.

And it was blooming right in front of him.

He tried to speak, but all he could do was stare at the horizon, watching as the sunset bled amber and pink across the city skyline. The cold metal of the soda can creaked under the pressure of his hand.

You sighed and rubbed your arms. The breeze was picking up, brushing your hair around your face. “It’s just… it’s not like before. He used to leave me silly little notes, call me at midnight just to hear my voice, sneak out to see me for ten minutes between classes. Now I feel like I’m always the one reaching out. Like I’m too much.”

Hyugo’s chest tightened. His throat was dry.

He should’ve told you the truth.

That Sol wasn’t ignoring you—he was planning something. A surprise. A rooftop dinner, your favorite songs, handmade lanterns, and a poem he’d written despite being awful at it. Sol had rehearsed it, nervously, over and over. Because he loved you.

But Hyugo… didn’t say any of that.

Instead, he let the silence stretch like an unraveling thread.

And somewhere deep down, it made him sick.

“He loves you so much, (Y/N),” he said finally, voice flat but steady. “He’d bury bodies for you, you know?”

He forced a chuckle, squinting into the dying sun as his teal hair lifted in the breeze. He looked relaxed—but his posture was too casual, like he was playing a part. And maybe he was. Maybe he had been for a while now.

You gave him a faint smile, gently hitting his shoulder, the sound of your laugh—soft and unsure—making his chest ache. Your hand lingered on him, just long enough to make his pulse jump.

He shouldn’t be thinking about how your skin felt. Or how he wanted to freeze this moment just to stay beside you. Or how he imagined what it would be like if it were him you ran to.

But he did.

Your gaze turned back to him, your eyes searching. “Do you really think so? That he still feels that way?”

Hyugo looked at you. Really looked at you.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “He’s just bad at showing it sometimes.”

The words fell like a stone from his tongue. And in that moment, it wasn’t just heartbreak—it was loyalty, shame, longing, and guilt all woven together like threads too tangled to undo.

What you didn’t know was just a few steps away, Sol stood behind the rooftop entrance, nervously lighting lanterns with shaking hands, checking to make sure the candles wouldn’t blow out in the wind. His poem was folded in his back pocket, memorized but sweaty from his grip.

What you didn’t know was that Hyugo had suggested you come up early. Just a little early.

He could’ve made you cry. Could’ve twisted the moment, used it to make you reach for him instead. But he didn’t.

Because Sol was his best friend.

And because you deserved love—not confusion.

The rooftop door creaked open.

Sol stepped out, holding a bouquet of crimson roses and trying to smile despite his nerves. His eyes locked onto you first, and you lit up like the stars had come early.

Hyugo smiled, hollow and sharp.

“Told you so,” he murmured, sipping his soda and stepping aside as you ran into Sol’s arms—arms that weren’t his.

He walked past you both, his heart screaming, but he kept smiling. He gave Sol a quick slap on the back like any best friend would and made his way down the stairs without looking back.

And once he was far enough—past the stairwell, past the courtyard lights, past the soft laughter that echoed from the rooftop—Hyugo’s steps finally slowed.

The cool night air wrapped around him like a shroud, thick with silence. The gentle hum of the city faded into background noise, muted beneath the thudding of his heartbeat.

His smile vanished.

It didn’t fade. It cracked—like glass under pressure—splintering into nothing as the weight he had been carrying collapsed all at once. His shoulders sagged. His chest caved inward as though holding his own ribs together with nothing but willpower.

Tears welled in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks, hot and sharp, like they’d been waiting behind his smile for far too long. They carved wet trails over his skin, catching in the corner of his lips, and he didn’t bother to wipe them away.

He just stood there under a flickering streetlamp, hands in his pockets, breathing hard through his nose.

Alone.

Hyugo let himself break.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. But in the quiet, aching kind of way that felt deeper. The kind that left you hollow, like your soul had been scooped out and replaced with something heavy and cold.

Because the truth was simple.

Sometimes, loving someone meant letting them go.

Sometimes, loyalty meant choosing heartbreak—over hope, over selfishness, over every whispered "what if" that had echoed in his dreams.

And even now, with your laughter echoing faintly from the rooftop above, Hyugo knew one thing with painful clarity:

The dream of you would never leave him.

Not tonight. Not ever.

[sarasade]

Since The Dragon Prince is ending (or at least the second arc is ending) in December I'll celebrate that by listing the funniest things I've witnessed in the fandom during these years:

-The Great Aaravos Thirst of 2019.

-Knowing The Thirst™ had been even greater if Tumblr wouldn't have banned porn just a year earlier.

-Aaravos' character designer being very happy with all the thirst posting.

-The Great Virst of 2019 that was balanced out by the people who thought Viren was a total troll.

-Rayla-Claudia-Callum love triangle speculations before s3.

-"Viren actually killed everyone, including Sarai and his ex-wife", speculations during s1-3.

-Aaravos Is A Good Person and a cinnamon roll -speculations.

-Fandom calling Ethari "The Tinker" before his name was revealed and also correctly predicting him and Runaan being a couple long before it got confirmed.

-Jason Simpson (Viren's VA) being grumpy about people shipping Aaravos and Viren while Todd Erik Dellums (Aaravos's VA) egged the fans on and seemed to find the ship pretty funny.

-After the Midnight Star poem's full English translation got released some fans concluded that Elarion was a human girl Aaravos once was in love with and thus Elavos was born. You can still search the ship name on Tumblr to experience the time campsule of 2019 era of the fandom. Yes, people shipped Aaravos with a literal city and I think that's beautiful.

-The drought period of 2019-2022 hiatus where it was just a couple really weird terminally online fans posting their harmless headcanons, including a small fandom of a. ten people forming around Viren's ex-wife Lissa.

-Unhinged TDP fan theories like "Aaravos is Callum's Dad" and "Callum will learn every primal source" aka wanting TDP to be Avatar 2.0 but with elves.

-The fan response that parodied these theories including "Everyone is a Startouch elf, especially Bait"

-The Great FartGate of 2022 aka all of TDP Twitter collectively complaining about the fart jokes in s4.

-These 2024 Valentine's Day posts most likely done by the lead writer Devon Giehl.

-If you search Aaravos on Google the most frequently asked question is about his gender.

-TDP wiki gleefully listing Aaravos and Viren as Sir Sparklepuff's parents after s5.

-The fandom never letting go of the "Viren imprisoned Harrow in Pip" theory.

-Which Primal Source Are You -Quiz from 2018 foreshadowing events of the show like "where would you hide a dangerous magical object" and one of the answers being "in the bottom of the sea" possibly referring to Aaravos' pearl.

-A tweet fans thought was a mistake actually foreshadowed Aaravos being a giant.

I'll add more later if I feel like it.

edit:

ok one more: behold, one of the most popular TDP posts on Tumblr

[croworro]

I’d let him: part 2

Pairing: Jschlatt (Jay) x fem!reader

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: Southern Gothic setting, emotional tension, cigarettes (used as a stress habit), suggestive flashbacks, heavy nostalgia, heartbreak, small-town trauma, Jay being reckless, reader being soft and overwhelmed, longing, ANGST

Summary: You grew up. But he never stopped being the boy you wrote poems about on gas station receipts.

A/N: sorry not sorry bout this one folks. Ain’t no happy ending for these guys ☝️🤓

You see him on the second day you’re back.

It’s sudden, like being hit with the memory of a song you forgot existed.

You’re standing at the end of the gas station aisle, fingers tight around a bottle of water, sunglasses perched on your head, trying not to spiral over the way everything here looks exactly the same. The freezer still hums with a loud clatter. The plastic tiles still curl at the corners. And then—

He’s there.

Jay.

Walking through the door like nothing changed.

Like the last time you saw him wasn’t three years ago with your knees pressed to your chest and a note tucked under your windshield wiper.

You freeze.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s laughing at something one of the boys says, voice a little rougher, broader shoulders under his worn denim jacket. He’s older. Fuller in the jaw. His curls are longer than they used to be.

But it’s him.

You haven’t seen him since he left. Since you left.

And now you’re twenty-one and standing in the gas station like eighteen never ended.

Your chest tightens.

You slip out the side door and light a cigarette with shaking hands.

⸻

You didn’t smoke back then.

You only do now when your hands are restless and your chest feels too full.

But the moment you see Jay, it’s the first thing you reach for.

The smoke tastes like grief.

⸻

FLASHBACK

It was hot that night. Real hot.

The kind of heat that sticks to the backs of your knees and makes you do things you don’t tell your mama about.

You were sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, bare legs curled up on the dash, a slushie in your hand, cherry red leaking through the straw.

Jay was watching you from the driver’s seat.

Didn’t say a word.

Just leaned in, eyes dark and unreadable, and said, “I think about kissin’ you every time you do that.”

You blinked.

“Do what?”

He plucked the straw from your lips.

“That.”

And then he kissed you.

And you didn’t stop him.

⸻

That night, after the gas station, you sit on your childhood bed and stare at the ceiling fan.

The same posters are still taped to your walls, slowly peeling off from the stale heat. Your old hoodie still hangs behind the door.

You changed. You know you did.

But here, everything feels fragile. Like you could slip and fall back into the girl who waited for his truck to show up at midnight.

You hate how badly you wanted to see him again.

You hate how badly you still want to.

⸻

You run into him again the next morning.

Diner on Main. You’re with your aunt, nursing a black coffee and fighting off a headache.

He walks in with a cigarette tucked behind his ear and grease on his shirt.

He looks like a boy who never learned how to sit still. He looks like him.

Your heart jumps.

He sees you.

Stops.

You see the flicker of surprise before he covers it with a smirk.

“Didn’t know you were back,” he says, slow and careful.

You nod. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

He shrugs, stepping a little closer.

“Someone’s gotta keep the place falling apart.”

You glance away.

Your hands won’t stop fidgeting.

He notices. Of course he does.

He studies you.

“You cut your hair.”

“And you didn’t,” you murmur.

He grins.

But it’s quieter than it used to be.

“Still got that mouth on you.”

And for a second, it feels like no time passed at all.

⸻

FLASHBACK

He kissed you in the rain.

Right outside your mama’s front porch, soaked to the bone, laughing as thunder rolled in the distance.

“You’re gonna get struck by lightning,” you said, pulling your hoodie tighter.

Jay just grinned.

“Wouldn’t be a bad way to go.”

And then he kissed you.

Messy. Open-mouthed. Like he didn’t know if it would be the last time.

And maybe he already knew.

Maybe some part of him was always planning to disappear.

⸻

That night, you light another cigarette on the porch. You’re alone. The cicadas are screaming. The street is empty.

Jay’s truck rolls to a slow stop across the street.

You feel it before you see it.

Your chest gets tight.

He climbs out, slow, deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to run.

You don’t.

He crosses the street and leans against the railing.

You look at him.

You really look.

He still has that ring on his pinky. The one he used to spin when he was nervous.

His nails are dirty. His shirt’s torn at the hem.

He looks like home and heartbreak and summer sweat.

“Didn’t think you smoked,” he says, stepping up beside you.

You don’t look at him. Just blow smoke into the night air.

“Didn’t think you noticed what I did.”

He laughs. It’s low and familiar.

“You back for good?”

You shake your head. “Just a few days.”

He’s quiet.

Then: “You look good.”

You glance at him.

“So do you.”

It’s a lie.

He looks tired. Older. Like someone who never left but never settled.

But still—he’s him.

And your heart hasn’t stopped aching since you saw him at the gas station.

⸻

FLASHBACK

You were half-drunk on creek water and sun.

Jay was lifting you by the waist onto the rope swing.

You were squealing, laughing, legs around his hips.

“Let go,” he said.

“I’m scared.”

He leaned in.

“Trust me.”

So you did.

You let go.

You screamed.

You fell.

And when you surfaced, he was laughing so hard he dropped his cigarette in the water.

You swam to the bank, tackled him into the mud, and kissed him until your teeth hurt.

He called you his favorite sin.

You told him he tasted like trouble and cherries.

⸻

“Do you still have it?”

His voice pulls you back to the porch.

You blink.

“What?”

He nods to your chest.

“The necklace. The one I gave you.”

Your fingers fly there before you can stop them.

You do still have it.

Tucked away in a box you swore you wouldn’t open again.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

He smiles. It’s not smug. It’s not teasing.

It’s soft.

Almost sad.

“I think about you when it rains.”

You don’t say it back.

But you feel it.

⸻

It starts raining two nights later.

Soft at first. Then heavy. Southern summer rain, warm and loud and familiar.

You’re outside before you even realize it.

Just standing in it.

Hair damp. Shirt clinging.

Like a memory.

Like a ghost.

Then headlights pull up.

Jay’s truck.

He climbs out without an umbrella.

You both stand there for a moment.

Then he walks up to you.

No words.

He just reaches for your hand.

You let him.

And when he kisses you this time, it’s slower.

Less hungry. More afraid.

You kiss him back.

And it tastes like goodbye.

Even though neither of you says it.

⸻

FLASHBACK

The last night.

You were curled up on the tailgate, hoodie zipped, Jay’s head in your lap.

You were combing your fingers through his hair.

He was quiet.

Too quiet.

Then he sat up.

Didn’t look at you.

Just said, “I got a call. A job. Out west.”

Your stomach sank.

“You’re leaving?”

He nodded.

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t cry.

You just nodded too.

And the next morning?

He was gone.

You found the note an hour later.

Don’t wait up.

So you didn’t.

You packed your bags.

And ran.

⸻

He walks you home from the rain.

You don’t invite him in.

But you don’t tell him to leave.

You stand on the porch and stare at him.

He stares back.

“I should’ve stayed,” he says.

You nod.

“I should’ve said something.”

He takes a step closer.

And you whisper:

“You still make me feel eighteen.”

He flinches.

So do you.

But neither of you move.

And when he finally leans in—

You turn your face.

He kisses your cheek.

Soft.

Grieving.

And then he turns and walks away.

⸻

You watch him go.

Then go inside.

Peel off your wet clothes.

Lie on your old bed.

And cry.

Because leaving once was hard.

But seeing him again?

That’s the part that ruins you.

[candiedspit]

Smear Frame (1992)

The night I got home from the hospital, we had peas and squash and good chicken. Nobody spoke. The radio spoke for us; vitamin deficiencies, lights spotted across Vegas, another building demolition. The first couple of days, I stayed in my room throwing a ball against the wall, doing long division in my head. The television playing a documentary about squid brains. On the third night, mama asked what I was planning to do.

You can be a thing in the world, she told me.

We were in the kitchen, the evening light staining the windows above the sink.

You do have a choice, she continued. But you choose to suffer like an idiot. Even the rabbit knows better than to follow the wolf.

Learn something, Jane.

And she left the room. I held her words in the belly of my chest, going over them again and again. That night, I got dressed in my trench coat and went out to the middle of town. The lights were buoyant and fresh, amazing slashes, amazing range. The moon was pinned against the skies like a cop’s badge. I stepped into Lousy’s which was a bar I had been to before. I liked it because it was dark and cold. I often pretended I was in a cave or in some sort of comet, minutes away from approaching the quiet tendrils of earth.

I ordered a Shirley temple and sat at the bar watching the bartender spin and shake and serve drinks.

What’s the drink with the longest name? I asked.

A terrible, unearthed bitter and lame dirt tonic, he said.

I mused on this for a while and eventually someone spoke to me. An older woman wearing red and large earrings asked me what time it was. I shrugged.

Maybe sometime around midnight, I said.

Don’t you have a watch? She asked. What kinda man doesn’t have a watch?

The question of my masculinity continues to come under fire, I laughed.

So, what’s your problem? She asked. Why are you here at maybe sometime around midnight?

I got out of the loony bin last weekend, I said. I’m trying to map out the world again.

How long were you in there for?

Six weeks, I said.

Do they zap your brain? She asked. I had a cousin like that, always in and out of those places.

How is he doing? I asked.

On the side of the road, she said. Begging for cash, not hiding the bad time he’s having.

That’s admirable. But no, they didn’t zap my brain.

Did they strangle you with Valium?

I was never sedated, I said.

Who put you there?

My parents, I said, I was seeing the holes in the plot, could see the failing strings in the fabric of the universe, the whole picture. I stoped eating, stopped sleeping. All I did was play chess with spirits and paint my nails over and over again. I showed the woman my hands. See? They’re clean.

The woman was quiet, sipped on her drink. I continued.

It was sorta nice, I admitted, not speaking to anyone but sounding out the idea.

Being taken care of like an infant who can’t speak. You get medication in the morning and you moan about the news. Someone starts screaming. Someone stops screaming. You go into a dreamless, milky sleep. And your roommate mumbles in his sleep, sweet robotic poems. And you don’t have a pencil so you commit them to memory; a fog roars, abstain, chapel, chapel, chapel. And you disappear from the world. Headlines float around every day and you wander around the unit making funny faces to entertain yourself and someone calls you and they ask how you are and you tell them you can’t wait to go home. And then you get home and the world is indifferent.

Cheers, the woman said.

And we clinked our glasses. Around three, the woman stood up and gave me her number and shook my hand and left. I kept the slip of paper in my coat pocket. I went out to walk by the river-end, watching the rising of the waters, the night reflected on the surface, dark rivulets. A sort of vile peace.

A couple of months afterward, I found work at a fish market. Slicing trout in half and packaging swordfish into white papers. The work was mindless, bleeding work. Nobody spoke to me. I smoked cigarettes. When I got home, the house smelled of blood.

A while later on, I called the woman. I was on my way home from work. I had not spoken to another human being in ten hours. I had forgotten what my voice sounded like. I could see myself getting slower by the minute. Words died in my head like vermin. The woman answered within four rings. I explained who I was. The boy in the trench coat. It was nighttime and we spoke for a while. You were drinking a tall martini and every so often would dive into your purse to fix your lipstick.

You sound different, she said.

I feel different, I said. I feel like an aspirin. I feel like a headache that won’t resolve.

Where are you? She asked.

By the river, I said. I like seeing the water enunciate. Where are you?

She told me she was making tea for her husband.

He’s not feeling well, she said. I’m doing what people say to do; ginger and saltines and warm baths. But he’s persistent with his pain.

Some people are, I said.

The clouds are fragrant tonight, I continued.

It’s getting late. I can see my mother checking the time, fidgeting in the kitchen then checking again. It’s something I relish. Getting home late. The worry she must feel. The worst things happen in your brain. Perhaps I fell down a flight of stairs. Perhaps I cut my hand open on a knife and I’m in the hospital bleeding out beneath the fluorescent lights. She has a feeling but doesn’t want to endorse the feeling in case it becomes a truth. And when I arrive at last, the feeling subsides and instead is replaced with a mute disappointment. I am the one she loves but not the one she missed.

I began to call the woman—whose name I never bothered to ask for, I wanted to name her myself—often. When I was on my lunch break barely eating a tuna sandwich. When I was smoking cigarettes. When I was in my room reading the newspaper and playing with myself. When I was half asleep.

Once, I was naked in bed with the radio on, and there was a sullen exasperation in my stomach. I felt as though I knew when I was going to die and if I focused long enough the date would come to me, would emerge from the foggy brain matter and I would be freed. I had been thinking of death for weeks. Death was my babe, my habit. I had visions of my own death. Dying struck by a moving car and being stuck in the tire. An aneurysm so I’m alive one moment and exploding the next. Being stunned by a bullet and feeling my cells gasp in unison.

Death is an orgasm, I told the woman one night. Death is a great, wondrous love. You go into the light. You feel peace for the first time in your pathetic silly little life.

You sound twisted, the woman said. Death is what you avoid, everything you do, you do to put death out. Your bravado is not going to protect you from what will happen or what has happened.

That winter I was sleepless. I slept for thirty minutes at a time, watched the sunrise slur into my windows, made tea for my parents and gutted samurai fish and wrapped tuna and walked around town, dreaming of poisonous gas. Sometimes, I choked on my visions.

One afternoon, I felt a pop in the back of my head and walked out of work during my lunch break. And walked straight home. When my mother saw me, she placed me on the couch and pointed a flashlight in my eyes and placed a cold towel on my forehead. I mumbled for the angels.

I had been in the hospital for two weeks when I called the woman, I had been blotted out and cast into a week of sleep. I was feeling alright.

What kind of dreams have you been having? The woman asked,

I don’t dream, I told her. I stumble in and out of sleep like a newly born calf. I feel like I’m full of milk, a white calmness in my arteries, a saline stillness.

Come see me, I said. Come see my blue scrubs and bandaged fingers and dirty acne and limp, sedated gait.

I will, she said.

It was New Year’s Eve when she came. The nurses had hung up garlands and the television played the ball drop in New York City; that mirage a thousand light years away.

We were given virgin champagne and the nurses counted down with us and the woman was there, her hand on my back.

Focus on living one breath at a time, she said. Count the breaths until you forget you’re even counting.

The year turned over onto her stomach. That night, I laid down and recounted the poem again.

Chapel. Chapel. Chapel.

[kingofthedaisies]

HEADCANON TIME

Eric loves wearing jewelry, specificallt rings and necklaces, but everything really. Jack loves to play with them. When he plays with his rings, it's absentminded and fidgety— like when they hold hands or when Eric is trying to think of how to write his next poem. But when he plays with Eric's necklaces, it's usually a sign, Eric has learned, that Jack is either bored, stressed, or horny. Just certain times he can tell. Like...

When Eric lies on the couch, shuffling through channels and Jack comes around the corner of the steps and flops down on top of Eric with a huff. He puts his chin on Eric's chest and looks up at him with these big bold brown eyes. "You okay, baby?" Eric asks, smiling down at him. Jack just huffs out a sigh and says, "School sucks!"

"I know, babe, but break's coming soon," Eric said, planting a kiss on the top of Jack's nose and wrapping his arms around Jack's lower back. Jack smiles, a sort of thank you. Eric turns his head back to the TV, gun smoke playing quietly. Eric has already circulated through everything that's on, and decides to settle.

Jack's fingers thread through the beaded necklace around Eric's neck. They pull and twist and brush past the skin on Eric's collarbone. Eric wonders if he knows what's going through Jack's head.

"Jacky? Sweetheart?"

"Hmm?"

"Something on your mind?"

"I... Dunno. I think I'm just stressed.. you know? Need to do something to relax.." he said, leaning up a little with his hands squished between his chest and Eric's.

Eric raises an eyebrow. "Something like.... This?" He pulls Jack forward a little and plants a kiss on his lips. Jack sighs into the kiss, and Eric can feel him relax on top of him.

"Yeah.." Jack says when their lips finally part, "definitely something like that." Eric just smiles.

But soon enough, Jack is leaning up, knees on either side of Eric's hips in a straddle position, pulling his sweater and T-shirt off over his head and throwing them across the floor. He runs his hands up Eric's shirt, grazing across the warm skin. And as they undress, Eric leaves his necklace on, and Jack's fingers twist around it while he rides Eric into oblivion.

Or like...

When Shawn goes out with a girl Jack doesn't like (and maybe Shawn does it just to piss him off, but nobody says it), promising to be back by ten.. and then he's not.

Midnight passes, and Eric is in the bedroom in his pj's, just waiting there for Jack. He realizes how late it is, and goes out to the living room to check for Jack. He spots him out on the patio, smoking a cigarette and biting his nails.

"Hey," he says, stepping out. Jack looks alarmed and is about to smother his cigarette, but Eric just brings him in close and wraps his arms around Jack's back. Jack hugs back, hanging his arms over Eric's shoulders and being careful to keep his cigarette a safe distance away.

When Eric pulls away, Jack just smiles.

"Put that out, will ya? You're killing me!" He laughs. Jack chuckles and smothers the Newport on the railing. They're quiet for a second, Jack still leaning on the railing and cigarette smoke lingering in the air.

"He's gonna be fine, you know. He is fine," Eric finally says, hands on Jack's hips— firm and kind and grounding. Jack nods, leaning in and running his fingers across the chain on Eric's neck. He lays down on Eric's chest, and Eric just holds him tight, letting him tug on the necklace and twist it between his fingers while he just strokes his hair and plants kisses on the top of his head.

Or like...

When Eric is finally studying for the exam he's supposed to take in a few days— notes and pencils and whatever other stuff he's using to try to remember the information scattered across the couch and the coffee table and the kitchen counter and even some stuff on the floor. And Jack is bored out of his mind, going over the same info over and over for a few hours when he already has it down.

So Jack is sprawled across Eric on the couch, fiddling with his belt (when he begins to run his hands under Eric's shirt, Eric slaps his hands and says "Don't do that! You'll distract me.." and Jack just laughs before groaning a little bit) then he reaches up to fiddle with the hemp necklace Eric's got on, layered over a long golden chain with a small charm hidden beneath the collar of his shirt. It looks new. When Jack pulls the charm out from under Eric's shirt, he sees two little letters: JH.

His initials.

"When did you get this?" He asks Eric, surprised and touched that his boyfriend got such a necklace.

"Last week," Eric answers absentmindedly, scribbling an unreadable note on the margin on the paper he was reviewing.

"Eric.." Jack practically gushes, "I can't believe—" he cuts himself off just to continue with, "Why didn't you tell me?" Eric just smiles down at him and shrugs.

"I dunno. I didn't really do it for you," he replies, earning a squished expression from Jack. He's still going through his papers when he says, "I like to think of you throughout the day, you know? Sometimes I need to... Ground myself. I just kinda.. hold the charm sometimes, and it helps.."

Jack grins, proud and so touched he looks like he could cry. He tugs on the necklaces a little, and Eric glances down at him. When Jack pulls a little more, Eric cranes his neck down and Jack leans up to meet his lips. The kiss is tender and warm, as usual, but there's still that rush if excitement in Eric's guts— like they're kissing for the first time again. God, Jack doesn't know what he does to Eric— so pretty and perfect and innocently nasty. And as hard as Eric is trying to focus on his studies, he ends up pushing Jack down into the couch and Frenching him hard— like, tongue shoved down his throat while Jack croons for more.

Needless to say, they both pass their tests. And although Eric's grade is lower than it could've been, he wants to keep up that study method for the rest of his life.

[julesofnature]

A Poem on Hope by Wendell Berry It is hard to have hope. It is harder as you grow old, for hope must not depend on feeling good and there is the dream of loneliness at absolute midnight. You also have withdrawn belief in the present reality of the future, which surely will surprise us, and hope is harder when it cannot come by prediction any more than by wishing. But stop dithering. The young ask the old to hope. What will you tell them? Tell them at least what you say to yourself. Because we have not made our lives to fit our places, the forests are ruined, the fields eroded, the streams polluted, the mountains overturned. Hope then to belong to your place by your own knowledge of what it is that no other place is, and by your caring for it as you care for no other place, this place that you belong to though it is not yours, for it was from the beginning and will be to the end. Belong to your place by knowledge of the others who are your neighbors in it: the old man, sick and poor, who comes like a heron to fish in the creek, and the fish in the creek, and the heron who manlike fishes for the fish in the creek, and the birds who sing in the trees in the silence of the fisherman and the heron, and the trees that keep the land they stand upon as we too must keep it, or die. This knowledge cannot be taken from you by power or by wealth. It will stop your ears to the powerful when they ask for your faith, and to the wealthy when they ask for your land and your work. Answer with knowledge of the others who are here and how to be here with them. By this knowledge make the sense you need to make. By it stand in the dignity of good sense, whatever may follow. Speak to your fellow humans as your place has taught you to speak, as it has spoken to you. Speak its dialect as your old compatriots spoke it before they had heard a radio. Speak publicly what cannot be taught or learned in public. Listen privately, silently to the voices that rise up from the pages of books and from your own heart. Be still and listen to the voices that belong to the streambanks and the trees and the open fields. There are songs and sayings that belong to this place, by which it speaks for itself and no other. Found your hope, then, on the ground under your feet. Your hope of Heaven, let it rest on the ground underfoot. Be it lighted by the light that falls freely upon it after the darkness of the nights and the darkness of our ignorance and madness. Let it be lighted also by the light that is within you, which is the light of imagination. By it you see the likeness of people in other places to yourself in your place. It lights invariably the need for care toward other people, other creatures, in other places as you would ask them for care toward your place and you. No place at last is better than the world. The world is no better than its places. Its places at last are no better than their people while their people continue in them. When the people make dark the light within them, the world darkens.

[scriptastra]

❋ * 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝐏𝐎𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 * ❋ spilled spritz & sun-warm skin

1. love found me where the garden met gin 2. our romance: rare print, sun-damaged, and worth everything 3. orange peel & epilogues 4. you came with champagne and a warning 5. in another life, I stayed for the second glass 6. laced in linen, I learned to feel again 7. aperol and afterthoughts  8. you were the fiction I wanted to believe in 9. a novel’s worth of glances in one long dinner 10. limoncello and longing 11. midnights scented like citrus & you 12. we lived like a Fitzgerald draft 13. I was too loud for their lawns and too lovely to leave 14. madness looks good in white linen and pearls 15. they wrote me off before they read me 16. holiday house never stood a chance 17. happiness was found in the condensation of your glass 18. somewhere between verse and vermouth  19. I am not your almost—I am your always 20. you love me like I’m the story you've always known 21. I stopped writing about you the day I truly felt happy and loved 22. you are not a villain in my story — you are a footnote 23. I am too in love with my now to mourn my then 24. I’m in my iced rosé and soft linen era 25. I’m sun-warmed, barefoot, and finally whole 26. a list poem: all the ways I chose warmth instead 27. love notes hidden between the pages of a hardbound first edition 28. honey, saltwater, and champagne 29. I dream in grainy polaroids and your july laugh 30. july ended, but the epilogue smells like you

[aaknopf]

The little poem that can punch above its weight has a long tradition in The New Yorker. No poem is too short to matter—as in Louise Bogan’s couplet below, with a title longer than the poem itself. With this sampling, we also offer up their excellent versions from the audiobook of the magazine’s poetry anthology, performed by a diverse community of professional narrators, who delighted in the chance to give voice to a vast array of poets and their work.

"Solitary Observation Brought Back From a Short Sojourn in Hell" by Louise Bogan

At midnight tears Run into your ears.

"Wake" by Langston Hughes

Tell all my mourners To mourn in red— ’Cause there ain’t no sense In my bein’ dead.

"Superfluous Advice" by Dorothy Parker

Should they whisper false of you,      Never trouble to deny; Should the words they speak be true,      Weep and storm and swear they lie.

"My Father Was a Snowman" by Sparrow

My father was a snowman, but he melted.

All that’s left is his eyes—two pieces of coal— that sit on my kitchen table and watch me as I walk around the room.

I ate his nose a long time ago.

More on this book and author:

Learn more about A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker and browse the companion centennial anthology, A Century of Fiction in The New Yorker.

Hear Kevin Young, poetry editor at The New Yorker and editor of A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker, speak to Knopf editor Deborah Garrison about the poetry anthology in a special New Yorker Poetry Podcast episode.  

Celebrate The New Yorker’s centenary with additional events throughout 2025 including special exhibitions from the New York Public Library (A Century of The New Yorker, running from Feb. 22, 2025 – Feb. 21, 2026 and available online here) and the Society of Illustrators (Drawn From The New Yorker, running from Jan 8, 2025 – May 3, 2025).

Visit our Tumblr to share this poem and peruse other poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.

To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.

[banjaara]

"Retrograde Amnesia"

I wish I had amnesia’s grace To wipe her name from every place To wake and not recall her face Or how her laugh would fill the space To walk through rooms we used to share And feel no ghosts still waiting there To pass the mirror, calm, composed Not haunted by the life I chose They say forgetting steals the flame But memories just fan the same They light the match, then walk away And leave you in the ash and grey I’d lose the scent of midnight rain That always drags her back again Erase the street, erase the sky Where once we learned to say goodbye I’d strip the poems from my skin The ones she stitched so deep within Forget the nights I couldn’t breathe And every vow I can’t retrieve She taught me love like sacred fire Then turned to smoke and climbed it higher I knelt in hope, she stood divine But gods don’t shiver when you pine I made her holy in my chest But love like that won’t let you rest It carves your soul with every breath And slowly rhymes itself with death I wish I had amnesia’s hand To pull me from this sinking sand To take the words she left behind And wash them from my weary mind If someone asked who broke me so I’d shrug, and simply never know No ache behind a smiling face No echo I would still embrace When I see homes left torn and bare I see myself still standing there The walls are cracked, the paint is dry But no one ever asks me why No windows left to show the light No doors to hold the dark at night Just silence dressed in shadow's thread And hope that softly plays dead I wish I had amnesia's touch To feel a little, not too much To drift without a name to call To never rise, nor ever fall Forget the song she used to hum The way my hands would come undone Forget the look, the loss, the flame Forget I ever spoke her name Forget I begged her just to stay Forget she chose to walk away Forget the prayers, forget the cost Forget the depth of what I lost So if forgetting brings me peace Then let these haunted memories cease Let every rhyme she gave to me Be drowned beneath amnesia’s sea And when they ask what tore me through I’ll smile like I never knew No cracks inside, no scars above Just one who simply lost his love

[archivewriter1ont]

(May 2024 -- present, constantly updated)

Works in Progress

Five Times The Bad Batch Protected Each Other and One Time They Didn't Have To

The Fault in Our Timelines

I've Watched Your Whole Life: Commander Cody and the Bad Batch

Uncle Echo: Family Fluff and Adventures on Pabu

Hondo Ohnaka and the Cadet Batch! (Cadet Batch Alternate Timeline)

Quinlan Vos and the Case of the Reappearing Clones (updated on Tuesdays)

The Bad Batch: (Completed)

A Tale of Two Snarks: Echo and Crosshair

I Know Your Name as My Brother: Adopting Echo

Safe Place

You're an Idiot (But You're Ours)

Keeping the Watch (You Rescued Me)

Migraine

Learning This Life (An Ear for An Eye)

Tales of the Bad Batch: A Mixed Bag of Fun Detours, Ridiculous Banter, and Brotherly Fluff

First Word

I Hide It Away (Like the Scar on My Heart)

A Cyborg, A Bounty Hunter, and A Sniper Walk into a Bar...

A New Hope

Cheap Ammo (I'll Always Find You)

Extreme Measures

Puppy Eyes (And Little Brothers)

Count on You

Biting Back

Stronger Than My Storm

Pillow Fight

Ten Kliks

Big Brothers Punch First

We're Finally Home

The Trials of An Ori'vod

Blood Red

Reckless (Good Thing I’m Here To Save You)

Buried Alive

Nature Sucks

Stop Acting Like I'll Shatter

Painkiller Confessions

Five Times Echo's Brothers Fell Asleep On Him (And One Time He Fell Asleep On One of Them)

Five Times Hunter's Hair Got in the Way, and Two Times It Didn't

Promises Kept (Hide and Seek)

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Watching Your Back

In Your Eyes I See A Stranger (a The Fault In Our Timeline one-shot)

Starlight Lullaby

Silence is Better With Company (And I Thank The Stars I Have You)

Long is the Way

A Shield for You

Don't Let Them Take Your Heart (Like They Took Our Souls)

The First Time I Saw You Bleed

My Last Living Words (Mute Crosshair AU)

A Spoonful of Sugar (And Eyes of Ocean Blue)

Brother of My Brother 

Five Times Hunter Comforted His Brothers, and Three Times They Comforted Him

Cadet Batch AU

Echo and the Cadet Batch

Long Story Short... (Cadet Batch Alternate Timeline)

Ninety-Nine and the Cadet Batch (Incomplete, Being Updated)

Cadets on Coruscant AU

coming soon!

The Clone Wars (Completed)

Operation Shiny

Aspirations

A Little Bit of Hope

The Sunshine Down the Hall (Codiyo)

If I Die on a Forgotten World (At Least I’ll Die A Hero) 

If It's Really Over, Why Can't I Believe?

Lean on Me

Dumplings and Dominoes

They’ll Have To Go Through Me 

Horseshoes and Hand Grenades 

First Drink 

After the Loss

My Heart on a Page (Codiyo)

Longings Unspoken 

Obitine Week 2025

Please, Just Listen to Me 

Desiderium

The Love That Remains

The Substance of Sanctuary

Love and Memory

Summer of Bad Batch 2025

Small Comfort 

The Colors of Friendship

Healing in the Sand (TechPhee Poem)

Healing in the Sand (fic)

Sharp Teeth

Family Is More Than Blood (But Seriously, Leave The Moonyo Outside) 

Midnight or Morning, You're All Disowned 

Kamino (Brothers)

Saved at the Citadel: Fives Lives And Joins the Batch AU

After the War 

Modern Bad Batch AU (Completed)

The Christmas Sweater

Agent Pendergast Series

Burning Tears

Leverage

Blood in the Sink 

Also, as a note bc I want to protect my boundaries and my work... please don't tag me in or reblog my posts with any cloneshipping stuff. I've recently seen this happen a few times, and NONE of my posts or fics are in any way supportive of that. I believe it is very clear that all the clones are SIBLINGS and have a general belief system that excludes that type of behavior. Thanks.

[amacaronexpert]

May I propose weird sleeping place Aleph(s) in the suitcase? He is easily prone to breakdown and tiredness due to his hyperthymesia, so I would say he might sleep anywhere he can. The reader can find him sleeping underneath his bed or with his head on the bed while his body is sitting on the floor because he doesn't want to move up and let things up to fate. At least he won't complain afterwards. Idealist, I feel like...he may have weird sleeping positions, sleeping like a sick Victorian child, or a damsel in distress. He might even sleep-talk about literature and make all the orchestra gestures in his sleep. You might find him sleeping on the desk with half-written poems, legs all sprawled out, and hands on his chest like he is a tragic muse. Merlin, I think, can sleep standing. You might think he is focusing on your story, but he is actually resting his eyes (no one can tell because of the mask). Imagine waking up in the middle of the night and seeing a man looming over you, but it is just Merlin sleeping after watching over you.

I'm giggling so hard- I think I would've been weirded our by The Idealist's sleeping poses than Merlin.

Just the reader probably visiting Aleph so that they make sure they ate, before almost dropping the food they brought when they saw the Answering Machine looking like he hit his head on the bedside, arms looking like they just gave up on pulling him up, he looked like he got rolled over like a depressed slice of cheese.

Unfortunately for you, it is not your first time encountering these strange poses, sleepovers this man is under sleeping under the most random thing or pressed against a crevice like there isn’t enough space for his body to spread out. (I’m pretty sure that’s where he got the other half of his posture problems)

The Idealist is a whole other level of “what the actual shit your eyes are looking at-“ because this guy is posing like he is about to get somebody to draw him like one of his French girls, and almost ironically you see Click who was taking a picture of the Idealist but then the Reader comes in and suddenly now you are now apart of the photo and the ghost disappears while you were gawking at how dramatic looking the Idealist appeared. But many a arcanists can tell you the most regular poses he is seen in are dramatic thinking poses, looking like he was in a thrall of thinking and woes of a writer’s block, but probably the most unorthodox one was him looking like he came out of a renaissance painting.

Definitely the worst out of the trio was Dr. Merlin.

Waking up in the middle of the night and to see a shadow to loom over your form while you let out a surprised yell.

You stared at Dr. Merlin, his body loom over you, your expression now in confusion in how the fuck did he get inside your room.

After trying and failing in getting his attention, you listened to hear the near soft yet silent breathing that indicated that he was fast asleep, despite standing there like a boogeyman.

Though as you leaned in closer, to try and figure out if he is asleep, suddenly you stumbled out of bed, crashing into Dr. Merlin while he was spooked awake. Later you learned that he actually was in your room to watch you sleep- talk about a midnight routine.