#nothing would ever keep me from wanting to write pages and pages of poetry about him.

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

The Prophet spoke, and the faithful knelt - Viktor x Reader (Explicit)

You would never be a hero for Zaun, a revolutionary, a leader. But you would care for your prophet with every single breath your body would allow.

***

You couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at you with something other than disgust.

The bumps on your skin were large and deformed, like warts on a toad's back. Dark, unnatural purple spots had consumed most of your body, your veins glowing faintly inside your flesh. Staring at them, pulsating like worms making their way through your organs, still gave you unparalleled nausea. You were the kind of monster little children of Piltover feared in the shadowy corners of their bedroom, and you couldn't remember a time when it had been otherwise

The others like you all lived in small, crummy camps, where the warmth of a teared-up blanket was something worth killing your neighbour for. If the value of human life was close to none in Zaun, here, it was worth absolutely nothing.

A wasteland inside a wasteland.

Most lived off scraps left by bars; there were few other ways to get food. The familiar feeling of hunger digging its sharp claws into your stomach had never lessened. For water, there were only the thick metal pipes, going above to supply the golden city, which sometimes leaked drinkable but rusty liquid.

The best days, the only bearable days, were those where you found half-used needles of shimmer in the trash. For a few blissful hours, you were someone else, somewhere else, and nothing in the world could hurt you. Then it was back to being cold, hungry, and alone.

You had tried to live a semblance of a life, once, when the craving for shimmer hadn't been so all-consuming. But addicts were bad for business: customers didn't like seeing them, with their empty eyes and malformed bodies, and they were a very poor investment for an employer. How many months, or days, before they would abandon their job in favour of chasing their never-ending high?

Then there were the whore houses. One could get a few pieces of copper, if their body wasn't too ravaged by the drug. Damaged goods still sell, but for a fraction of the price. And yet there it was no better either: patrons would come in, use you, and leave, without ever looking you in the eye. Like you were less than human.

But not him.

He looked at you without ever flinching, without ever shying away. There was no sign of disgust or pity in those strange eyes of his, but an endless compassion, something that went beyond your comprehension. As if a simple glance at you had allowed him to read every corner of your soul.

You could have sworn time had stopped the second he locked eyes with you. In the warm amber of his pupils swayed a reflection of pale blue, like sunset on the ocean.

You had fallen to your knees without ever willing your body to do so, pressing your forehead against the cold gravel. It feels natural, almost instinctive, to bow in the presence of a god. For what other word could describe him, his presence, his aura?

Did someone like you, ugly, broken, filthy, deserve to see beauty like this?

A gentle hand brought your face back up towards the sky, lithe fingers tucked under your chin. Soft, so soft.

His eyes were back into yours, the sunset having morphed into a pool of liquid gold. Tears had begun to fall from your eyes, rolling down your scarred cheeks and onto his delicate hands. He shushed you before you attempted to speak, like he already knew whatever words you would tell him.

“It's alright. I will take care of you.”

The digits slid slowly across your face, impossibly smooth, and you couldn't help but nuzzle into the touch, revelling in the feeling of a sensation you had all but forgotten. He softly pushed the dirty hood off your face, hand settling on top of your matted hair. You closed your eyes; whatever this man was willing to give you, be it salvation or judgement, you simply knew you were ready to accept it.

And then, everything became light.

��

You saw him perform miracle after miracle following that day. He brought people back from the depths of hell, which they'd lived in for so long, with the simple touch of a hand. He brought back the smiles, the joy, and the hope all of you had given up on.

To your community, he was everything.

The familiar presence of his voice called for you inside your mind. It was so comforting, having him there, feeling him as a part of you. Knowing he would never leave you, that he would never let you be alone again.

He looked like a statue when you found him, seated in his cave, still and ethereal beyond your mortal comprehension. The gods had crafted his face from porcelain; his body from the world's most precious metals; his eyes from the sun and the sea; and his smile with the very essence of magic.

“Here you are. I was beginning to worry.”

That was not true; both of you knew very well you had heard his voice and were rushing to come to his side. Yet, the idea that a being such as him would worry about someone like you made butterflies flutter in your stomach.

“Herald?”

“Mm?”

He blinked, calmly, peacefully, as his eyes met yours once more. No other feeling compared. His pupils glowed inside the barely lit cave, a gentle and divine light emanating from his face.

The words were hard to get out, and you found yourself fidgeting with your hands, looking away from his perfect gaze.

Get a hold of yourself, you admonished your brain. You had practiced this moment more than once.

You were certain he knew exactly what you were about to ask him; he knew every thought going through your mind, after all. Which meant he knew of the nights you spent dreaming of him, of his body, and of the hundreds of ways you craved the touch of your messiah.

But he simply looked at you, calm and composed, the hint of a smile barely on his lips.

Briefly, you wondered if he was teasing you by letting you stew in your anxiety.

“I have come to realize,” you began unsurely, voice almost breaking, “that you always take care of others, Herald. Always take care of people like me.”

He observed you with that indecipherable ****gaze, still not moving an inch. You gathered all your courage to stare back at him as you pronounced your next words decidedly:

“But does nobody take care of you, Herald?”

He smiled, properly this time, yet still calm and moderate. It was beyond beautiful, his delicate features marked by soft dimples, the hint of a mole over his lips. You would have given your life in a heartbeat if it meant he would have smiled at you like this once more.

“I don't require such things anymore,” he explained serenely, fingers absentmindedly tracing the complex patterns of his arm. “This body doesn't feel cold, or hunger, or want. It is pure of all the desires the man I once was might have had.”

You swallowed with difficulty; was he rejecting your advances? You could not bear living without knowing you had done everything for him, given him every inch of your being.

“But that man,” you tried once more, moving a timid step forward, “he is still part of you, isn't he? Wouldn't it only be fair to take care of him too?’

There was not a hint of confusion in his expression; he understood exactly what you meant. Yet one of his eyebrows had slightly risen, perhaps of amusement or appreciation for your boldness.

“If you have something in mind,” he simply replied, his thick accent hypnotic, “you should show me.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

You would show him what his gift had meant to you.

Gradually, reverently, you approached the frugal throne where he sat, a simple rock formation at the back of the cave. You kneeled at his feet and gazed up, unsure if you were allowed to touch him. He gave you a light nod, a glim of endearment in his eyes.

With deference, you slid the fabric of his tunic to the side, parting his knees to give you access. You felt your cheeks heat at the realization he had no underwear, trepidation bubbling in your lower stomach. Then you stopped right in your tracks.

Where there should have been… something, there was nothing.

Your mouth opened in surprise, but no words managed to find their way out. You spluttered, confused, gaping at the being above you.

A low, small chuckle.

His luminous eyes were teasing, barely enough so that someone else would not have recognized it; but you did.

“I could not resist to watch your reaction,” he admitted, “My apologies.”

His delicate hand covered the area of his groan, and a faint light shone between the cracks of his fingers. The sound of metal forming, pieces sliding with one another, echoed inside the empty cave. When he removed his hand, it was as if the member had always been there.

As you had always pictured in your dreams, the Herald was well endowed, even in a softened state. It was without question like a regular human’s, but devoid of any veins, marks, and bumps. Not a single hair adorned the base. It was all perfectly smooth, the head only distinct from the rest of the length with its thickness.

He was art, in the most primordial sense of the term, and you could do nothing but admire him.

“This body shapes to my will,” the Herald explained at your look of awe, “It had no need for genitalia, so it did not have any. At least… before now.”

Your fingertips slid timidly on the indigo skin, feeling the polished texture. The contact felt pleasantly electric, like his body brimmed with untapped energy. The first small lick was somehow nostalgic, the feel of popping candies bursting pleasantly on your tongue.

When you wrapped your lips around him, you could immediately tell his taste was unlike anything you'd ever had before. The coppery flavour of metal mixed with something so enticingly sweet it could not be anything other than the taste of the arcane itself. An encouraging hand petted your head softly, fingers threading through strands of your hair. You moaned with your mouth still full of him; a single touch from him was enough to have your core burnt with want. You sped up your pace, taking as much of him in your mouth as you possibly could. The energy pulsated against your tongue, his cock hardening to your rhythmic pace. The thickness of his tip kept hitting the back of your throat, cutting oxygen for a few blissful milliseconds at a time and making you see stars.

It was perfect.

And yet, after a few minutes, you realized something was wrong.

You'd been with your fair share of men and women before. The twitching, the moaning, the cramping of the thighs from the building pleasure and the coming release- it was all absent.

You pulled back with a soft ‘pop’, looking up at your prophet once more for guidance. The same all-knowing visage stared back at you, that boundless compassion he had for all mankind. You understood what was happening, now.

“Herald,” you said slowly, voice horse from taking him, “why have you called me today?”

Silence. It looked as though he was thinking over his next words, choosing how best to explain things to you.

“I could sense you needed guidance,” he finally answered, “Support. I merely wanted to help in the way you needed me.”

Helping you. He was helping you once again. Even now, when you begged him to let you help him, he was still only thinking of others.

“You're not satisfied,” the Herald deduced from your crestfallen expression, “Why?”

Tears of frustrated devotion prickled the corner of your eyes, and you felt like a pathetically pouting child:

“My goal was not to satisfy myself. It was to please you.”

Perhaps you had dreamed it, but a glimmer of surprise flashed in his sunset gaze, gone too soon for you to ever be certain.

“Allow me to try once again, please. I will do better,” you requested, resting your head against his inner thigh, his cock still perfectly hard against your cheek. Looking up at him from under your eyelashes, you whispered your next words like a prayer, hoping it would reach him: ��It is all I want to do from the deepest part of my heart.”

The smile again, so slight and yet so luminous. Perhaps he hadn't cured your addiction to shimmer, and had simply replaced it with the profound need of him. A drug you never wanted to be freed from.

“Very well,” he acquiesced, voice low, “you may do it again.”

This time, you could tell there was a genuine look of surprise in his neutral expression when you stood. ‘So he can't tell my thoughts immediately as I have them,’ you reflected silently. ‘I can use that.’

It was without asking that you made your way onto his lap, legs bent on both sides of his thighs. The position wasn't very comfortable, rocks digging into your knees; but he was so close to you that you felt the warmth of the arcane emanating from every pore of his body. The pleased look he gave you at your initiative made you feel emboldened, and you guided his cock to your entrance, lining yourself to slowly slide down on his length.

“I do not wish to interrupt,” the Herald made you pause, thick eyebrows furrowed in slight worry, “or to appear to stroke my ego, either. But I believe it would be wise to… prepare yourself, prior to taking me.”

You looked away in embarrassment, confidence fading, not wanting to reply directly. To explain how you had prepared yourself for him in your tent, in the slim hopes this moment might happen, would certainly be the death of you.

His eyebrows rose back up, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. He understood.

“I almost forgot how prepared you always are. Clever girl.”

You felt yourself tighten at the compliment. You committed the words to memory, engraving them in your mind forever. You would never forget when your Herald had praised you.

You patiently lowered yourself onto him, inch by inch, getting accustomed to him. A little shamefully, there was an undeniable selfishness of wanting this moment to last as long as possible.

When you took him whole, it was almost too overwhelming to bear.

His size was an undeniable component, both in length and girth. You had to wonder: had he been so big when he was but a regular man?

‘Yes’, a familiar voice supplied in your head. Had you not known better, you could have sworn his tone was slightly cocky.

But it wasn't just his dick, either. The flow of energy running through you from the point of your connection was dizzyingly intense, coherent thoughts barely stringing together. It felt like the high of shimmer but unbelievably more potent, simultaneously cutting you open and putting your body back together. This was being alive*.*

“Breathe,” he reminded you, a guiding hand sliding to the small of your back. Even now, he still took such good care of you. Overwhelmed tears had begun to fall down your eyes without you sensing their presence, and you tried to regain some semblance of your senses.

For a while, minutes, maybe hours, only the sound of your panting resonated through the cave. You gripped the Herald's shoulders tightly, scrunching the fabric of his tunic in your fists. His impartial expression never changed, but neither did the way his hand held you in place and comforted you. Once it felt as though your lungs were getting air again, you began moving.

All of it seemed like a dream; the feeling of fullness between your legs, the slow drag of his cock inside you, the warm wetness of your juices slipping out with each trust. If there was no heaven for sinners, then you had found your own right here. You picked up the pace, settling into a fast and wild rhythm. You scanned his features for any sign of disturbance; the slightest hint of red coloured his pale cheeks, the faintest laboured breath coming from his lips.

So he was still a bit human, after all.

You kept moving with renewed vigour, not able to contain wanton moans of pleasure.

“May I try something?” he asked, voice low, deeper than you had ever heard him speak.

You let out a sound of approval that dissolved into nonsense when the tip of his cock hit the spot you had carefully been avoiding. This time, he moved, ramming over and over against your cervix, too deep for comfort, shaping you to him and only him. You were so close, right on the edge, begging him for release with gibberish.

He had undeniably felt your incoming demise, and with one last push inside your core, he leaned his head forward, bringing both of your foreheads together.

In that moment, you were him as much as he was you, a single mind in perfect balance. You saw everything he saw, felt everything he felt. The weight and lightness of the cosmos, the thousands of strings connecting him to his followers, the understanding of the final step for humanity.

The Glorious Evolution.

And with that, you came, body spasming uncontrollably against his. You fell into the crook of his neck in exhaustion, sobbing, wondering if you had just died in your prophet's arms. Far away, as if he was in another room, you heard his comforting voice shushing your whines, his long fingers caressing your cheek. He looked at you as if you were the one to be admired. Too much, it was all too much.

Perhaps an eternity had passed as you came back to your senses. Things felt tangible once more, corporal, the now cold feeling of your wetness drying on your inner thighs. There was a feeling of awkwardness, of embarrassment, and you hesitated between staying still or pulling him out of you. Were there proper steps to follow after something like this, or any steps at all?

“You didn't…” you commented, unsure what proper term to use to not seem crass.

You didn't cum. You didn't fill me.

“I am not certain that would still be biologically possible for me,” he answered with little emotion, seemingly neither bothered nor frustrated by that fact.

Even if he hadn't been linked to your mind, your disappointment would have been palpable. You had wanted him to experience some of the relief he had given you, to release all that could have troubled him inside you. You wanted to care for him.

Selfishly, perhaps, there had also been the want to carry your prophet's seed so no one would ever question who you belonged to.

“However, to the extent this body can still feel pleasure…” he continued, not missing a beat, otherworldly gaze deep in yours, “you took great care of me. Thank you.”

This time, you smiled.

You would never be a hero for Zaun, a revolutionary, a leader. But you would care for your prophet with every single breath your body would allow.

And there was nothing more important to you than that.

[dapper-lil-arts]

So uh. My freelance work here is kind of dying.

I thought i'd keep my long-term followers on the know-how, so i might as well write about my current circumstances here, give y'all an update, so to speak.

So, for several reasons, most of them not even my fault, i've been getting less and less commissions, almost none, actually, and the ones i get are usualy on the cheaper side, which is bad concidering that this is my livelihood, commission money pays my bills, my groceries, and my taxes, and now i sure as hell am strugling to imagine this will sustain me for long. Twitter is a sinking ship ever since elon went over, Specificaly for people like me. I had just broken into 12k followers there, a huge milestone for me, and then i got shadowbanned, and for the last few months i've gotten *nothing*. It's completely dead, i'm stagnated there, all my arts are censored, and there's no way for me to undo it or fix it, and so i've gotten less and less comms out there, which sucks because its the only reason i was even on that stupid site. Here on tumblr, meanwhile, the CEO went on a massive transphobic streak, and a lot of lgbt folk (which composed a lot of my following,) decided to jump ship, and i sure as hell dont blame them, but sadly that's more potential costumers that bailed, and there's no proper website to go to. Anywhere i'd go, i'd be starting from scratch again, which would be utterly disheartening and frustrating, and there no website that is kind to artists, with no algorythim, that also have a messaging system (the latter being ESSENTIAL to the way i do comms) So i'm kind of stuck. I just. have nowhere to go, and nothing to do. And last but not least, my own fault, I've just been drawing and creating what *I* specificaly want, on an hedonistic streak this year. That's why theres so much pony bs on this blog now, and why i was straight up posting poetry a while back, and have written hundreds upon hundreds of fanfiction pages in the last few months; Which, unfortunately, is a terrible business decision if your intent is making money. Which I surely should have prioritized, but in the end, its not up to me, its up to the costumers... So now i'm a bit stuck. I've enjoyed the things ive drawn and written more than anything i've ever done, and yet, i've never been less successful on the actual business side. I'm still considering my venues, my possibilities, but there's not many. Trying to get a job would certainly pull me away from creation, and i'd hate it regardless of what it was, and on another venue, theres no guarantee that going back to furry titties would bring me money.

and that's whats heartbreaking about it too. no matter how much effort i put on my work, theres no guarantee of sucess, so why even spend time trying to craft a masterpiece? why not just follow trends and make a tiktok account or whatever the fuck makes money these days. I'd rather not, frankly. And i wont. Well, that's about it. Thanks for reading this update, that's how my life is goin atm. i'm going to continue doing as i am right now, but yknow... I'm not sure what i should do, if you want to give me suggestions, feel free.

[alpydk]

To @auroraesmeraldarose - I said I would write something romantic for you so here it is. With only a sprinkling of angst (because I just can't help it) - I present to you:

The List.

Romance/Angst/Mostly comfort (I hope) - 1397 words Gale x Tav (They/Them no description) - SFW

Gale had watched for some time how Tav had scribbled on the notepad before gazing into the campfire as if searching for the answers buried in the ashes. Their head would lift only to fall again, a word being written, then erased. It reminded him of his own days with a mostly drunk glass of red wine and a quill in hand, trying to come up with the next line of poetry that cause the lover to fall to their knees for him.

He slowly approached, his heart increasing its pace with the apprehension of what was to come. He enjoyed Tav’s company, always feeling he was learning something new. Being seen for who I am. Tav was a good person, one that had helped, listened to everyone, cared more than anyone he had ever met before, and despite the more pronounced ache he felt whenever he was near them, he fought through it for the quiet moments alone with them. He remembered the night channelling the weave, the way their hands had brushed up against one another, the way he had felt their longing, and the image of a tender kiss placed on his lips. Is this love? No, not for me. It can’t be.  

He swallowed nervously before he spoke. “My friend, may I ask what it is you are writing?”

Tav jumped a little, surprised by Gale’s sudden words, and placed the paper face down onto their lap. “This? Nothing… nothing at all.”

Gale nodded his head and took a small step back, trying not to acknowledge the feeling of rejection that was surfacing beneath his pleasant expression. “Ah, my apologies then. I will leave you to your thoughts.” He turned to go back to his tent as he heard the hesitant voice behind him.

“No…” Tav pushed their hair back and relaxed their shoulders. “Join me, please.”

Gale tried to hide his enthusiasm at this simple gesture. He was aware his year alone had made him too eager for basic conversation and he’d now got into a habit of remaining distant with people. Part of him was aware his social skills had diminished, and another part didn’t want him to form connections based on his own dwindling condition. He placed himself next to Tav, keeping a respectable distance and ignoring the dull thrum of the orb excited at the prospects.

Tav lowered their head, a soft smile masked by the focus of turning over the pages and looking at the cluttered mess on the paper. “I don’t think you would want to help me so much if you knew what it was I was writing.”

Gale placed a comforting hand on Tav’s arm, feeling the delicate cotton of the shirt under his palm. Warmth rose in his cheeks, and he silently cursed his body for betraying him. A glade of calm and tranquillity. “Well, let me be the one to decide upon that. As you know, I’m quite the connoisseur of the literary arts. Even Volo’s poetry has not turned me away from reading or writing.”

Tav chuckled at his response. “You know how tomorrow we are going to the Goblin Camp? There’s a real chance we might not…” They danced around the words, trying not to appear insensitive but ultimately giving up. “We might die.”

“Hm.” Gale understood perfectly why Tav was struggling and why they hadn’t initially wanted to discuss this with him. Talking about potential death with someone destined to die was not the easiest of conversations to have. How could they even relate to his situation? “So, you are writing your last wishes, I assume?”

Tav wordlessly handed over the paper and Gale held it towards the firelight, trying to make out the scrawl in front of him. The handwriting was unique to say the least, but the out of context words made it all even more peculiar. Stars…. Hollyphant…. Falling… “Tav, I may be able to decipher some of the most ancient of texts, but I must say, this has me baffled.”

Their voice was quiet as they replied, embarrassed by the list that lay between them. “It’s a bucket list.”

“But my dear, I have little doubt that you will survive the days to come. Why create something like this?” A small part of him felt heartbroken to even think of Tav’s death as imminent and yet a part of him was curious. What dreams lay in his friend’s mind? Could any of them ever hold a small place for me?

“I wish I had your optimism. No, I’m making it because all this-“ They gestured to their head, the tadpole writhing within. “-It just reminds me that life isn’t as long as it was before. That each day moments go by that I should have seized. From the big things, like travelling and love…” They looked over at him with a softness in their eyes that made him wish he could just kiss them there and then. “…To the little things, like watching the stars at night, or giving a gift to a friend.”

Gale looked curiously at the list, trying to make out more of the words. Falling in… “You’ve done none of these things before?”

Tav shook their head. “Time just seems to escape me. We have so few stars in the city and if I’m honest, I’ve never had many friends.”

“Hm, that I can unfortunately relate to. Might I offer a suggestion, though?” He moved closer to them, his heart thumping, his mind rushing through various scenarios over various outcomes. Kiss them. It’s too soon. Wind your fingers in between theirs. Hold them and never let go. Love them. Falling in love…

“And what might that be? Compare notes? I can assure you; my list will be longer and more pathetic.”

He placed his hand over theirs, trying to act casual and not bring attention to the vulnerable state he was putting his body in at this moment; the orb screaming into his system at the proximity of another person after so long. “No, my dear, let me have the list. Think of it as a gift, a puzzle that I can work on during the long nights. And from there, maybe I can assist you with the rest of your wishes.”

Tav smiled, scratching off a line from the paper. “I guess that makes it one wish fulfilled, then.”

Gazing at each other, they both seemed to become lost in one another’s eyes, an unknown energy pulling them together that neither wanted to fight against. Tav brought their hand to Gale’s face, both coming together wishing to make the previously imagined kiss a reality. He could feel the heat of Tav’s breath upon his lips, smell the earth and pine from their clothes, and in that moment, he wanted them. He wanted nothing more than to feel those lips upon his and lose himself in them.

It started with a pinching in his hand but slowly grew; the orb letting both be aware of its presence and Gale was forced to pull himself back, attempting to make his body relax from the tension. He looked at Tav, his deep brown eyes apologetic, a feeling as if he had been misleading them. I’m sorry for what I am.

Tav brought their hand away as Gale had flinched backwards in clear pain. “Are you okay?”

“Do not concern yourself with me. It’s just with my condition…” He sighed deeply, wishing it didn’t have to be this way.

“I understand.”

Tav pulled themselves close to him, so they were sitting shoulder to shoulder, still touching, but no longer as intimately. He gazed at them as they looked up towards the sky, and he traced the line of their neck up to their jaw, imagining gentle kisses being placed and their hair draped over his face as he nuzzled into them.

“I suppose this is another I can cross off already.”

Gale drew his attention from his friend, instead following their line-of-sight upwards. The sky was clear of clouds, allowing the stars to shine down on them brightly and they sat for some time in silence, enjoying the quiet moment together.

Eventually, sleep beckoned and Tav retired to their tent, leaving Gale alone under the night sky with his thoughts. I could create stars like this for you… I would become a star for you.

[hannahssimblr]

The crying is relentless. All morning and well into the afternoon. It's not constant, but it is consistent, a cycle of heavy, self pitying sobs followed by these silences where I imagine she forgets what she's so sad about, or curses Evan out instead, which, if it were me, is what I would be doing. I can't understand why any person is really worth this much anguish, especially ones that don't wash their hair.

“Ah, Shell,” Jen mutters under her breath, “he’s just a stupid fucking boy, enough already.” 

The brilliant sunlight of early May streaks through the windows and over the pages of our textbooks and notebooks strewn all over the carpet. With the summer exams approaching I have accepted that it’s going to be like this all month, study, revising, shovelling snacks into our mouths and then studying some more until our eyes feel like shrivelled little raisins in their sockets. But I have nowhere else to be these days, so I am happy to spend them on my stomach in the sun with Jen, writing flashcards and highlighting entire pages about chemical erosion and igneous rock.

“Did you see him at school this week?” I ask around the pen jammed between my teeth. 

“Who? Evan?”

“Yep.”

“Unfortunately. With Carlie.”

“Oh, crazy. He moved on quickly.”

She tuts and shakes her head in disgust, “He’s horrible. He has no shame, full on knowing that Michelle can see him shoving his foul slug tongue into Carlie’s mouth, in broad daylight.”

“Mm, nothing good ever happens in broad daylight, does it?”

 There is a bang, crash and wallop as Michelle comes down the stairs and straight into the room. I steel myself defensively, waiting for, I don't know what, maybe for her to start giving out to me or screaming that I need to get the hell out, not that she’s done that yet, but there’s always a chance. I bet she would if she was feeling crazy enough.

But maybe we've caught her at a good time, because instead she looks startled to see me, while also appearing different, more vulnerable than I'm used to seeing her now that the makeup she usually rings her eyes with is absent for the first time since she was about fourteen. It feels risky to look directly in her eyes, but I can't really help myself. It's like some layer has been peeled away, and she's the girl who used to be my friend.

“Um,” she utters, voice cracked and hoarse from crying, and drags the heel of her hand beneath her still dripping nose, “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I can go.”

She hesitates. 

“Let him stay,” Jen grumbles, “He’s just studying, he’s not going to bite you, is he?” 

“Okay,” Michelle says in a voice just above a whisper, and hovers there for another few moments as Jen goes back to flipping through her geography book, no doubt taking nothing in.

“Did you need something?”

“Not really.”

“Alright.”

Flip.

Flip.

Michelle gently clears her throat, “Is it… is it for the summer exams? All the study, like.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll probably fail mine,” a feeble laugh, “and dad will be thrilled with me.”

“I’m sure he’ll understand, given the circumstances.”

“I don’t think so,” she comes a bit closer, her stockinged feet padding over the carpet, and I don’t move a muscle as she approaches us, afraid to make a nuisance of myself. She perches on the edge of the sofa and folds her hands in her lap. “I think I should probably study,” she comments absently.

“If you want to,” Jen says. 

“I have so much work to catch up on…”

“Well,” Jen spreads out her fingers and gestures to the mess of paper and books on the floor like she’s presenting a gourmet meal, “you’re welcome to join us any time, babe.”

I sense Michelle’s eyes on me but I deliberately keep mine fixed on my book. The last thing I want to do is put her off the idea and then, God knows, get blamed for any and all fail grades she ends up getting.

“Hm, maybe,” she says, and leans to pluck at the corner of one of the English book covers, “I honestly know nothing, I can’t remember any of King Lear, never mind the poetry…”

“All that Shakespeare stuff is Jude’s domain, actually all of it is his, I'm clearly the idiot in the room…”

I pipe up sheepishly, “If you need help going through stuff, you know, I can, but if not it’s obviously fine too.”

“Hm,” she says, and slides to the floor with us, “Maybe. I’ll see.”

Jen gives me a secret smirk. “She'll see,” she mouths, and just like the sneaky wink she follows it with, I have absolutely no idea what she means.

Beginning // Prev // Next

[lonesome-witching]

Secret Admirer

This is a storyline I have explored before a while back but I was delighted to do it again and slightly different, so thank you for the prompt @ronance4life42. I hope you guys like this one. If you want a similar work you can check out Be My Valentine all the way back from June.

You can read my previous prompts or send me some new ones.

Dear Nancy,

I’m not sure where to start. It appears I never know where to start, and especially not with you. It’s stupid really, how easily I care about your judgement. You see, I want you to like me, I really do. And well, I don’t think you do. It is not something I blame you for. I wouldn’t like me either. I don’t like me actually. But yet, I want you to like me.

I want you to like me because I like you. It is the most logical reason. And perhaps also the silliest. Because it seems impossible that you could ever like me. Or at least that you could ever like me in the way I like you.

Maybe that is the point of this silly letter. Maybe the point is that I like you too much. That I see you across the hallway and I’ll want to approach. That I hear your voice and can’t refrain myself from smiling.

It is not your beauty that enchants me, although it most definitely does, but it is your intellect, your passion, your drive. Perhaps it is everything about you, everything that makes you you.

It is silly, I suppose, that I’m willing to write poetry about a girl that doesn’t even like me. But Nancy, you are the type of girl that people write poetry about. It is while looking at you that I realize what overcomes the poets and artists in this world. Because suddenly I want to write, and I want to paint and draw and sculpt. I want to become a photographer and keep a portfolio of only you. And while others admire your beauty, I will think back to the person behind it.

Perhaps that would be enough. Although I doubt it. Because even more than that, I want you to like me. And that is even so much sillier.

Nancy turned the page in her hand. It had dropped out of her locker the second she had pulled it open. There was no name on the bottom of the page, not on the back either. No signature, no locker number, no indication of who it was from. Nothing. It just stopped at the end of that last sentence. Almost as if the writer had wanted to continue.

She sighed, folded the paper and placed it in one of textbooks. She hoped to forget it by the time first period started. She knew she wouldn’t. How could she forget such a letter? She needed to know who had written it.

Robin was already sitting in her usual seat when Nancy entered the classroom. Simply tapping her pencil on her desk and staring out the window. For a moment she did forget about the letter. It was the moment Robin looked up at her.

But the letter returned to her mind when she sat down next to her friend.

“Nancy, hi. Good morning!” Robin greeted, sitting up straighter.

“Good morning, Robin.” She was hesitating. Unsure of whether she should tell Robin about the letter. It felt nice that it was just for her. It felt nice to keep it a secret. “Robin?”

“Yeah?”

“I need your help with something. I got this letter and I need to know who it’s from.” Nancy carefully placed the letter on Robin’s desk. She wanted to pull it back, regretted handing it over already.

“Oh?” Robin slowly unfolded the letter.

“Can you help me?”

-

Dear Nancy,

Yesterday I sat in the school library and when I looked up from my copy of Dante’s Inferno, or well the school’s copy, you were there. You were sighing as you skimmed through books and I was reminded of wanting to paint you. Those are the moments I want to keep forever. The ones that aren’t mine and yet they are. Everyone could have watched you, but no one did. No one but me. It felt all too intimate, looking at you work.

I’m beginning to worry that I’ll come off as a creep. I promise I’m not a stalker. I just

You are just too extraordinary for me not to pay attention.

“I’m not sure who it could be, Nance. It’s certainly not Steve, that much is clear.” Robin took a bit out of her sandwich. Nancy noticed she did that sometimes. She’d start eating in the middle of a sentence to keep herself from saying to much. Nancy hated that she did that.

“I hadn’t expected it to be Steve.”

“I don’t think it’s Jonathan either.”

Nancy laughed at that. If Jonathan had felt that way about her, the way this secret admirer felt, he could have just said so. He had her in the palms of his hands, and he pushed her away. It wasn’t Jonathan.

“Could it be Tommy Hagan?” Robin asked seriously, before bursting into bright laughter. Nancy joined her. The idea of Tommy Hagan writing anything, especially something like this, was preposterous.

“Are you not taking this serious, Robin?” Nancy asked, still laughing. There was a warm feeling blooming in her chest. It only ever seemed to be there when she was around Robin.

“I’m just considering all the options.”

“Of course.” Nancy looked at the table, Robin’s gaze too bright to take in for too long. It was like staring at the sun.

“Talking about options, what if it’s Keith? He’d pay off someone to drop it in your locker.”

“Robin, stop!” Nancy laughed. She didn’t want Robin to stop. She never wanted Robin to stop doing anything.

-

Dear secret admirer,

It seems to me it is a bit unfair that you are allowed to know my name while I have no idea who you are. I will admit that since I have received your first letter, I have been searching for you. But it would be so much easier if you simply told me your name. Perhaps then I can stare at you the say you stare at me. Maybe then I’ll feel like picking up a pencil or a camera.

It is unfair that you refuse me the opportunity to do so. And yet, I look forward to receiving your letters. Somehow, they make me feel seen, make me feel known and appreciated. Maybe I’m the one being silly now, but I feel like I know you too. I know you without knowing you. It feels weird. You make me feel. That is just it. You, anonymous letter writer, you make me feel. I’m forever grateful for that.

Nancy

Robin’s hands were shaking. How could they not? How could they ever stop? The letter had been hidden in the school’s copy of Dante’s Inferno. Robin should have suspected it. She gave Nancy one detail and the girl jumped on it.

She had to write back. She had to write something back. But her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. And she wasn’t sure what she could possibly write.

-

Dear Nancy,

You are right. It is completely unfair. But I can’t tell you who I am. If you want to know why, I’m afraid it’s an awfully simple answer. I am a coward.

What would you do if you knew my name? I could see it go badly. I do see it go badly, every night when I lay myself down to sleep. People often talk about dreaming about their true love. But when I dream of you it is never pleasant. I don’t like dreaming of you, Nancy. I prefer to watch you while I’m awake. It is only then I can imagine something good. Not that I know for sure what it is that I’m imagining. Maybe I don’t imagine at all. Maybe I just watch.

I’m sorry if this is a disappointment. But maybe not every question needs an answer. Maybe not every mystery needs to be solved. Maybe I can continue to hide in the shadows just this once.

Because I can’t see this ending well for me. And perhaps I should have never written you any letters in the first place. I’m not even sure why I did. I shouldn’t have done it.

“Typical me. I get something good and I need to scare it away.” Nancy fell down in front of Robin, throwing the latest letter on the table.

“Oh, what happened?”

“I wrote back and now they are saying it was a mistake.”

“Have you figured out who it might be? Because I was thinking—"

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Nancy sighed. Maybe it really didn’t matter anymore. She looked at Robin’s fingers gripping the piece of paper.

“Okay,” Robin replied.

“Robin? Can I come over tonight?” Nancy slightly leaned forward.

-

“So, what are we doing tonight?” Robin fell on her bed. She looked much more at ease in her own room than she ever did in Nancy’s.

“Anything. I just wanted to be away from home for a bit. It gets too loud.”

Robin laughed. “It’s not like I can offer peace and quiet. I can never shut up.”

“I don’t want you to.” Nancy sat down on the bed, next to Robin.

“Be careful, Nance, you might start making me blush.”

“I’d love to see it.”

Robin turned away, fully turning into her pillow. Nancy wanted to grab her shoulders and pull her back. She didn’t need a secret admirer when she had Robin. Robin who gave up her free time to research anything and everything whenever Nancy asked. Robin who joined her to the library even when she had already finished her work. Robin who talked too much, Robin who listened.

Robin who was turning back toward her with a smile and a soft blush on her cheeks. Nancy leaned down, closer. She wasn’t sure what she was doing, but she knew she had to do it. Her lips brushed against Robin’s. Softly. Gently. She pressed slightly harder, truly kissing Robin for the first time. Robin’s body froze under Nancy.

“I’m sorry,” Nancy said when she pulled away.

“No, it’s okay. You’re good. I don’t mind. I liked it. I just— I have to— I’m gonna go to the bathroom for a second. I’ll be right back.” Robin jumped up, running out of the room as soon as possible and nearly tripping over her own feet multiple times.

Nancy groaned. She kept screwing things up. She turned her head toward the nightstand. A piece of paper lay there, lined and filled with words. She wasn’t going to look. Robin was entitled to her privacy. But Nancy saw her own name and she couldn’t resist.

Dear Nancy,

I know I have said that your beauty is not what drew me in, that it is your intellect and your curiosity, but that wasn’t entirely the truth. God, you’re so beautiful, Nancy. So incredibly beautiful. I want to

That’s all it said, stopping in the middle of the sentence. Nancy reread the paragraph. A second time and a third.

“I— I can explain,” Robin said, her voice disturbing Nancy from the many thoughts floating in her head.

“You wrote the letters. Of course, it was you.” She smiled as she closed the distance between them. This time when she kissed Robin, Robin kissed back. This time everything fell into place. Nancy slid her hands into Robin’s hair, holding her close. She never wanted to part from Robin again.

[marchsfreakshow]

Poems - Rugged {James Patrick March x Reader}

Part 3 to Poems. Find the others here vvv

1. 2.

This poem is called Rugged.

A small fic while I'm working on my two other ones. You're working on a poem, but the ending is stuck. You're stuck on how to end a poem about being rugged with someone. Maybe James can help?

No one's perspective.

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

Y/N tapped at the notepad while staring at the words on the page. They were there but in a mess. They tried to think about the ending, but nothing came into their head. Soon enough, the words became gibberish because they were staring for so long. Blinking, they stood up straight and looked around at James' room. As if any inspiration would come from the deep walls.

"Nothing. Fucking nothing."

"What's wrong my darling?" James came up behind Y/N and looked down at their notepad. "No ending figured out?" They shook their head, put the pencil down, and then turned around to face their boyfriend.

"I'm so close, and I really want to figure out an ending."

"Read it to me, my love. Verse by verse." He smiled, as he reached around Y/N's back and picked up the small notepad. Just like the first two poems he read, it was scribbly. Lots of dashes at words that maybe just didn't sound right, or a verse that didn't match what they were going for. A mess in Y/N's head crawled onto a piece of paper. Maybe there was a doodle on the corner of the page which appeared as Y/N was thinking to themselves.

James held it out to Y/N, and they took it, cringing to themselves. "I'll take your hand again, soft again. If only you were." They then looked up to James, who was now gently holding onto Y/N's waist.

"Beautiful already my darling. Please continue." He grinned and kissed Y/N's cheek.

Y/N took in a deep, slow breath and continued reading. "You were something. Something sweet and salty. Something sour and bitter." They cringed again as they finished the sentence. It sounded like a cliche in their head, and they wanted to be original. As original as you could get with poetry. They knew that ideas could never truly be original. Something is inspired by something. That something ends up making someone famous. And a life created from something.

But, they swallowed it, and carried on, James looking at them adoringly, "Don't be soft again, I don't like soft anymore. It's hard and rugged. Stop then." Y/N simply took a breath, and leaned against the counter, hiding their face once again with the notepad.

"Is that how far you've gotten my dear? It sounds exquisite either way. Your way with words is something that could not be compared to. ever."

"Maybe you should write poems." They chuckled, wrapping their hands around James' neck. He simply shook his head as he smiled back at Y/N. "I have one more verse."

"Let me hear it."

"Take your bleeding hand away, and keep your sour taste. Keep it all to myself, where you truly belong."

"My that's wonderful my hummingbird! I love it." James grinned, picking Y/N up. They just smiled to themselves and moved their shaky hands back around James' neck. He kissed every part of their face, feeling proud of them. The dull room always seemed to brighten when James was around or, in, Y/N. "You're stuck on an ending yes?" Y/N just nodded.

"How about this. 'Inside my twisted bitter heart.' Does that elicit a good ending?" Y/N stayed quiet and lifeless but was mumbling and echoing the words he just said. They grabbed the pencil and the notepad, sitting on the bed and writing viciously. "Are you alright dearest?"

"Yep." After a minute or two, they held up the pad, and James read over it. "It's perfect James."

"It sounds perfect and works well. I'm glad it worked for you dear." He smiled, and Y/N stood up again, kissing James.

"Thank you, darling." Y/N grinned.

"You're welcome my sweet bird."

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

[imjustheretoseetheprivateblogs]

AxZ Week Day 5: Poetry

@senshixshitennouweeks

In Silver Millennium, Serenity hands her a slip of parchment, claiming she found it tucked into the hollow of a tree where she had met with her beloved Endymion (she suspects that she was simply playing matchmaker).

The words compare her to a pool of water on a hot day, keeping refreshing, serene, and reflective in pleasing rhyme and meter.

Though it’s short, it’s words stir something in the princess of Mercury and she wishes to know who made such lovely phrases on the tiny blue planet that Serenity is so fond of.

Soon, Serenity brings her more messages that flatter her about her mind and her ambitions, mentioning her beauty to punctuate the writer’s fascination with her.

She never finds out who it is, though. The Silver Millennium falls soon after.

He’s in the library, looking for inspiration for a new energy gathering scheme for their great ruler. His last plan had backfired spectacularly (Video rental stores were not an antiquated idea; it was novel and retro!) and he was going to find something full proof. Beryl was getting impatient.

He pulled a book from the shelf and opened it. A piece of loose-leaf paper, folded into eighths fell from between.

Curious, he picked it up and unfolded it.

I wish to share my words, read the lines of text, to let others know my dreams.

The words stir something in Zoisite and, against his better judgement, pulls out a pen and scrawls a reply, trying to match the number of syllables and give it some kind of rhyme scheme.

Your words have found me now, and filled my heart to the seams.

It’s a simple poem, nothing he’d want to show anyone, but at least he got it out of his system. Putting the paper in between the pages of the book, Zoisite puts the book back and heads for the music section. He’d always been interested in that, so maybe something would inspire him.

Just as he turned the corner, a girl with short dark hair and blue eyes turned the corner and took the book he had just replaced.

The two of them stand awkwardly a week after their second (really third) meeting. They could sit down in one of Crown Arcade’s many booths, especially since it was a slow day, but that would mean sitting across from one another or, God forbid, beside one another.

She’s still not sure trusting him is a logical decision.

He’s still not sure if she even wants to talk to him.

The tension is thick and cloying, a sensation like wearing an old frayed sweater by a campfire.

“So… um… you like to read?”

It’s a dumb question. Between the three books she’s carrying and the reading glasses in her pocket, anyone could see that.

“Yes,” she answers simply. There’s no malice in her voice, but no feeling either. It’s a simple fact.

He retreats to his room when he returns home, trying to write his heart out on a yellow legal pad and trying to take his mind off how Mizuno could even tolerate him ever again.

It’s all chicken scratch though. Even simple fluff poems about flowers being pretty seem to be hard for him to write.

A call from his prince draws him out of his stupor and into battle against a leftover creature.

It’s a bulky, bulbous monster called a Daimon that was apparently made by science.

“Are we winning?” Nephrite calls after his sneak attack completely fails.

“Do you want the truth or one of those little white lies to make you feel better?”

Jadeite’s frustration is understandable, if the improvised bandage on his leg is anything to go on. Mars’s fire seems to have no effect on the creature, Tuxedo Kamen and Sailor Moon are pinned by the Daimon’s onslaught with Nephrite and the other senshi are still trying to make their way across town.

“Mercury Aqua Rhapsody!”

Glittering streams of water streak at the creature, enveloping it in ice and suddenly, Zoisite’s mind fills with descriptions for the attack and for the trickling otherworldly harp strings that accompany it.

Even when Sailor Moon purifies the creature in a dazzling display, Zoisite’s attention is still on the Senshi of Water.

The muse has struck him hard and maybe he can work up the nerve to thank her.

She recognizes his words when he submits to her, on a sheet of green paper, a poem about Hermes.

He recognizes her’s when he sees her handwriting in her little blue notebook.

Soon, little notes are passed between them. Verses plucked out of the ether to make little compliments.

Soon, they’re talking at length of wordsmiths and writers; who they like, who has the best descriptions, which would fit with music, which writer sounds like they would have voted for Shinzo Abe. Soon, it grows more intimate. Love poems, shared between the two of them, games that become heated the more passionate the poetry.

And the two of them begin to wonder when their games will be played to a work of their own composition.

[holdonletmegetthisout]

For God’s sake start a journal already.

Somewhere along the way I was told I wasn’t great at writing. Maybe by a peer… or maybe it was a conclusion I’d drawn on my own? I distinctly remember sitting in creative writing, struggling to conjure up a story from the one sentence prompt on the screen. I’d stare at the lines on my paper for a few minutes, write down a sentence, find it lack luster, erase it, repeat. The timer would go off and we’d sit around reading our stories aloud. I’d sit in awe listening to the unique plots everyone had written. The teacher would call my name, and I’d go red in the face as I read my story that typically started with: “One day _____”. The class would clap like they did for everyone else, and the teacher would ask if anyone had questions (as if my tired writing could’ve left anyone wondering?? Honestly a sick joke on her end). No one would raise their hand, and we’d move on to the next person. Although now that I think about it, I’m not sure if I ever moved on. It seemed I checked off the box labeled “not a writer” in my head and never looked back.

I’ve always loved to read. Fascinated by beautiful pieces of literature, and the brain that thought to write it down. It was as if they had an endless bank of words waiting around in their mind, effortlessly turning to poetry the second their pen touched paper. That was such a foreign idea to me. I would sit for what felt like hours, trying to scrounge up ideas whenever I was faced with the task of writing. It always felt like such an impossible chore to me. I also have a very strong love for music. It’s gotten me through every point in my life, both good and bad. I can make a playlist for any occasion, any person, any season. I’ll sit for hours listening to my favorite songs, dissecting the lyrics, relating them to my life. Easily finding hidden meanings to the words echoing in my headphones. My favorite songs touch places so deep in my soul that it brings me to tears. All this admiration for words… but no urge to write. It never made sense to me, and I never dug deeper.

One day (hehehhahah) I got a journal. I had seen a video of a girl who had been keeping a journal since she was 13. She was in her mid twenties and had years and years of her life documented. I thought about how amazing it would be to be able to read my 15 year old thoughts. They’d be immature and uneducated, and not all that great I’m sure… but being able to know exactly what I thought, on a random Tuesday in my 15 year old life, that would be amazing. I thought about how my 50 year old self might appreciate my 20 year old thoughts in that same capacity. I started writing as often as I’d let myself. I struggled to write when my handwriting was too messy, when I felt I had nothing to write about; nothing that important to say. Every small insecurity I had subconsciously tacked onto my writing abilities now glaringly obvious in the pages of my journal. Finishing off my entries with “P.S. my handwriting looks horrible today…and I know this was kind of a boring entry! Sorry!” Apologizing to myself?? For my own abilities?? For my own thoughts and ideas?? That’s when it clicked. I didn’t hate writing; I wasn’t bad at writing; I was scared of writing… scared of being judged. Writing in any format showcases your inner thoughts…your original ideas. I didn’t want anyone, myself included apparently, to be able to judge my mind. Is there anything more personal than ones own thoughts? More specifically a journal? Theres no form of writing more intimate than writing in your own journal. I had written for months with so much anxiety and restraint before I realized just how much I was holding myself back. I wrote about love; thinking I had found it, and the harsh reality of finding out I hadn’t. I wrote about friendships, work, good days, and bad ones. All with such apprehension. Holding back from pouring out anything I deemed “too dramatic” or “ too deep”, as if this wasn’t the exact place I should feel safe doing so. It’s sad really. Looking back at the problems I was going through, and realizing how much quicker I would’ve been able to get through them, if I had given myself the grace to write freely. You can heal a lot of pain by writing it down on paper. But not if you leave out all the terrible parts.

I don’t consider myself an incredible writer now by any means. I don’t consider myself a writer at all. But I know now that I actually do like to write. I still struggle to find the right words, and I know for certain my journal is full of grammatical errors. But I’ve decided my thoughts mean more than any mistakes made while I express them. That’s progress for me. My new goal is to find beauty in my own writing. I’m really not asking for much from myself this early on in my writing journey. Something as small as the gratification I feel when using a favorite word (some examples: drat, superfluous, somber, ennui, rats! (Yes, used as an exclamation)) Is enough. It just feels good to let my thoughts be free, I’ve got far too many of them to let them fester inside for too long.

[vraisetzen]

https://www.tumblr.com/vraisetzen/761468996944035840/httpswwwtumblrcomvraisetzen76049533859227238?source=share

Dearest V,

Thank you so very much for writing such fascinating and beautifully written extracts in accompaniment of your brilliant series. I truly enjoy reading each and every one of your extracts.

I find the idea of Koku being lost in the world of books absolutely charming (and adorable). And the idea of him being unable to turn his attention away from his reading while simultaneously tucking his love into his side is incredibly cute. Personally, I have a hunch as though he’d be a voracious reader — with an incredible ability of being able to read a page and absorb the information into his brain, being able to recall it when needed. I also feel like he’d be a fast reader, too…

I adored the way in which you wrote his interactions with the children! That’s so cute! And asking about his hair and then them running away? And Koku turning sentimental and thinking of having his own children? I honestly thought that scene was super cute. And also… just the way you wrote that scene… I thought it was incredibly charming and funny, and I’m convinced that you have the rare ability of being able to write children well.

I also thought that his interaction with the older women was hilarious. You see, you have this spectacular ability of being incredibly visual with your writing — I can instantly conjure the scenes in my mind, much like a movie/series. Koku coming around to grasp his love’s hand and show public affection made me giggle.

I really liked the way in which this whole scene added up! With R encountering Tanjiro and Kanao, and the knowing look in Tanjiro’s eyes… and also the gift at the end and Koku declining the option to eat it… (I wonder if Tanjiro knows who her husband is…)

I genuinely think you’re a very talented writer.

I wonder — have you written any novellas/short stories/poetry/scripts/etc for any writing competitions before?

Thank you for your kind words, Anon! I'm so happy that you enjoyed the little excerpts!

Michikatsu being a voracious reader is indeed very charming and adorable! I also think he would have a fantastic memory of the books he had read, whilst also being a relatively fast reader; at the same time, I could also see him as someone who would re-read the books that he truly liked again and again (especially if they are the Reader's favourite books, just so he could understand her a little better).

I'm glad the little vignette with the children came across well too! Kids are indeed notoriously difficult to write — thankfully I could tap into my experience of being a teacher and draw out their innocent antics! Michikatsu being a little sentimental as he watched them was a tiny touch that I wanted to include, as perhaps something for him and the Reader to resolve (if we ever get there, haha).

As for the whole Tanjiro business, I kinda knew that it wouldn't be nice for the Reader to keep avoiding them forever, so I needed her to face him eventually. It seemed right for all of them to finally move on with their lives...

Tanjiro, like Uzui, might have a hunch as to who Michikatsu is when they finally meet at his wedding, but I think he, being the sweet, young man he is, would be understanding and considerate. There were many moments in the manga where Tanjiro empathised with the demons (though never forgiving them), so I think he could extend those feelings to the Reader, and see them as her giving Michikatsu a second chance. The Reader, meanwhile, will never fully divulge the truth/timeline of their relationship to anyone — this is something I am very certain.

Thank you again for your kind words! I have indeed written poetry for a literary magazine in my country; fanfic is just my creative outlet since I work as an editor for a trade magazine (very corporate and nothing like The Devil Wears Prada!).

xoxo, V ♥️

[iron-sparrow]

Writing RP scenes as poetry ── 

I have never been very good at long-form writing. I know this is likely a skill issue that I can resolve with time and practice and, uh, more reading. I just really don't feel like it right now, and I'm trying not to let myself believe this is a commentary on my skill as a writer (or roleplayer). When I began roleplaying in FFXIV, however, I also started writing poetry again. Nothing exceptional, but I remembered I've always really enjoyed freeform poetry as an avenue of expression. Just clicks better for me.

So recently, I had a scene in my brain. I decided to write it out as a poem that's heavily inspired by the style 陳琛 (Chen Chen) sometimes uses.

Anyway, I'm sharing that scene below. It's from the perspective of an FFXIV OC, Ibant, who currently serves as the steward of House Valeriant.

「 When an Entire Year Passes Faster than I Can See 」 The pen doesn’t stop writing, not as long as I am awake. The bells do not slow, because they don’t care if I need rest. But my mind is always burning with a thousand anxieties that I can’t possibly think of putting it down on something soft. Softness brings to mind the image of a writer who sleeps. I know without having to look that Frydstyr is in my bed tonight because he had come to watch me work in hopes that I might think about stopping long enough to eat solid, substantial food. My empty stomach reminds me that he had brought dinner with him. The braised beef is sitting within my reach in a shallow serving dish taken from the cabinets with the nice, matching sets and silverware. He used them because he likely felt I deserved to feel special. The chiming of my clock draws me back to my current task. I realize my pen had stopped moving and the words on the page had stalled for an indeterminate time while my tired mind drifted. This isn’t paperwork I want to put off – it’s more like a labor of love. I remind myself I can’t keep hiding behind my duties if I want to be happy too with the people I’ve surrounded myself with. Yet right now, I’ve entered a race against the fast approaching date that will mark when our time here is meant to draw to an end. No one is going to leave, so just use the other papers you wrote up. I can’t reuse that contract without amending a few terms, but what would Zahret know when his head is in the clouds these days, floating higher than anyone has any right to without losing their ability to breathe. My eyes begin to lose focus so I force them to see again by blinking. The ink begins to look like words again, obediently stretching across clean parchment to be read back in my own voice. I repeat everything more than I have to, making sure the message can’t possibly be lost. I, (your name here), shall remain a loyal knight of House Valeriant, sworn to serve and protect the Valeriant bloodline. Should I specify that they would also protect Valeriants who are not related by blood? My pen touches down again and weaves another dull sentence into being. Bureaucracy is the slowest death I can imagine for passion and creativity. Fortunate, then, that I am not someone who was trained to grow words like flowers in a garden. I can’t ever argue when someone says, in jest, let Ibant handle the reports, because I find a curious joy in technicalities. No one will break this family apart on technicalities while I hold this pen. The contracts will be ironclad under the lovely veneer of knightly oaths. I hope, when they read these papers and see the names that have signed, they will fully grasp the love that they have cultivated in this house.

[ace-and-ink]

do you ever think about what we might’ve been?

do you ever think about me?

do you think about me at all?

do you think about how we were kids?

do you think about the secrets we shared?

or the space?

what about the way we were vulnerable only with each other?

i only ever saw you cry in your room

we only ever talked about love in your closet

such a cruel case of irony we never picked up

and i only ever let my fears exist with you

i only ever let you know how everything hurt me

only ever let you know how everything terrified me

do you see my name in those films we watched together?

hear my name in that song you showed me like i hear yours?

do you dream of me like i do you?

where i’m just there like i never left

and you can reach out and touch me

hold my cheek and hold my hand

or where i’m the only face in the background you can make out

when mine is the only name to roll off your tongue without thinking

and do i leave you with the same ache in your chest

and the same twist in your gut?

do you think you were in love with me back then too?

do you think you might still be?

or do you think you should leave it behind you?

is it best buried with our childhood?

is it best to chalk it up to youthful naïveté

and make it nothing more

nothing less?

because i fell in love with a war

and all the ways it killed me

in fact i know i loved it because it killed me

i loved it despite every point-blank bullet

and all the landmines i never saw

maybe because it would patch me up after every time

or maybe it brought me back to life every day

because it knew i loved it anyway

and maybe it loved me a little too

but that’s the thing with little soldiers running around

they don’t always know what the war they’re fighting is really about

but i know what i was fighting for

but now i’m wondering if you’d ever fight it for me

if you’d break your legs for the fall

if you’d watch my back as i leave

watch my back and never let me know

that you just wanna hold me close and keep me safe

you left your man behind in the car

because you couldn’t bear to watch me walk by alone

you couldn’t let me go without killing me in your arms one more time

then the radio went silent

and i never felt your vice again

it skips and plays our song every now and then

but it’s never when you’re around

and i can’t grab you by the waist

can’t pull you into my space

can’t mash your lips into mine

can’t act like i won’t let you take control anyway

can’t act like i won’t love it anyway

and i could’ve loved you

i could’ve loved you a thousand times

across a thousand lives

but in the one that i do

i cry it out to a back that’s turned to me

to ears that don’t hear me

i beg for it from hands that don’t touch me anymore

and am i right to beg for it?

should i just bury it in the backyard?

put the movie up in the attic

make it so that song always skips

burn the pages i wrote for you after i woke up

drink it away until your face is a blur?

or am i allowed to want you?

can i wish you happy birthday for the first time in years?

walk around downtown in hopes of seeing you run from your car again

think about you before i sleep so i can dream of you

write a notebook of poetry for you too

smoke until i’m high enough to cry over the thought of you?

or were we just kids

and it’s nothing more than that?

but i think i’m willing to take your punches again

but would you even mean them?

i think about what you might be like now

i wonder if i came back

you might stab me a bit more

you might hold me tighter than before

you might leave me a corpse by the end of the night

and i might love you still in the morning

do you ever think about when we were kids?

do you ever have dreams where i’m there

and do you hurt the morning after?

do you ever think what i might be like now?

do you ever wonder where i am?

do you think about me like i think about you?

do you ever think about me?

— is there room for me in the back of your mind

[switchbrainedholylime]

In other news, the mun has a mental breakdown

Mental rambling where I spiral into madness. (tw: self-harm, depression, suicidal thoughts) 

As a bisexual woman, despite being cis, I’ve been directly impacted by JK Rowling’s transphobia. 

She’s gone on record saying that “people who menstruate” are only women. Turns out, not all women menstruate; I suffer from amorerrhea (lack of menstruation) due to my chemo regiment to battle my Hogkin’s Lymphoma. Thankfully I’m in remission, but my body never fully recovered from the treatment. I might have a scanty period every 6-8 months, so I’ve lost that connection with other cis women. 

Rowling has ALSO donated to anti-LGBTQ figures like Matt Walsh whose sole purpose is to make the lives of gay people, cis or trans, a living hell. 

So enter Hogwarts: Legacy. It’s doing massively well, despite calls for boycotting from minority advocacy groups. I thought that maybe, just maybe, my generation’s support for LGBTQ rights would be more powerful than their nostalgia. 

It wasn’t. Turns out I and all other LGBTQ+ people are worth less than fictional characters, ink on pages or code on a computer. I have less of an impact on people’s lives than FICTIONAL CHARACTERS. 

I’d matter more if I didn’t exist at all.  

That means that I don’t qualify as a human in the eyes of society. I’m more than an animal, less than a person. 

Despite being published in over 50 literary journals, my specialty is in poetry, which no one cares about nearly as much as fiction. The fiction I have written is awful. I’ll never have half of the success that Rowling has had. I’ll be forgotten after my death. 

I wonder why I even bother sometimes. I only keep going because my family would be devastated if I’m gone. I try to write uplifting messages on my arms instead with pen instead of cutting myself like I tried to in middle school.  

I thought that people cared for strangers. I had hope after we stopped the red wave after the midterms that the tides had turned against bigotry. 

Thanks for proving me wrong, assholes. I guess nothing will ever be more important to you than your goddamn nostalgia. 

I need to see a therapist, but I have Medicaid and no one takes that. The ones who DO are all booked up. 

There are people out there who’re buying MULTIPLE copies of Hogwarts Legacy JUST to screw over the “alphabet soup people”. That’s the equivalent of eating at another homophobic franchise, Chic-fil-A (let’s say a $10 meal) for a week at least. 

Granted, if you eat at Chic-fil-A for a week, homophobia’s not the ONLY problem you’ll be dealing with. 

It’s times like this where I just want Goku to fly down and punch JK Rowling in the fucking face. Dragon Ball’s WAY COOLER than HP anyway. 

Goku, where are you? Why can’t you save us from evil? You can defeat Frieza, you can defeat the TERFs. 

Thanks for listening to me ramble. 

[humble-boness]

Academia + Art Asks: by @spectrophobick

I found this to be a lovely ask game ! Thank you for creating it.

💫 - what does catharsis feel like for you?

When my observations of people are confirmed. Suddenly I am real and whatever others were arguing fade to the background.

Also lifting a higher weight !!!

🪐 - what is your current muse or inspiration?

@sedmikrascino is the same muse for 5 years now

🌟 - poetry or novels?

Novels. I love context. Can't get enough of it. Poetry is soft and concise but cannot satisfy me.

⭐ - fiction or nonfiction?

Whatever is true to me.

☀️ - pen or pencils?

Pens. Pencil stains the under palm of my hands always. Because I keep moving my hand all over the page, jumping from one corner to another.

🌑 - what reminds you of vitriol?

women in my family.

🌒 - are you an artist?

no

🌓 - do you write or just read?

I read more than I write.

🌔 - what is your favorite myth?

mind over matter.

🌕 - have you ever felt equilibrium in your life?

an online quiz assigned the wheel of fortune to be the tarot card that represents my life. it signifies constant change. Shifting from happiness to misfortune. From despair to incredible luck.

So, no.

🌖 - are you lgbtq?

what of it

🌗 - what have you fought over with yourself the most in life?

not to accept feelings

🌘 - do you have a soulmate? are they romantic or platonic?

a romantic soulmate who is also my muse. I have some soul buddies but our differences are greater than between me and my romantic one.

🌙 - what do you struggle with the most?

my weak and abnormally tiny wrists.

🌠 - are you experiencing any type of content block? how long has it been?

Just overcame a two-year recreational writing block.

🌌 - do you keep your art or writing to yourself, or show it off?

I show it to one person. If I'm lucky maybe two.

🌃 - do you carry yourself with pride?

I pretend to.

🌁 - do you wish to know more of the world?

Would love that. Not sure if I like the disappointment that comes with the knowledge. I love fun facts though. It's the best gift tumblr users provide for each other.

🏙 - do you feel as if you isolate yourself socially to create emotion and neglect to write with?

the material of my soul naturally isolates me. I do not need to create isolation myself; in fact, I try to be more social.

🌇 - do you ever wish you'd lived a perfect life?

no. I'd be bored to death. I define myself by upward struggle. It's my entire personality.

🌄 - art museums, historic libraries, or history museums?

depends on whether I can touch the displays.

🌅 - what time of day do you create the best?

morning. But also precisely after 22:00 (10 pm)

🌆 - what career do you wish to pursue? what do your parents want you to pursue?

I want to become a professor or a researcher. My parents wanted me to be a business owner.

🌉 - what's holding you back the most?

Nothing. I'm moving at full speed.

Tagging: @libarygoldfish, @purplelakeinthewoods, |@peregrination-studies, @notetaeker and anyone who would like to try this! I keep my answers short so as not to bore you and would love to know more about you guys <3

[rodeorun]

i have to write this before i break down in tears from that ending sooo....

This perfectly captured the internalized shame one can carry from being a tall woman so well. Lines like

"You come down the steps and take small steps, trying to diminish yourself among the crowd. Even some of the men aren’t of a height with you. Your bonnet feels more and more like some beacon to illuminate your stature." From what we feel within, to parts like "Your eyes meet those of another. A man who smirks and nudges another. They both peer over at you with a gleam of mocking in their faces. " that show how others see us.

As for the nsfw, now i drown myself in non-con, but that was..... one of the most straight up r*pe scenes I have ever read. Goodness. There was nothing sexy or sensual about it. It was sex, but it was fear. My stomach clenched and is still in knots and my head was dizzy. I felt the rough scrape of the bench beneath reader, the excruciating pain of the first time i was penetrated and not ready for it. I hate virginreaders in fiction and how they are fetishized, how they reinforce this male perspective of purity culture and tie it to women's worth, how after her cherry is popped, she is used goods and no longer desirable. That selfish greed a man feels to be the first. She is nothing more than a tally. I pushed myself through this nonetheless and im so glad i did because oh boy- my head is spinning!

Steve initially came off as this slightly mischievous, mostly eccentric man. Quoting hamlet in the gardens, how charming that was. Truly a mockery to the following moniker he eventually calls Cora and Reader. I even had my hopes up that he himself was a virgin when he said they would learn together, but thats a foolish thought now.

And gosh i am so fucking charmed by every sentence here. I really feel so dizzy as if i was transported to this world for a few moments. So vivid and an almost lyrical style of writing. You can pick out any sentence from this, and write a page on it's meaning.

I cant get over how pungent that r*pe scene was, how it instilled terror and fear in me. Reader by no means enjoyed. She endured for the hope of love. But she did not enjoy it. I fear for the slight foreshadowing that she will be pregnant 😣.

And the ending, yes the ending.

"I am honored," he holds her small hand tight, "to have at last a fine lady to keep my hearth."

That killed me. Its really the little details and me, me who has huge hands and feet, whos ankles show when i wear maxi dresses, who gets stared at when i go out, who's had almost every 'best friend' i had date the men i liked because they were tiny beauties and i was too tall and embarrassing to be with. Oh lord to see the man you just gave your first to, watching him hold the hand of the woman who is everything society makes you think your should be. If the ending was a nail in my heart, just simple the use of the word 'small' was the hammer coming down on that nail.

Fuck you steve, i hope he gets a revenge worse that death. Virginity is something you can never give back or replace, and I hope his punishment is likewise to such a disabling degree. I think cutting his dick off would be a start 🤔😂

I'm engared, ensnared by my own hatred for this man. This is exactly why i dont read angst. I want to claw the the rage from my chest until i bleed enough for Steve to choke on it.

And THIS fucking masterpiece

"

“I know,” you say through trembling lips, “I am not a fool, sister.”

“No, merely on the shelf,” she says sourly.

You wince at her cutting remark. Any lady would shrivel at the words. It seems despite your stature, there is a shelf too high for you to reach." Holy shit. Holy. Shit. I gasped. Out loud. Op idk what water you're drinking but it has you spitting poetry disguised as prose

This was SUCH an experience and tbh im going to have to recoup and come back to read this a few more times just to try and take in the full beauty of this fic. Like a movie i dont get tired of watching. Tysm op for writing something that let me feel all of this. Honestly halfway thru writing this i almost rage quit but i saw there was a sequeal and read it, and it gave me the strength to write all this knowing that this wasn't the end LOL.

Meet me on the playground at 3pm, Rogers.

Graceless

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, dejection, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The reader finds herself still unwed as a new social season begins. On the cusp of being ‘on the shelf’, a most unexpected suitor appears to assuage her fears of spinsterhood. (Regency AU, tall!reader)

Character: Steve Rogers

Note: A birthday celebration for one Steve Rogers.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love coffee and that’s a lot and probably unhealthy. Take care. 💖

The tails of the ribbon tickle along your collarbone. You snatch them away from your skin, tempted to untie them altogether. Instead, you twist them together, the large brim of your bonnet casting a rather farcical shadow upon the ground. Even in silhouette, you tower over the other ladies, a disparity which cannot be attributed to the distortion of light.

Keep reading

[1d1195]

a couple years back i made a playlist called ‘songs i want played at my funeral’ and it was just songs i was really into at the moment but my mom somehow saw it and she was maaaaddddd😂 NO I GET IT THERE ARE JUST SOME SONGS THAT WHEN YOU HEAR THEM AT A WEDDING ITS LIKE YOUR HEART STOPS WORKING IDK WHAT THAT IS

went out with my oldest brother to run some errands today and i made us listen to 1D in the car nwbdjejwh it’s a hit with everyone, no matter who they are, he had the time of his life even if he would never admit it🤣

i’m glad you liked it !! i sat down and really listened to the lyrics and it was just so cute and sweet

hidden writer is so real of you lol. you’re literally changing lives out here and then living a normal life behind the screen, humble queen🙂‍↕️ you’re like our super hero (i laughed at u telling him u took a writing class when you didn’t just as an excuse, you’re so funny for that) i think it’s really therapeutic to have something just for yourself like this, idk but i really like to keep things to myself, as much as i love my family and friends and all that. even if it’s something small (or a hit tumblr blog in your case)

I LOVE NORMAL PEOPLE !!!!! i bought the book a couple of years ago when i was traveling and one time my sister picked it up and was like “i couldn’t even get past the first few pages, it was too confusing!” 😭😭 not for everyone i guess, but i really enjoyed both the book and the show.

SAW THAT YOU LIKE MADELINE MILLER AND GREEK MYTH STUFF ??? TWIN !!!! i read the song of achilles and jwhdidjwhaks i was in LOVE with it, ive been meaning to get to circe for soooo long but idk i just haven’t, gonna get that one on the next bookstore trip hopefully 🤞

i got Love & Other Words, The Book of Goose (saw something abt this online, super psyched for it), A Certain Hunger (cannibalism i think?? fun!!😃), and a Mary Oliver poetry book !! i have this obsession with reading deep, serious, (sometimes dark n sad) books because the writing is just sooooooo good !!! and i just always go back to them, they’re my favorites, but ive realized i have to balance that out with a cute, soft, easygoing romance afterwards cause i can only handle so much😭😭 even if it’s just a cute fic i need to remind myself there’s still happiness somewhere🤣🤣

HOPE YOUR HAVE THE GREATEST DAY EVER SAMMMM MWAHHH😚✨

~🎶

THAT'S SO FUNNY regarding the funeral playlist 😭😭

OF COURSE HE HAD THE TIME OF HIS LIFE. I do that to my bf all the time. I tell him "this song is a bop. Do you remember who wrote all the bops?" And he'll be like *sigh* "Louis..." it's my favorite thing in the world. He doesn't need to admit he had a good time, it's an internal thing that he needs to feel and nothing more 💕 ask him what his favorite song was and report back. I have my bf take 1D quizzes from Buzzfeed all the time 😂

I never thought about how much I keep from him and other people I love, but really it's just this blog. A HIT 😭😭 You're so sweet 💕

I LOVE Greek Myth stuff. I've read Elektra, Galatea (short story by Madeline Miller, didn't love it tbh, but anyway), Ariadne (Theseus is a D-BAG idk why I was surprised but still), I also have A Thousand Ships on my shelf as well as Pandora's Jar (which is actually looking more like a book describing all the greek myths in terms of why men suck and women get blamed for it anyway). I liked Circe more I think--been a while since I read it so I don't remember why, but I did. SO good.

PLEASE tell me what you think of Love & Other Words. I just got it back from my sister, I was rereading parts of it--it is my favorite of theirs so far 💕

I'm intrigued by The Book of Goose! Let me know what you think! I think I would skip A Certain Hunger personally, but I can't say it didn't reel me in a little. That's cool you picked up a poetry book. I'm not very into poetry--I think my brain is broken for higher order thinking. I can only do fluffy stories these days and historical fiction. But yeah. I think that's pretty cool you like the deep serious stuff! Nothing wrong with that! It's probably very thought provoking and I can't wait to hear your reviews! 💕

LOVE YOU SO MUCH!

xoxo

[outtakesfrommars]

Love Letter

My pretentious, gay ass chose “Love Letter” by Slyvia Plath as the centerpiece for this disaster. Because my own words aren’t enough, I need to drag someone else’s into this too.

Sorry, Sylvia.

I sneak into my mom’s office and print it out with my heart pounding in my throat. If she comes in and asks what I’m doing, I’m done for. I’m not trying to be dramatic, but I would quite literally die.

I get my poem printed with no interruptions and hurl myself back up the stairs, only stopping to breathe once my bedroom door is firmly shut behind me. This is ridiculous. I settle down at my desk, take a deep breath, and wonder what the hell I’m actually doing.

No one’s ever going to see this besides Zara, and she wants nothing to do with me anyway, so what do I have to lose?

Everything, screams the little voice in my head. Absolutely everything and then some. What you have now is good. You go to school, pine hopelessly over Zara from a distance, then come home. She knows nothing, and you keep your dignity. Everybody’s happy.

But I’m not happy, am I?

Every day it’s the same routine. I have conversations with Zara in my head that are never really going to happen, fall more and more in love with some idealized version of her I’m not even sure exists, and sink further into this hopeless pit of despair and disgust with myself with no chance of ever getting out.

I can’t call myself a fly on the wall because flies actually move. They buzz around, bashing into windows and landing on food and generally being obnoxious. I’m not even taking up space. I barely exist.

That needs to change. Not because I’m looking to get something inspiring and profound out of my life, but because this stagnance is going to drive me insane if I don’t do something.

That “something” doesn’t need to be this. There are a million other self-destructive things I could be doing right now that would have smaller consequences than this. I could go spend all my money on useless things I don’t need, like holographic dinosaur stickers. I could eat an entire package of Oreos all by myself and then moan about feeling sick. I could cut my hair. I could take a page out of Nora’s book and dye it bright pink.

Anything would be better than this, but my mind is made up.

This poem is one of my favourites, I write. It’s always made me think of you because—

Hold up, that’s creepy as fuck. Who sits around reading poetry and thinking about people they don’t even talk to?

Me, apparently. But Zara doesn’t need to know that.

I scratch that line out.

This poem illustrates the beauty of—

Alright, now I sound like I’m writing an English essay. Mrs. Wallace would probably eat this up. Too bad it’s my ego on the line instead of a letter grade.

I try explaining the poem and its relevance a few more times, each more cringe and pretentious than the last, then I rip my paper to shreds.

I don’t mean to do it, my hands just start moving, pulling apart my paper until it makes a little mountain on the desk in front of me. I’m supposed to be a writer, putting my deepest confession into words shouldn’t be this difficult, but forming sentences is worse than pulling teeth when you know what’s coming in the aftermath.

Humiliation. Ridicule. Probably a twelve hour panic attack.

I groan and rest my head on the pile of paper like it’s the pillow on my deathbed, my final breath stirring a few pen smeared scraps to the floor.

This is impossible.