#the importance of music in his craft | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

peterparkive · 2 days ago

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hover | j. torres

｡𖦹°‧ synopsis: you just want to enjoy one good night out with your friends, your boyfriend, and some dangerously good cocktails—but some guys never learned to take a hint. luckily for you, joaquin’s never been shy when it comes to reminding everyone that you’re completely and utterly spoken for

-> pairings: falcon!joaquin torres x fem!reader

-> disclaimers: fluff, cursing, post cap 4 and thunderbolts (but in my fic, we don’t suffer through a sambucky fallout), no use of y/n, established relationship, slightly suggestive, use of pet names (baby, love, etc), protective joaquin, flirting from unwanted parties, kate and yelena being annoyingly loving bffs, reader lowkey just wants to rip joaquin’s clothes off

-> word count: 4k

-> song rec: jealous by nick jonas

-> a/n: no thoughts, just danny ramirez in the karol g music video, dear god. that, and joaquin’s hands on your waist like they’re permanently branded there

Sam Wilson had outdone himself.

The rooftop venue was stylish and vibrant, perched high above Brooklyn with a view overlooking the New York skyline as the setting sun glowed a soft orange and pink. String lights hang overhead, casting a golden glow over the crowd and mixing with the soft rainbow of colors emitting from the DJ’s strobe lights beside his booth. Mellow beats spilled out into the early party, weaving through the laughter and chatter of the guests.

The bar, which is the “real main attraction” according to Yelena, is polished. Expert bartenders and mixologists reside behind the counter, crafting concoctions that are named after Sam himself and his close inner circle; “Captain’s Courage,” “Redwing’s Glide,” “The Winter Sour,” and the one you’ve been most excited to try, “Falcon’s Flight.”

Nearby, low velvet couches and cocktail tables form islands where heroes, intel, and allies lounge, swapping stories and drinks.

It was Wilson’s idea for an after-mission-party, to recognize the collective effort of merged teams in retrieving an important object overseas. While the party was originally for Avengers, inner operatives, and close friends or family, the guest list extended vastly to people who work behind the scenes and now mingle among Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.

It isn’t a gala or a press event, but a celebration—a rare night to unwind and have some fun after weeks of chaos and work.

Stepping through the glass doors to the rooftop and beneath an intriguingly big archway of balloons, you are engulfed by loud conversations and the hum of music.

At your sides, Yelena and Kate take in the sight with just as much surprise and wonder. Yelena’s eyes sparkle with mischief and Kate’s with disbelief.

“Fancy,” The blonde widow says, scanning the scenery. “I’m already planning on starting a fight near the DJ booth.”

“You gonna want me to break it up?” You mumble, unable to take your attention off of the elegant decorations and deliciously warm scent of drinks in fancy glasses.

“I want you to record it.” She says right back and you both snicker quietly. “Seriously though, don’t wander off far. I need you by me the whole night if I want to survive this thing.”

“Don’t listen to her. You should wander far,” Kate teasingly nudges you with her elbow and nods in the direction of the bar. “Especially wander towards him.”

Your gaze follows hers to the center of the room where Joaquin talks with Bob and Sam, that casual smile plastered on his face as he speaks.

He’s clad in black slacks and a loose white button up sleeve, save for the top few buttons that he’d purposefully left undone for some unknown reason (not that you were complaining). His curls are prominent on his head and a singular gold chain dangles from his neck. You snap your mouth shut at the sight, willing yourself not to drool. He looks incredible and you struggle to understand how he gets more and more handsome everyday.

“Don’t be shy now.” Kate says playfully.

“She is shy. Look, her face is getting warm.” Yelena jokes, raising her eyebrows with a smirk.

“It is not.” You snap.

“Yes, it very much is.”

“Shut up.” With a roll of your eyes, you turn towards your best friends. “How do I look?”

“You look good.” Kate nods confidently and Yelena hums in agreement. “Irresistible, even.”

“Thank you.” You breathe gently before twisting around in your black heels.

Straightening your shoulders, you adjust the straps to your black mini dress that cuts off mid thigh, revealing just enough leg to be considered scandalous. You inhale sharply because you find yourself suddenly nervous to greet your boyfriend even though you’d literally seen him merely hours ago at work. With as much self-encouragement as you can muster, you make your way to him through the crowd.

Joaquin’s gaze finds you immediately, pulling away from the conversation the second his eyes land on you. His smile widens on his cheeks, and he excuses himself from his friends to start off towards you.

“Mi amor,” He hums with a small tilt of his head as his eyes scan your outfit from top to bottom. “You look gorgeous.”

The feeling of his eyes on you—drinking you in like you’re a glass of wine—is enough to make your knees buckle beneath you. You never quite learned how to keep your composure around him. “Quin, you look so handsome.”

“It’s not too much?” He asks, placing his arms on your waist to tug you closer.

You shake your head with a small hum, hands gliding up the front of his shirt to fiddle with the unbuttoned buttons. “Not too much—too little.”

He makes a deep noise of satisfaction at your comment, a smirk curling up at his lips. “You like it?”

“Of course I like it.” Your hands slide up to his shoulders before gently wrapping around the back of his neck to pull him close.

With his lips now hovering against yours, he says, “Did it just for you.”

“Oh.” You tease. Then his lips connect with yours, pressing you into a singular kiss.

Whatever he’s been drinking tastes sweet in your mouth and you hum at the flavor. The kiss, though short, is passionate and you both figure you could stay forever that way. Though, as much as you want to, you can’t kiss in the middle of the crowd all night, so you pull away with a sweet smile.

He groans playfully at the lack of your lips on his.

“Later.” You say, adjusting the collar to his shirt.

“Can’t wait for later.” He mumbles with a sideways smile.

Joaquin always gets painfully soft around you, though he isn’t far from it normally. His clinginess seems to skyrocket whenever he’s in your proximity, needing to keep his hands on you no matter what the two of you are doing. You always joke that he’s like a puppy in that way because he’ll follow you around everywhere, if it means he won’t have to be without you.

“You gotta try,” You smile, gently running your hands through his hair to fix it. “Right now, we’re celebrating you.”

“And you.” He quickly corrects. “We couldn’t have finished the mission without you, baby.”

As Mission Intel Lead, you aren’t necessarily a hero like your friends and boyfriend are—shining under the spotlight and prying cameras of the press—but you’re extremely important in your own way. While everyone else’s boots are on the ground, you’re feeding them information through their earpieces, from tactical layouts to enemy movements. You’ve earned a reputation as the sharpest mind behind the scenes and there’s a chance that if a mission goes smoothly, it’s because you’re two steps ahead of everyone else the whole time.

“Says you, Mr. Falcon,” You smile, dropping your hand to his so you can give it a light squeeze. “I wanna try the drink Sam named after you.”

“Oh, you wanna drink me?” He raises his eyebrow. “Querida, say the word and we can leave right now.”

With a small eye roll and a gentle tilt of your head, you grin, “You wish.”

“I do,” He nods. “I really do wish.”

“Joaquin.” You laugh lightly and he does the same, watching your smile brighten.

The sound of footsteps grows louder in your direction and you both pull apart to watch Sam, looking as fancy as ever in a black and white tux, maneuver towards you with a knowing smile.

“Well, hello,” Sam smiles, tugging you into a side hug the moment he sees you. “Was wondering when you were gonna show up so lover-boy over here would stop looking over his shoulder for you.”

“Was not.” Joaquin sheepishly smiles, the apples on his cheeks turning a bright shade of red.

“You were too,” Sam points. “Which is why I hate to break this up, but we’ve got people asking about you, Falcon.”

“Right now?” He asks.

“No, tomorrow,” Sam sarcastically comments. “Yes right now, man.”

“Okay, okay,” Joaquin quickly turns back to you, his hand squeezing the side of your arm gently. “I’m gonna go take care of this, then I’ll find you. Or you find me. Either one works. You gonna be alright?”

You grin at his soft rambling, nothing out of the ordinary for him. You reach up, adjusting the chain on his neck so it sits flat. “Of course, my love. I’ve got Kate and Lena waiting for me.”

“Tell them I said hi.” He leans down to press a fast but sweet kiss to your forehead. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

You hum, reciprocating his smile before he and Sam take back off into the crowd. Just as you’re turning around to walk back to your friends, they beat you to it, joining you at your side.

“You two are disgusting.” Yelena says.

“Disgustingly adorable.” Kate corrects.

“No, pretty sure I just said disgusting,” Yelena jokes, her voice monotone.

You roll your eyes before grabbing onto both of their hands. “Come on, I need a drink.”

“I second that.” Kate perks up, letting her hand go limp as you drag her and Yelena off into the direction of the free bar.

The three of you do just that—huddled at the bar like self-appointed critics, spending your first hour of the party sampling every custom drink and pretending you have the credentials to back up your reviews.

“I wonder if Bucky actually had any say in what his drink tasted like,” you muse, happily sucking the last of your drink through the straw. “‘The Winter Sour’ is just…so sour.”

“I doubt it,” Yelena replies, swirling the remnants of her own drink. “I overheard him and Sam arguing about the name on the phone the other day. Bucky thought it was a personal attack.”

You and Kate both break into quiet laughter, muffled behind your cups.

“Okay,” you say, placing your empty glass down with conviction. “I know what we’re trying next.”

Kate clocks your determined stare at the drink menu and quickly downs the rest of her cocktail like a dare was issued. When the bartender glides over, you confidently order three “Falcon’s Flight” —no hesitation.

The drinks arrive moments later, a trio of vibrant ombré cocktails glowing like the same sunset just outside the windows. Shades of orange and pink swirl together beneath rims coated in glittering chili sugar, catching the light like something magical.

“Oh, this is good,” Kate murmurs with wide eyes, blinking through the surprise of the spice. “Like, dangerously good.”

Yelena takes a tentative sip and immediately grimaces. “Ugh. It’s too sweet.”

You just grin, cradling the glass. “Well, it is Joaquin’s,” you say, taking a much more enthusiastic sip.

Kate nods thoughtfully, glancing around at the other drinks on nearby trays—neutral tones of yellow, white, and pale gold. The others barely hold a candle to the pink hue glowing in your hands. “Explains the color choice.”

“I think it’s delicious.” You say with a shrug.

“That’s because you think he’s delicious.” Yelena teases, downing her drink anyway.

“Gross.” Kate mumbles.

“I do.” You say without shame.

You’re halfway through the sugary concoction when the empty space on your right grows occupied.

Landon. A tall blonde with blue eyes that have a habit of lingering in places they don’t belong. He works in the tech logistics division of the team, one of the behind the scenes brains who helps coordinate comms. He’s a smart guy, useful too, but he carries himself with far too much confidence for someone whose greatest heroic feat was troubleshooting encrypted routers.

You’ve run into him a few times—in the hallway, during briefings, on awkward elevator rides—but you never spoke to him directly. You did notice, though, the way his gaze focuses too long on the office secretaries as they pass or the way he watches you tie your hair up when it gets too hot. Tonight, he looks painfully aware of his own smug reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar.

“Ladies,” He says smoothly, sliding beside you with a drink in his hand and a smile that was clearly trying way too hard.

Kate offers him a polite nod, Yelena blinks once in response and you sip your drink slowly, hoping he’ll just greet you all and move on.

Wishful thinking.

Quickly and almost like it was first nature, he launches into some ridiculous joke that claims the three of you are “Earth’s Mightiest Threat,” which earns a pity-laugh from Kate and a blank stare from Yelena. Out of social habit, you give him a sympathetic smile but then you’re already looking past him to determine what drink you’re ordering next.

“You really pull that off,” he says, tone slick with something he drunkenly probably thought was charm. His eyes drag down your body in a slow, deliberate sweep that makes your skin crawl.

You shift uncomfortably, glancing between him and the other girls in the hope that maybe—maybe—he wasn’t talking to you. But then his gaze lands right back where it started: you.

“Me?” You ask, more out of sheer confusion than anything.

“Yeah,” he says and you immediately resist the urge to gag at the smell of alcohol wafting from his breath. “That dress looks good on you.”

You pause, the need to cringe coming naturally in his presence. Far too polite for your own good, you give him a nod that doesn’t even qualify as a thank-you.

“I know.” You reply, already turning your attention back to the bar and reaching for a napkin that you didn’t need.

Anyone in their right mind would have heard your snappy, hostile remark and automatically back off, understanding that you’re so clearly not interested. But, either it’s the drinks or simply a lack of social awareness, Landon is not catching the drift.

“Maybe I’ll see you around?” He asks.

With a few blinks of disbelief at his utter determination, you sass, “We’re at a party with a lot of people so probably not.”

Your sarcastic comment went right in one of Landon’s ears and out the other. He smiles with a confidence that might've made you think he won the lottery. “Right,” He smacks his hand down on the table, standing with pride. “Catch you later, ladies.”

The moment he finally walks away, you let out a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding. “God, he was wasted.”

Yelena and Kate remain silent for a beat before the latter raises her eyebrows with a smirk. “Oh, he wanted you.”

“Told you, you look irresistible.” Kate adds.

“What?” You reply a little too quickly. “No, he was flirting with all of us.”

“Oh, come on,” Yelena scoffs. “He was not, his eyes were on you the whole time.”

“Ew, gross.” Your stomach twists in disgust.

“He’s always like that at parties,” Kate points. “No sense of awareness when it comes to flirting with girls, let alone ones in committed relationships.”

You nearly shudder at the lingering discomfort of his shameless flirting. “Whatever, he won’t come back.”

“Oh, believe me,” Kate arches her brow. “He’ll try.”

You let out a small scoff and shake your head, trying to brush off the feeling. In an effort to shift the energy, you joke, “He’s always so quiet in debriefings. That might’ve been the first time I’ve ever heard him speak.”

Your friends laugh too, Yelena bringing her drink up to her mouth for a sip. “I know right.”

“It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.” Kate chuckles.

The night carries on, warm and electric with the kind of celebratory buzz that made every second of that mission feel worth it.

You stand near the bar surrounded by your friends—Kate, Yelena, Sam, Bob, Bucky, and Joaquin—conversation flowing easily between the group, full of laughter, jabs, and the type of energy that only came after completing a mission together. Joaquin has his arm loosely wrapped around your waist while he chats with Bob, the casual touch a quiet but grounding reminder of his presence.

You’re mid-laugh, fully invested in whatever chaotic story Sam and Bucky are trading off telling, when the soft vibration of your phone buzzes from inside your purse. With a curious frown, you pull it out and glance at the screen—your smile falters slightly at the name lighting up the display.

“I’ve gotta take this,” You turn to Joaquin, holding it in front of him. “Work.”

He tilts his head, concern stretching across his features. “I can go with you.”

Quickly, you shake your head, not wanting your small phone call to take away from his celebration. “No, it’s fine, love. Just five minutes. I’ll be back, yeah?”

Without pressing, he nods and gives your hand a soft squeeze before letting you go, despite how much he ached to hold onto you longer.

You weave through the crowd, slipping out of some glass double doors and onto an empty balcony, where the music grows muffled and the night air chills your warm skin. You lean against the balcony ledge, answering the call with a hushed voice as you speak.

A few minutes pass of your boss speaking through the phone about something that could’ve easily been passed on through an email, and you’re wrapping up the conversation when you feel company—unwelcome but, unfortunately, familiar.

“Work calling?” A voice asks, just near your shoulder.

It wasn’t the second time Landon tried to make an advance towards you, again. He’d done so earlier when you and Kate stumbled off to the bathroom, the man opting to wait outside the door for you to come out. Only, you shot an “S.O.S” text to Yelena who distracted him to give you and Kate enough time to sneak back outside, in between heaps of giggles.

You tense, lowering the phone the moment your boss hangs up. “Yeah,” You blink at Landon, taking a small step away to increase the distance that he is so clearly trying to minimize. “Always seems to when I’m having fun.”

“I get that,” He nods, voice slightly more slurred than the last time he spoke to you. “Enjoying the party then?”

“Was.” You say quickly, hostility rolling off your tongue.

“I can keep you company.” He presses, shrugging his shoulders casually.

With a sharp inhale, you glance up at the night sky and hope it’ll give you the strength you need to not kick him in the ankles with your heel. “No thanks. I was just about to head inside anyways.”

“I’ll go with you.” He responds.

He is unbelievably relentless and somehow even more oblivious. Kate had been right; his persistence is quiet, but annoyingly steady. It’s not like you’re trying to entertain him or give him anything to work with either. You just hope he’d be socially aware enough to pick up on the vibe—or complete lack of one, to be correct.

“Landon,” you twist towards him with a shake of your head. “I have a boyfriend.”

And you’d think it would stop there.

Wrong.

“How come I haven’t seen him?” His shoulders drop, bottom lip pushing out from beneath his top one with a look that tells you he really just doesn’t care.

Despite the fact that you’d been with said boyfriend all night, the man in front of you was clearly too drunk to tell the difference between flirting and flat-out disinterest.

You open your mouth, preparing to curse him out, when soft footsteps sound from behind the two of you.

“You’re seeing him now.”

Joaquin.

His voice is calm but cold, a sharp contrast to the warmth it usually carries. You turn, relief washing over you like a wave as he stares down Landon. He looks different, not angry but protective as his eyes narrow and he walks towards you.

With ease, his hand instinctively settles on your waist, his thumb tracing gentle circles as if silently asking, ‘are you okay?’

You nod up at him, and his gaze shifts back to the blonde beside you.

“Oh, Torres,” Landon says, straightening his posture despite the tension radiating off him. “I didn’t realize you two were a thing.”

Joaquin practically scoffs.

Bullshit.

Everyone knows you two are together—he makes sure of that. Your boyfriend treats you like you’re every star in the galaxy wrapped into one, making it hard for him to stay grounded when he’s with you. He isn’t shy about showing it; loud in the best way, and more importantly, proud. There isn’t a single person in that entire building who doesn’t know he’s yours.

So he reads Landon’s lie right through his horribly fake white teeth.

“You need something, man?” Joaquin asks with a faux friendly tilt of his head, as his cheeks grow read with a jealous heat.

Landon blinks, pushing himself off of the balcony with pursed lips. “Just saying hi.”

Joaquin lets out a laugh—one obviously forced and sarcastic, but equally as hostile. “Yeah, you’re the third guy tonight who’s tried to corner her just so he could ‘say hi.’”

A warm flush spreads through your stomach at his words and the way his hand massages your hip protectively. You can’t take your eyes off him, studying the side of his face as his jaw clenches—whether consciously or not. His eyes aren’t dark, but they hold a sternness that warns the blonde while quietly reassuring you.

Landon, who seems to finally catch the hint, raises his hands in mock surrender and begins backing away. “Alright, alright, my bad. I’ll go.”

Joaquin nods once, slow and easy. “Right.”

Taking the hint, Landon retreats quickly, weaving through the crowd to put distance between himself and the two of you.

When he’s finally gone, you allow yourself a deep exhale as your shoulder muscles loosen. Joaquin turns towards you fully, his hand gently brushing your arm.

“You good?” He asks, eyebrows knitting in concern as he scans your face for any sign of discomfort.

You can’t help but smile up at him, the action coming instinctively. You don’t say anything, only nod your head as an answer. Your silence, accompanied by the way you stare up at him with sparkles in your pupils, makes him still.

He tilts his head, the corners of his mouth curling up into a smirk of suspicion as he side-eyes you. “What?”

“Nothin’.” You hum simply, reaching down to tangle your hands in his. “I was trying to get rid of him all night, y’know?”

Joaquin nearly grumbles at the mention of Landon. “I know. It’s not your fault, baby,” He spares a glance in the direction of the door where the other man has disappeared. “He should know better. They all should.”

You watch the way his scowl contorts into something similar to a frown.

“Is it not obvious that I’m your boyfriend?” He asks, his lips puffing out in a pout that makes you want to lean up and capture it between your own lips.

“Oh, believe me, they know,” You answer, reaching your hand up to run it gently through the curls on his head. “I just don’t think they care.”

He scoffs but his eyes are on you now, watching your face like he can’t be bothered looking anywhere else. “I’ll kick all of their asses.”

You hum out a noise of satisfaction, raising your eyebrows. “I’d like to watch that.”

“You would?”

“Mhm,” You smile. “You’re pretty hot when you’re jealous.”

His shoulders straighten, like your comment gave him an automatic confidence boost. “I am?”

You nod your head, fingers trailing down the sides of his face to brush over his soft skin gently. “You got all serious and scary. I never see you like that.”

“Cause I’ve got no reason to be,” He says, letting you run your fingers over his face like you’re just desperate to be that close. “Except for when weird guys flirt with my girl all night. I mean, I was right by you for half of them, that’s just ridiculous.”

A small giggle leaves your mouth, hands dropping to find his hands again. You twist one of the rings on his thumb, eyes blinking up at him with such admiration, you thinks you might explode.

Joaquin treats you with a kindness and devotion you once thought existed only in romance novels and movies. He worships the ground you walk on, and in moments like this, when every glance and touch is focused on your comfort and safety, you can’t help but feel like royalty.

“What’re you thinking about?” He asks, watching your gaze flicker across his face.

With a small shrug of your shoulders, you respond simply, “How lucky I am.”

“I see,” He nods, a playful smile stretching across his cheeks. He brings your hands up to his mouth, taking a moment to place a soft kiss on the back of each one. “I’d actually like to argue that I’m the lucky one. Clearly, every other guy thinks he’s got a shot, but I’m the only one who gets to hold you,”

A smirk curls up at your mouth, as you watch him plant kisses on your fingers like you’re a delicately crafted statue that he doesn’t want to risk damaging.

“I’m the only one who gets to kiss you,” His lips against your skin sends a vibration of goosebumps across your body. “To make love to you.”

Warmth pools at the bottom of your stomach, his words igniting a heat that only Joaquin is capable of bringing to life. Your teeth find the corner of your inner cheek to chew on. “Quin,”

“Not much of a competition between me and them, right, mi amor?” His voice is sultry and flirtatious as his eyes flicker up to meet yours. He’s teasing you because he knows exactly what to say to make you squeeze your legs shut and leave you wanting more.

You’d take him right there if you weren’t publicly exposed thanks to the glass doors that revealed the two of you to the party like an open book. Instead, you squeeze his hand and tug him closer, chest lightly bumping against yours. “I’m yours.”

A hum leaves his mouth, his beautiful curls dropping over his forehead as he looks down at you. Completely enamored by the loving haze dancing across your eyes like smoke, he smiles, his arms finding their spot on your waist again. “Good.”

His fingers trail across your back, with a light touch that tells you he was doing it on purpose. It has your breath rattling in the back of your throat, burning with a thirst only he can quench.

“You wanna head back inside?” He asks, casually and composed.

You want to scold him for his blatantly obvious taunting. He knows what he’s doing and he’s doing it well. “You’re gonna get me all riled up and then ask if I wanna go back inside?”

Joaquin raises his eyebrow in an effort to pretend he hadn’t been whispering sweet nothings on purpose. “What do you mean?”

With a roll of your eyes, you nudge him on the arm. “You’re an asshole.”

He laughs, the sound warm as it bounces off of the balcony and through the chill air of the night. His smile nearly reaches his eyes, impossibly gorgeous in a way that makes you smile too. “I’m your asshole.”

“Ew.” You whine, but hold him close to you anyways. “Don’t say it like that.”

“How else am I supposed to say it?” He grins, head dipping to press a gentle kiss to the side of your cheek.

Your eyes flicker shut in satisfaction, just as his small path of kisses trails to your lips. When your mouths press against each other, you’re humming into the kiss, holding him there with a hand behind his neck.

The kiss is sweet—hungry—but sweet, how it always is with Joaquin. You kiss each other like it’s the first time you’ve ever done so. No matter how many moments your lips have met, they move in a unison that makes every shared exchange feel fresh and youthful.

You never get tired of it. It’s a pleasure that comes with a fervent beating of your heart and a bubbling of your stomach, like your insides are made out of the same sparkling champagne you’d long abandoned inside. Kissing him—being with him—makes you feel light on your feet, like you’re floating on Cloud 9.

“My girl.” He mumbles against your lips as the two of you slowly part.

“Always.” You say, leaning back to look at his face.

He licks his lips, playfulness glinting in his eyes. “You taste like sugar.”

You giggle as you grab his hand to begin tugging him back inside the party where all of your friends are waiting—Yelena, who you promised you wouldn’t abandon that night, likely more impatient than the rest.

“You’d know,” You respond. “I’ve been drinking ‘Falcon’s Flight’ all night.”

He lets you drag him, following behind like a puppy. “That’s what I like to hear.”

You laugh. “Shut up.”

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thewriteadviceforwriters · 11 months ago

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25 Prose Tips For Writers 🖋️✨ Part 1

Hey there!📚✨

As writers, we all know that feeling when we read a sentence so beautifully crafted that it takes our breath away. We pause, reread it, and marvel at how the author managed to string those words together in such a captivating way. Well, today I'm going to unpack a few secrets to creating that same magic in your own writing. These same tips I use in my writing.

But before I begin, please remember that writing is an art form, and like any art, it's subjective. What sounds beautiful to one person might not resonate with another. The tips I'm about to share are meant to be tools in your writer's toolkit, not rigid rules. Feel free to experiment, play around, and find what works best for your unique voice and style.

Power of Rhythm 🎵

One of the most overlooked aspects of beautiful prose is rhythm. Just like music, writing has a flow and cadence that can make it pleasing to the ear (or mind's ear, in this case). Here are some ways to incorporate rhythm into your writing:

a) Vary your sentence length: Mix short, punchy sentences with longer, flowing ones. This creates a natural ebb and flow that keeps your reader engaged.

Example: "The sun set. Darkness crept in, wrapping the world in its velvet embrace. Stars winked to life, one by one, until the sky was a glittering tapestry of light."

b) Use repetition strategically: Repeating words or phrases can create a hypnotic effect and emphasize important points.

Example: "She walked through the forest, through the shadows, through the whispers of ancient trees. Through it all, she walked with purpose."

c) Pay attention to the stressed syllables: In English, we naturally stress certain syllables in words. Try to end important sentences with stressed syllables for a stronger impact.

Example: "Her heart raced as she approached the door." (Stronger ending) vs. "She approached the door as her heart raced." (Weaker ending)

Paint with Words 🎨

Beautiful prose often creates vivid imagery in the reader's mind. Here are some techniques to help you paint with words:

a) Use specific, concrete details: Instead of general descriptions, zoom in on particular details that bring a scene to life.

Example: Instead of: "The room was messy." Try: "Crumpled papers overflowed from the waste bin, books lay spine-up on every surface, and a half-eaten sandwich peeked out from under a stack of wrinkled clothes."

b) Appeal to all five senses: Don't just describe what things look like. Include smells, sounds, textures, and tastes to create a fully immersive experience.

Example: "The market bustled with life. Colorful fruits glistened in the morning sun, their sweet aroma mingling with the earthy scent of fresh herbs. Vendors called out their wares in sing-song voices, while customers haggled in animated tones. Sarah's fingers brushed against the rough burlap sacks of grain as she passed, and she could almost taste the tang of ripe oranges on her tongue."

c) Use unexpected comparisons: Fresh similes and metaphors can breathe new life into descriptions.

Example: Instead of: "The old man was very thin." Try: "The old man was a whisper of his former self, as if life had slowly erased him, leaving behind only the faintest outline."

Choose Your Words Wisely 📚

Every word in your prose should earn its place. Here are some tips for selecting the right words:

a) Embrace strong verbs: Replace weak verb + adverb combinations with single, powerful verbs.

Example: Instead of: "She walked quickly to the store." Try: "She hurried to the store." or "She dashed to the store."

b) Be specific: Use precise nouns instead of general ones.

Example: Instead of: "She picked up the flower." Try: "She plucked the daisy."

c) Avoid clichés: Clichés can make your writing feel stale. Try to find fresh ways to express common ideas.

Example: Instead of: "It was raining cats and dogs." Try: "The rain fell in sheets, transforming the streets into rushing rivers."

Play with Sound 🎶

The sound of words can contribute greatly to the beauty of your prose. Here are some techniques to make your writing more musical:

a) Alliteration: Repeating initial consonant sounds can create a pleasing effect.

Example: "She sells seashells by the seashore."

b) Assonance: Repeating vowel sounds can add a subtle musicality to your prose.

Example: "The light of the bright sky might ignite a fight."

c) Onomatopoeia: Using words that sound like what they describe can make your writing more immersive.

Example: "The bees buzzed and hummed as they flitted from flower to flower."

Art of Sentence Structure 🏗️

How you structure your sentences can greatly affect the flow and impact of your prose. Here are some tips:

a) Use parallel structure: When listing items or actions, keep the grammatical structure consistent.

Example: "She came, she saw, she conquered."

b) Try periodic sentences: Build suspense by putting the main clause at the end of the sentence.

Example: "Through storm and strife, across oceans and continents, despite all odds and obstacles, they persevered."

c) Experiment with sentence fragments: While not grammatically correct, sentence fragments can be powerful when used intentionally for emphasis or style.

Example: "She stood at the edge of the cliff. Heart racing. Palms sweating. Ready to jump."

Power of White Space ⬜

Sometimes, what you don't say is just as important as what you do. Use paragraph breaks and short sentences to create pauses and emphasize important moments.

Example: "He opened the letter with trembling hands.

Inside, a single word.

'Yes.'"

Read Your Work Aloud 🗣️

One of the best ways to polish your prose is to read it aloud. This helps you catch awkward phrasing, repetitive words, and rhythm issues that you might miss when reading silently.

Edit Ruthlessly ✂️

Beautiful prose often comes from rigorous editing. Don't be afraid to cut words, sentences, or even entire paragraphs if they don't serve the overall beauty and effectiveness of your writing.

Study the Masters 📖

Please! Read widely and pay attention to how your favorite authors craft their prose. Analyze sentences you find particularly beautiful and try to understand what makes them work.

Practice, Practice, Practice 💪

Like any skill, writing beautiful prose takes practice. Set aside time to experiment with different techniques and styles. Try writing exercises focused on specific aspects of prose, like describing a scene using only sound words, or rewriting a simple sentence in ten different ways.

Remember, that developing your prose style is a journey, not a destination. It's okay if your first draft isn't perfect – that's what editing is for! The most important thing is to keep writing, keep experimenting, and keep finding joy in the process.

Here are a few more unique tips to help you on your prose-perfecting journey:

Create a Word Bank 🏦

Keep a notebook or digital file where you collect beautiful words, phrases, or sentences you come across in your reading. This can be a great resource when you're looking for inspiration or the perfect word to complete a sentence.

Use the "Rule of Three" 3️⃣

There's something inherently satisfying about groups of three. Use this to your advantage in your writing, whether it's in listing items, repeating phrases, or structuring your paragraphs.

Example: "The old house groaned, creaked, and whispered its secrets to the night."

Power of Silence 🤫

Sometimes, the most powerful prose comes from what's left unsaid. Use implication and subtext to add depth to your writing.

Example: Instead of: "She was heartbroken when he left." Try: "She stared at his empty chair across the breakfast table, the untouched coffee growing cold."

Play with Perspective 👁️

Experiment with different points of view to find the most impactful way to tell your story. Sometimes, an unexpected perspective can make your prose truly memorable.

Example: Instead of describing a bustling city from a human perspective, try describing it from the point of view of a bird soaring overhead, or a coin passed from hand to hand.

Use Punctuation Creatively 🖋️

While it's important to use punctuation correctly, don't be afraid to bend the rules a little for stylistic effect. Em dashes, ellipses, and even unconventional use of periods can add rhythm and emphasis to your prose.

Example: "She hesitated—heart pounding, palms sweating—then knocked on the door."

Create Contrast 🌓

Juxtapose different elements in your writing to create interest and emphasis. This can be in terms of tone, pacing, or even the literal elements you're describing.

Example: "The delicate butterfly alighted on the rusted barrel of the abandoned tank."

Use Synesthesia 🌈

Synesthesia is a condition where one sensory experience triggers another. While not everyone experiences this, using synesthetic descriptions in your writing can create vivid and unique imagery.

Example: "The violin's melody tasted like honey on her tongue."

Experiment with Sentence Diagrams 📊

Remember those sentence diagrams from school? Try diagramming some of your favorite sentences from literature. This can give you insight into how complex sentences are structured and help you craft your own.

Create a Sensory Tour 🚶‍♀️

When describing a setting, try taking your reader on a sensory tour. Move from one sense to another, creating a full, immersive experience.

Example: "The old bookstore welcomed her with the musty scent of aging paper. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight piercing the high windows. Her fingers trailed over the cracked leather spines as she moved deeper into the stacks, the floorboards creaking a greeting beneath her feet. In the distance, she could hear the soft ticking of an ancient clock and taste the faint bitterness of old coffee in the air."

Use Active Voice (Most of the Time) 🏃‍♂️

While passive voice has its place, active voice generally creates more dynamic and engaging prose. Compare these two sentences:

Passive: "The ball was thrown by the boy." Active: "The boy threw the ball."

Magic of Ordinary Moments ✨

Sometimes, the most beautiful prose comes from describing everyday occurrences in a new light. Challenge yourself to find beauty and meaning in the mundane.

Example: "The kettle's whistle pierced the quiet morning, a clarion call heralding the day's first cup of possibility."

Play with Time ⏳

Experiment with how you present the passage of time in your prose. You can stretch a moment out over several paragraphs or compress years into a single sentence.

Example: "In that heartbeat between his question and her answer, universes were born and died, civilizations rose and fell, and their entire future hung in the balance."

Use Anaphora for Emphasis 🔁

Anaphora is the repetition of a word or phrase at the beginning of successive clauses or sentences. It can create a powerful rhythm and emphasize key points.

Example: "She was the sunrise after the longest night. She was the first bloom of spring after a harsh winter. She was the cool breeze on a sweltering summer day. She was hope personified, walking among us."

Create Word Pictures 🖼️

Try to create images that linger in the reader's mind long after they've finished reading. These don't have to be elaborate – sometimes a simple, unexpected combination of words can be incredibly powerful.

Example: "Her laughter was a flock of birds taking flight."

Use Rhetorical Devices 🎭

Familiarize yourself with rhetorical devices like chiasmus, antithesis, and oxymoron. These can add depth and interest to your prose.

Example of chiasmus: "Ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country." - John F. Kennedy

Even the most accomplished authors continue to hone their craft with each new piece they write. Don't be discouraged if your first attempts don't sound exactly like you imagined – keep practicing, keep experimenting, and most importantly, keep writing.

Your unique voice and perspective are what will ultimately make your prose beautiful. These techniques are simply tools to help you express that voice more effectively. Use them, adapt them, or discard them as you see fit. The most important thing is to write in a way that feels authentic to you and brings you joy.

Happy writing, everyone! 🖋️💖📚 - Rin T

Hey fellow writers! I'm super excited to share that I've just launched a Tumblr community. I'm inviting all of you to join my community. All you have to do is fill out this Google form, and I'll personally send you an invitation to join the Write Right Society on Tumblr! Can't wait to see your posts!

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mwphisto · 21 days ago

Text

LaDs: What I think they smell like

~ this is gonna be a lil too specific so… heh

~ All love interests included

A note from Soul: all of these are based on vibes!! So like they mint smell different for everyone who reads this because… some of them aren’t exactly scents. So if you don’t agree with them; that’s totally okay! Enjoy friends :)

Xavier smells like…

Warm blankets fresh from the dryer. The lingering scent of freshness from the laundry detergent brought out by the heat that dried them. Soft to the touch, soft in scent, enough to make you want to curl up and snuggle for a good nap.

A eucalyptus plant growing on someone’s windowsill. Getting just enough light and water to flourish to its full extent, filling the room with its relaxing scent and inviting color. Quiet discussions of when to re-pot it and when is a good time to harvest some of its fragrant leaves.

The air during summer right before it rains. Dark clouds are rolling in, the temperature is dropping a few degrees, and that familiar ozonic scent seems to linger everywhere you go. You spend the time outside, watching and waiting for the first drips of rain or the first rumble of distant thunder.

Pressing flowers between hardcover books. It’s a hazy summer afternoon, the light catching on the dust floating through the empty library corridor. It’s quiet, the hum of the air conditioner turning into white noise as you focus on your craft.

Zayne smells like…

Freshly made matcha in a small cafe. The air outside is cooling down, autumn is approaching. The sun is lingering in the sky, slowly making its descent. The days are shortening, but the remnant of summer is still floating around in the golden hues that cascade through the glass windows.

Old, but well loved, library books. The ones you pull off the shelf and smile at because of nostalgia. Cracking them open to flip through the pages and the smell of paper and book binding meets your nose. Takes you back to simpler times, and you can’t help but hold it for a little longer and reminisce.

Brown sugar getting mixed into homemade cookie dough. An old family recipe, one only brought out for special occasions or important holidays. The kitchen is buzzing with chatter, music is playing softly in the living room. You’re at peace as you measure out your ingredients, the heat of the stove lulling you as you mix.

Early morning fog, you’re on your way to the airport for a trip. You’re going over everything you need one last time, suitcase by your side as you fumble with the house keys. The air is crisp, the grass is covered in dew, and the air is slowly clearing as the sun breaks up the morning fog. It’s tranquil despite everything.

Rafayel smells like…

Getting ready for dinner after a day at the beach. After tan lotion, fruity shampoo, aloe, salty air. You’re sitting in a hotel room, watching the sun set as you get ready for dinner by the ocean. You’re warm from your day in the sun — tanned or burnt — and a lingering sleepiness clings to you despite the excitement.

Bubbling champagne during new years. Light and airy, the world around you seems to buzz with anticipation of new beginnings. The golden liquor in your glass flute is beckoning you in, fizzing on your tongue just enough to crave more.

Fresh mixed paint and a new cloth canvas. Endless possibilities, no mistakes just happy accidents. The allowance of mess, the realization of free will. You can create whatever your heart desires, again and again until you are completely satisfied.

Ocean swims under the full moon. The water is cold but he’s so warm. Your laughter is echoing along the empty beach, his arms are around your waist as he dives both of you under the salty waves. The kisses taste equally as salty, your arms and legs intertwining messily under the bobbing water.

Sylus smells like…

Fresh leather and cool night air. The streets are bustling with night life, the pavement wet from the earlier rain shower. Neon lights illuminate the dark, casting arrays of colored lights across every passerby. You can still see the moon when you look up, just beyond the towering buildings, a warm hand is guiding you.

A freshly empty barrel of whisky. A mix of warm liquor and cedar wood. Something that settles deep in your bones and grounds you. It’s spicy yet sweet, fresh yet warm. You find yourself enjoying the smell of the barrel more than the taste of the liquid itself. Mouth watering its own sense.

Late night snacks and hushed laughter. Sitting on the counter giggling while the other rummages through the fridge. The sour juice of an orange slice hitting your tongue and making your lips pucker while attempting to stifle a belly laugh. Safety, and intimacy as you share the secret of late night indulgence

The crackling of a fireplace in the middle of winter. Wrapped in fuzzy blankets, a movie playing in the background but the volume is nearly on mute. You’re warm all over, from the fire, from the blankets, from his warmth beside you. It smells like home, and the pine that is burning in the hearth.

Caleb smells like…

A fresh new modeling kit, the plastic still lingers in the air as you carefully rip open the cardboard box it came inside. The living room rug is scratchy on your bare legs, the wooden coffee table cool against your forearms. The world is slowly winding down beyond the windows, but you are just getting started.

Late night talks on a summer night. The cicadas are still droning on, now accompanied by a symphony of frogs. The air is still a little sticky, the pavement still a little hot. But the swing set creeks as you laugh over something he said, secrets shared between you, him, and the stars above.

A summer drive at dusk, with the windows down and music blaring. The air is warm, the ac is blasting even though the windows and sun roof are open. Your hair is blowing, you’re screaming the lyrics to the songs, the car shaking with the bass. You’re positive people are staring every time you reach a light.

A full breakfast with the sun shining through the kitchen window, foggy rays illuminating the table. It smells like fluffy pancakes, fresh berries, sticky syrup. Eggs are sizzling in the pan, the table is being set, the news drones on off in the living room. It’s a comforting kind of chaos, it’s home.

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senascoop · 6 months ago

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Who do you think gives off major girl dad vibes and who gives off boy dad vibes in enhypen hyung line? 🫣

( GIRL DAD VIBES )

i) JAY — he practically screams “girl dad” with how gentlemanly he is and def seems like the type who would spoil his daughter while also being super protective. Jay would absolutely love twirling his daughter around the living room to teach her how to dance. He’d make sure she felt like a princess every day, whether it’s a random Tuesday or her birthday. While he’d be incredibly protective (probably the type to intimidate her first crush just a little), he’d also have a soft spot. One puppy-eyed look, and he’d cave into whatever she wants. He’d encourage her to be confident, smart, and kind. You can imagine him saying things like, “Always stay true to yourself, no matter what,” or “You’re capable of anything you set your mind to.” He’d be hands-on when it comes to crafting school projects or making her dream playhouse, all while secretly enjoying it more than her.

ii). SUNGHOON — No particular reason but his sweet, slightly shy demeanor gives off “girl dad.” He'd probably dote on his daughter. Sunghoon would be the kind of dad who’s quietly protective. He’d always keep an eye on her but wouldn’t be overbearing. If she had a problem, he’d step in subtly and guide her through it. While he might seem reserved, Sunghoon would secretly practice braiding her hair, doing her nails, or even learning makeup basics so he could bond with her. Imagine him proudly showing her a perfect fishtail braid or helping her pick nail polish colors! Sunghoon would treasure all her milestones. He’d secretly keep a box of her drawings, first letters, or little gifts she made him, reminiscing over them when she grew older. At school events, he might be the quiet dad in the back but would burst with pride when she’s on stage or playing sports. He’d clap the loudest and tell everyone, “That’s my daughter!”

( BOY DAD VIBES )

iii) HEESEUNG — Heeseung gives off really strong major “fun and chill” boy dad vibes. He'd bond over video games and sports, being an ideal responsible role model in the child's life. Heeseung would not only be a dad but be more like a buddy. He'd always be down to play video games, shoot hoops, or build Legos; he would make sure that his son knows that he is his biggest fan and the best friend. Whether it's basketball, soccer, or whatever, Heeseung would be the dad who always practiced with his son out in the yard. He'd be cheering him on at every game and even coaching the team if needed. Heeseung would be the right balance between being laid back and having boundaries. His son would know there's always room for fun but also the importance of respect and discipline. Music is such a big part of Heeseung's life, so you can bet there'd be karaoke nights where they'd sing their hearts out. His son would probably inherit Heeseung's love for music and maybe even some of his talent.

iV) JAKE — he seems like he would make a close friend with his son. They would spend weekends watching sports, playing video games, or going out into the wild for some hike or fishing. He would want his son to feel as though they are a team in everything. He would drop nuggets of wisdom like, “It is okay to fail, but never stop trying,” to make sure that his son feels encouraged about whatever happened. He would always say “I love you” and make sure that his son feels supported emotionally. Jake would be the dad who's always ready to listen, whether it is about his son's day at school or his dreams and worries. He would be that laid-back parent but not one to shy away from teaching his child how to live life and its various implications, like cooking, keeping money in order, and how to tackle problems with the right attitude.

#this was so cute to write #tysm anon ;)#⠀⠀ꞌꞌ ࣪ _ random things ✿ . ꒱#enhypen imagines #enhypen reactions #enhypen #enhypen fluff #enhypen × reader #enhypen scenarios #enhypen headcanons #enhypen x you #heeseung fluff #jay fluff #jake fluff #sunghoon fluff #kpop imagines #kpop soft hours #enhypen hyung line

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aquareegia · 3 months ago

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I get that the initial reaction to Caramel is sadness and anger. Like I said yesterday, I am also mad. I still am mad. I am not mad at fans though, I am mad at those who don't know when to stop.

And I gotta say some of you (yes, also on tumblr) are doing too much right now. Vessel's message is very clear. Don't start to overanalyse and overinterpretate everything. All he wants is respect, privacy, and for people to listen to his music.

You are allowed to show empathy towards Vessel and anyone else. You are allowed to project your own feelings onto the music. Their music is heavily reliant on emotions, after all. "Our verses are a token, crafted to magnify and embody the multitude of emotion that writhes in our subconscious. Sonically our voice is rooted in the resonation between the notes and your emotion. Take our hand."

You are allowed to write and read fanfiction. You are allowed to draw fanarts. You are allowed to go crazy over songs. You are allowed to compliment any of the guys. You are allowed to joke around.

None of this is an issue. Vessel doesn't hate all of us. Vessel knows that he's a public person. He expects parasocial behaviour from all of us. Like I said yesterday, parasocial relationships are not inherently bad or wrong. It's just important to know to not overstep a clear line. That's all. Please chill.

#sleep token #sleep token caramel

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cami040405 · 2 months ago

Note

Heyyyy. I’m back. How ya doing? Hopefully wonderful. Anywaysss.

Can I pretty pls request Michael, Bo, and Billy reacting to their s/o going all out for their birthday? Like she bakes a cake, puts together a gift basket, handmade and store bought gifts, decorates the house, all that fun stuff just to celebrate them?

Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair and Billy Loomis with a S/O Who Celebrates Their Birthday (SEPARATE)

Summary: Imagine your thoughtful birthday surprise — cake, decorations, handmade gifts — deeply touches Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair, and Billy Loomis in different ways.

A/N: As always, your ideas are great, I loved writing this request. I thought it was cute that the reader cared about the slashers' birthday. Thanks for the request.

Michael Myers

It starts a few days before his birthday.

You know Michael's always watching — always near — even when you can't see him. And that makes planning anything a little more... complicated. But you don’t let that stop you. In fact, the thought of him observing you from the shadows while you prep everything makes you work harder. You want him to see. You want him to feel it.

Because for once in his life, Michael deserves to be celebrated.

You decorate the house in the way you think he’d like it: nothing too bright, nothing gaudy. Dark streamers, black and silver balloons, candles flickering softly throughout the living room. You craft a handmade banner, the words "Happy Birthday, Michael" painted carefully in blood-red ink with sharp, bold strokes — a message meant only for him.

The cake takes you hours. Chocolate, rich and dark, with a white frosting layer you carefully mold into the shape of his mask — smooth, blank, and eerie. You even carve small, lifeless eyes with the tip of a butter knife. You almost feel like he's standing behind you as you do it.

He probably is.

The gift basket is a mix of the practical and the personal. A freshly sharpened knife you found at a collector’s store and cleaned meticulously. A new pair of black gloves. A simple, matte-black hoodie you embroidered a tiny white “M” inside of — small enough that only he would ever know it’s there. But also a few... softer things.

A Polaroid of the two of you, standing in the woods on a rare afternoon when you convinced him to let you take it. You’re smiling. He’s behind you, masked as always, but his presence is calm. Protective. You slip that photo into a small frame.

And then — the most important gift — a leather-bound journal. Not for him to write in. But filled by you. Every page is a memory, a letter, or a sketch. You write about the first time you weren’t afraid of him. The time he sat beside you in silence for hours. The time he carried you to bed after you fell asleep on the couch. You even draw his mask — again and again — but somehow, you manage to make it feel... human.

You don’t expect him to say anything. He never does.

But the morning of his birthday, you feel it in the air: heavier, still. Charged.

He appears just after dusk. Silent as ever. His massive frame fills the doorway to the living room, where the lights are dimmed and soft music plays from a record you put on just for him — something atmospheric, eerie, almost meditative.

He doesn’t move at first. He just stands there. Staring.

His head tilts slightly at the sight of the decorations, the flickering candles. His gaze lingers on the cake, then the gift basket. And then... on you.

You’re nervous — not because you’re afraid, but because you care.

“Happy birthday, Michael,” you say softly, stepping toward him, journal in hand. “I know it probably doesn’t mean much. But... I wanted you to know you matter. At least to me.”

You hold the journal out. Slowly. Gently.

He walks forward, his boots thudding against the floor, but his movements are… restrained. Controlled. Like he doesn’t want to break anything. Like he’s trying to understand something he’s never felt before.

He takes the journal from your hands. Not rough. Not snatched. He just… takes it. Looks down at it.

Flips it open.

You can’t see his face. But you can feel the shift in the air. His fingers pause on one of your drawings — the one where you sketched the two of you side by side. Him towering over you, but your hand reaching up to rest against his chest.

After what feels like a lifetime, he closes the journal and holds it close to his chest. He still hasn’t said a word.

But then he lifts a hand — slowly — and places it on your cheek.

It’s the softest thing he’s ever done.

You lean into his gloved palm, closing your eyes. His hand is warm through the material. Grounding. Steady.

No one’s ever done this for him before. No one’s ever celebrated the day of his birth — a day most people would rather forget. But you remembered. You embraced it.

And for the first time in decades, maybe longer, he feels something like peace.

He doesn’t leave your side for the rest of the night. He sits with you as you slice the cake, as you show him the little details in the gift basket. He doesn’t eat. But he watches. And when you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder, he stays perfectly still — a silent guardian in the dark.

When you wake the next morning, the journal is gone. But in its place on your nightstand is something simple:

One of his knives, cleaned and polished, and on its handle… the “M” you stitched into his hoodie, now carved into the wood.

His way of saying thank you.

His way of saying you matter, too.

Bo Sinclair

Bo never really cared for birthdays. To him, it was just a reminder of how long he’d been stuck in Ambrose — stuck in a loop of killing, lying, and pretending that the wax-covered corpses around him were anything like real company. His brothers didn’t bother. Hell, even he barely remembered the date until he saw it scrawled in pencil on an old calendar near the register in the gas station.

So when the morning started like any other — a half-assed breakfast, a cigarette between his teeth, and a bloodstain drying on his shirt from a nosy camper — he expected nothing. Least of all from you.

He should’ve known something was up when the house was quiet. Too quiet. No sound of you puttering in the kitchen, no sarcastic comment when he stepped in, boots muddy and shirt unbuttoned to his stomach.

“Babe?” he called out, eyes narrowing.

And then he noticed it.

The house was dimmed, lit only by flickering candles you’d arranged on shelves and ledges. Red and amber lights cast a warm glow across the room, making it feel strangely alive. Streamers — deep gold and black, slightly rustic like something from an old Southern carnival — dangled above the doorway. The air smelled like vanilla, cedar, and something else…

Cake.

He followed the scent into the kitchen. And there you were — standing beside a chocolate bourbon cake you had baked from scratch, icing smudged on your cheek, the faintest sheen of sweat on your forehead. You had decorated the cake with a little waxwork of his face (complete with a tiny scowl), and written across the top in careful red script:

"Happy Birthday, Bo."

His heart stopped.

He stared, expression unreadable. That classic cocky smirk? Gone. For the first time in a long while, Bo Sinclair was speechless.

“I know you said birthdays aren’t your thing,” you said softly, “but that’s only because no one’s ever made them feel special. So I wanted to.”

You motioned toward the living room. On the coffee table, a handcrafted gift basket sat, wrapped in cellophane and tied with a red satin ribbon. He stepped closer, mouth parted slightly.

Inside were things that meant something:

A small leather-bound notebook — the kind you noticed he liked sketching traps and blueprints in — with his initials burned into the front.

A new set of carving tools, engraved with subtle flame motifs.

A worn cassette tape labeled “For Bo”, filled with old Southern rock, blues, and even a few slower songs that reminded you of him.

A jar of homemade strawberry jam — his mama’s favorite, which he once told you about in a rare, nostalgic haze.

And finally… a framed Polaroid of the two of you, both mid-laugh, your face pressed against his sun-kissed cheek. You’d caught him in one of the few moments where his smile didn’t have teeth behind it.

He picked up the frame. Just held it. Silent.

“…Why’d you do all this?” he finally rasped, his voice hoarse — not from smoke this time, but from something heavy in his chest.

“Because you deserve it,” you answered. “Even if you don’t think so.”

His lips parted to respond, but nothing came out. Instead, he reached up and scratched the back of his neck — a nervous tick you’d seen only once before, the first time he let you touch the scar on his shoulder.

Then he chuckled. Low. Bitter. Almost like he was trying to suppress something deeper.

“Shit, sugar…” He stepped forward and pulled you into a sudden, tight hug. His arms wrapped around your waist with a desperate kind of force, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

His voice, buried in the crook of your neck, came out raw:

“Ain’t no one ever done nothin’ like this for me. Not in my whole damn life.”

You held him as long as he needed. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. Just let him feel it — the effort, the love, the fact that someone saw past the blood and the wax and the broken bravado.

And later, when you finally sat down to share the cake, Bo reached across the table, fingers lacing with yours. His smile was small, lopsided, but real.

“You keep doin’ shit like this,” he drawled, “and I’m gonna start thinkin’ I ain’t the monster everyone says I am.”

Then he leaned across and kissed you — slow, deep, no rush. A kiss that tasted like chocolate, bourbon, and all the emotion he’d tried to bury.

That night, long after the candles burned out, he stayed up holding the Polaroid against his chest, eyes wide open. Not sleeping. Just... processing.

For once, Bo Sinclair didn’t feel like a wax figure in someone else’s horror story. He felt alive.

And it was all because of you.

Billy Loomis (Ghostface)

Billy never really celebrated his birthday. Not since his mother left. Not since the world showed him it didn’t give a damn if he existed or not. Most years, it was just a date. A reminder. Of abandonment. Of what he lost. Of what he became.

He didn’t tell you when his birthday was. You found out on your own — through a dusty school file he left around, or maybe you coaxed it out of Stu when he wasn’t paying attention. Either way, you kept it quiet. Planned it all behind his back.

And when the day came, he woke up like any other — cold, guarded, sarcastic. He didn’t expect anything. Maybe a lazy kiss. Maybe a joint. But nothing more.

When he stepped into the apartment and saw the dim red lighting and horror-themed decorations — blood-spattered paper streamers, black balloons with Ghostface doodles, a table covered in slasher VHS tapes and vintage horror mags — he just stood in the doorway.

Frozen.

His brows knit together. His lips parted like he was about to say something — mock it, probably — but then his eyes landed on the cake. It was chocolate, his favorite. Dark frosting, red drip icing like blood. Candles shaped like knives. You even managed to write “Happy Fuckin’ Birthday, Billy” in that jagged font you knew he liked from horror movie posters.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then you came out from the kitchen, wearing one of his oversized flannel shirts over fishnets, eyeliner a little smudged, hair messy from running around all morning. You were beaming.

“Told you I was good at surprises,” you said with a grin.

He stared at you like you had just stabbed him. “What… is this?”

“It’s your birthday, idiot. You didn’t think I was gonna ignore it, did you?”

When he didn’t move, you took his hand and guided him to the living room. That’s when he saw the gift basket on the coffee table. At first, he looked annoyed — like you were trying too hard. But as he sat down and actually opened it, the sarcasm melted into something quieter.

Inside:

A rare VHS copy of the original Halloween, signed by an obscure cast member you hunted down online.

A handmade mixtape labeled "Songs That Make Me Think of You (In a Good Way)".

His favorite black cherry candies from the video store you two always hit.

A worn, secondhand horror trivia card game you said would be perfect for the nights you guys “terrorized the neighbors” with Stu.

A small framed photo of the two of you laughing, mid-pillow-fight, messy and real.

And at the bottom: a letter. Sealed with black wax.

He hesitated. Fingers hovered over the envelope like it was burning. But he opened it.

Your handwriting. Raw. Honest. You wrote about how much he meant to you. How you saw the rage and the pain and the chaos under his skin—but loved him anyway. You didn’t try to fix him. You just wanted to know him. Be there.

You ended the letter with:

“Happy birthday, Billy. You’re not broken to me. Just sharp. And I don’t mind getting cut.”

For a long time, Billy didn’t say a word. He just stared at the letter, jaw tight, eyes flicking back and forth as he reread it.

“…You’re insane,” he finally said, voice quiet, almost stunned. “You’re literally insane.”

Then he kissed you. Hard. Desperate. Like he was trying to shut you up before you felt how much this meant to him.

Afterward, he sat on the couch with you tucked under his arm, rereading the letter like it was some kind of incantation. Every so often, you’d feel his lips brush your temple — absent-minded, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

Later that night, when you fell asleep, he stayed up.

He traced the handwriting with his thumb. Studied the gifts. Looked at the decorations. Everything you did.

And in the silence of the room, for the first time in years… Billy let his guard down. Just for a second.

He whispered, “Thank you,” so softly even he almost didn’t hear it.

The next morning, he didn’t talk about it. Didn’t mention the party. But he kept the letter in his coat pocket like a talisman. And every time the world got too loud, too fake, too hollow—he reached for it.

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4linos · 8 months ago

Text

stray kids as dads

synopsis: simply how hyung line would be as dads & things they’d do (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

wc: 362

girl!dad bang chan

encourage creativity he’d foster his daughters musical talents, perhaps having jam sessions or music lessons at home.

supportive conversations always available to listen, offering advice and support during tough times, ensuring she feels heard.

teaching values instilling important life lessons about kindness, respect, and perseverance through both words and actions.

celebrating achievements always cheering for his kids’ accomplishments, no matter how big or small.

being a role model demonstrating hard work and dedication in his career, inspiring his children to pursue their dreams.

boy!dad lee know

teaching dance sharing his passion for dance, he’d encourage his son to express himself through movement.

creative projects involving his son in creative hobbies, like drawing or crafting, to foster his artistic skills.

cooking together he’d enjoy cooking meals with his son, sharing recipes, and making it a bonding experience.

being present always making time for his son, attending his events and being an active participant in their lives.

fostering Independence teaching him valuable life skills while allowing him to learn and grow on his own.

girl!dad changbin

encourage ambition he’d support his daughter in pursuing their goals, instilling a strong work ethic and resilience.

active lifestyle promoting fitness through outdoor activities, sports, or family workouts. Signing his daughter up for several activities she might be interested in.

mentorship guiding her through challenges, offering advice, and sharing his own experiences to help her navigate life.

being playful using his playful side to create fun and memorable experiences, from silly games to spontaneous outings.

leading by example demonstrating kindness, empathy, and responsibility, serving as a role model for his daughter.

boy!dad hyunjin

artistic influences regularly introducing his son to various art forms, like visiting galleries or attending performances, to broaden his horizons.

compassionate leadership teaching his son the value of empathy and kindness through his own actions and community involvement.

balancing discipline and fun setting boundaries while also knowing how to relax and have fun, ensuring a balanced upbringing.

family activities organizing fun outings, like trips to amusement parks or nature hikes, to create lasting memories.

creating traditions establishing family traditions for holidays or special occasions to strengthen family bonds.

—

nini’s notes 110324

something new once again 🤔 personally i enjoy reading dad!skz so i hope nobody minds this..

asks are open if you have a question, concern or request!

-🎀

#stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids fluff #stray kids headcanons #stray kids fic #stray kids dad au #stray kids fanfic #skz fanfic #skz fluff #stray kids x reader #stray kids dad #skz soft hours #stray kids soft thoughts

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thethronezone · 1 month ago

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Oooooh can I ask for the primarchs and how they will play with my child!?

Mortarion - So damn awkward. Like, he gives his kid a ball and is like "Go play" and then when they try throwing it to him he's like "???" because do they not want the toy? It takes him a while to realize that they want him to play with them and while he does oblige, he's so befuddled the entire time. Played fetch with his kid for the longest time before someone pointed out that that's something you do with a dog and he got very embarrassed and ashamed (and quite furious because that's what his adoptive father did with him sometimes).

Fulgrim - Arts and crafts with dad! Music-time with papa! Fencing lessons with father! Whatever activity Fulgrim performs with his child, he tries to impart some kind of lesson unto them. For him, play-time is not just for fun, it's also a very important development tool so he's very meticulous about what they do.

Angron - Mostly just supervise but sometimes he does join his kid if they ask him or he's feeling particularly stable at the moment. Let's his kid decide what to do and just follows along with whatever they want. Playing pretend? Sure. Racing? He'll jog so they'll have a chance at keeping up. Just happy with whatever and really treasures these moments and tries to make them last as long as possible.

Magnus - Puzzles, puzzles, puzzles. These games require a mixture of intelligence and psychic skills to solve. Magnus tries so hard to let his kid solve them on their own and not railroad them into the solution. Also likes playing catch with his kid but with a psychic twist on it, as they can only catch the ball with their powers and are allowed to use them to add momentum to the throw.

Perturabo - Acts like he doesn't care, sitting at his desk working while his kid play in the corner, but he will be lowkey watching the entire time and making notes of everything. He's also the kinda guy to tell his kid that they are playing wrong, those aren't the rules, but only because he deep down wants them to have fun and thinks his way is better than theirs.

Alpharius - Let's go to work with dad! Takes the child with them on safer missions or includes them in the prep for minor missions. They pose this as playtime but really it is also a way for them to indoctrinate and teach their kid about the work they one day expect them to fully join them with.

Lorgar - Loves loves LOVES reading his kid books or telling them stories. Has the best narrator voice and will often include his kid in the storytelling, changing the story and injecting their own characters into the story. Also likes playing pretend with them.

Horus - The type of dad who loves to play catch with his kid. It allows them to do something together while also letting them talk. Also takes his kid out hunting from an early age (with the prey getting bigger as they get older). Just loves hanging out with his kid, doing stuff together and talking about whatever.

Konrad - Hide-and-seek, which sounds cute until you realize that this is the Night Haunter we're talking about and they are playing in almost complete darkness and oh god, he's in the walls. Still, his kid is having fun and that's what counts, right? The serfs find this terrifying though. Also plays pretend with them but his little stories and scenarios always have a macabre twist or something. Again, his kid is having fun but any serfs that happen to overhear the story find themselves deeply disturbed.

Sanguinius - Loves playing pretend with his kid and finds it super endearing when they are the brave astartes sent to rescue the captured princess from some evil xenos (yes, Sanguinius is the princess in this scenario). Also loves to take his kid out flying and teaching them various aerial maneuvers and playing catch or tag in the air.

Corvus - Hide-and-seek version 2.0 and this time it's... slightly less terrifying for the onlookers. Mostly because this version of the game is all about hiding from the serfs/space marines and while looking for the other person. Also the master of quiet parallel play. He'll be doing paperwork or whatever and his kid is right next to him, doing their own thing. They both see this as playing together and it works perfectly well for them.

Ferrus - Really enjoys doing puzzles with is kid. He does take a backseat and mostly just observes (or else the puzzle would be solved in ten seconds flat) but he makes sure that he stays involved by talking to his kid, subtly guiding them and asking them just how they solved that part. Makes his own puzzles for them so that he knows it's the right blend of challenging and entertaining.

Rogal - Building with blocks except he's 1000% serious. "That building block should be five millimeters to the left for optimal stability." God forbid his kid ever wants to build a tree house because Rogal is going to railroad the whole thing and in the end that thing is going to be able to withstand orbital bombardment.

Vulkan - Picture this; Vulkan, lying on his stomach so he can play with his baby at their own height. Smiling goofily as he plays with them, talking and narrating with his softest voice. When they are very young and small, he is so very careful with them and it's only as they get a bit older and more durable that he does things like play catch.

Lion - The type of dad to let his kids crawl and climb all over him while he works and he's completely stone-faced the entire time. Child is tugging his beard? No reaction. Showing paper in their mouth? Gently pries it from their hands. But whenever no-one is looking, he will make a slight face at his kid so they will laugh. Also takes them out hunting when they get older.

Leman - Lots of playing in the snow (snowball fights are RUTHLESS) and roughhousing aka wrestling is the all-time favorite. Wresting in the snow? Now THAT'S how they do it on Fenris! WILL pick his kid up by the ankles and toss them in the snow to start shit THE instigator. Will play tug-of-war, catch and fetch too.

Jaghatai - Tag, archery, riding horses, ball-sports. These are all activites that Jaghatai likes doing with his kid. When he plays with his kid he makes it a whole-day thing because this is also a very important bonding opportunity. Instills in his kid a healthy sense of competition but also teamwork.

Roboute - Lots of physical activities like playing catch or various sports. Guilliman draws a lot of inspiration of how to play with his kid from his own childhood and as such, most games are from Macragge. He also feels like, since he spends a lot of his time doing stuff like paperwork, it would be a shame and a waste to spend the time he has together with his child sitting down.

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velvetseahorse · 2 months ago

Text

Uttara Phalguni, Uttara Bhadrapada, and Revati in music 𓃔𓃰

Uttara Phalguni and Uttara Bhadrapada share a significant connection to music, but they express it in distinctly different ways.

𓊬

Uttara Phalguni, known for its poetic and lyrical brilliance, often produces artists who excel in raw, soul-stirring lyricism and emotive vocals. This nakshatra thrives in the realm of storytelling through words, as seen in the work of artists like Fiona Apple, Amy Winehouse, Nick Cave, PJ Harvey, Lorde, Bruce Springsteen and Kurt Cobain. Their songs are narratives confessions and philosophies wrapped in music, each lyric a meditation into the depths of human experience.

𓁀

In contrast, Uttara Bhadrapada shines through vocal mastery and innovative soundscapes. Artists born under this star often possess a powerful, soulful voice one that can both soothe and shatter. Their music is a journey of layered emotions, combining profound depth with inventive arrangements. This is evident in the iconic voices of Lady Gaga, Elton John, Aretha Franklin, Lykke Li, Chaka Khan, Ari Lennox, Halle Bailey, Joan Baez and Mariah Carey. For them, the voice is an instrument in itself, a vessel for emotion and artistry.

𓃔

Both nakshatras share a unique connection through their animal yoni, the Cow (Cow Yoni). Cows are known to respond positively to music, particularly jazz, which has a soothing effect due to its rhythmic, melodic frequencies—similar to the natural, calming cadence of a cow’s lowing. Studies have shown that slow, gentle music, like Indian instrumental pieces, can increase milk production and reduce stress in cows, while faster, louder genres like rock can have the opposite effect, increasing stress hormones.

This sensitivity to rhythm and harmony may explain why artists like Lady Gaga and Amy Winehouse both tied to these nakshatras While Amy Winehouse has always been Jazz influence and Gaga have gravitated toward jazz at some point in her career. (Sidenote: Gaga reminds me of Uttara Bhadrapada ↑ Barbara Streisand in this video)

𓆟

I also want to mention revati, Revati is a nakshatra deeply connected to drums, percussion, and ethereal soundscapes. Artists born under Revati possess a unique gift for creating music that feels otherworldly, blending primal beats with futuristic tones to craft sonic experiences that transport listeners to dreamlike realms. Revati’s connection to drums is symbolic. Its rhythmic essence is reminiscent of modern drums. In ancient cultures, drums were the bearers of news used to announce important events or send messages, much like Morse code. This connection emphasizes that communication, in all its forms, is a core aspect of Revati. ( Source: The Book of Nakshatras by Prash Trivedi) Musically, Revati is a bridge between the ancient and the futuristic a hypnotic dance of rhythm and transcendence. Artists like Thom Yorke and Sade showcase this beautifully Yorke’s haunting, electronic landscapes and Sade’s smooth, transcendent melodies both channel Revati’s ethereal quality. Pharrell’s genre-blending production, Kelela’s shimmering, futuristic R&B, and N*co’s dreamy, avant-garde sound all reflect Revati’s ability to weave rhythmic magic. Even in Bladee’s cloud rap, where his dual influence of Revati and Uttara Bhadrapada merge, there is an airy, surreal quality that feels like drifting between heaven and earth. But Revati’s connection to drums goes beyond percussion it’s about creating an atmosphere, a sound that feels alive, pulsating, and transcendent. Whether it’s King Krule’s melancholic, poetic compositions or Arca’s boundary-pushing synth explorations.

While for Uttara Bhadrapada a nakshatra known for creating music that is haunting, ethereal, and deeply intimate. Artists born under Uttara Bhadrapada often venture into the surreal, the dark, and the sublime transforming their emotions into sounds that linger like a half-remembered dream. Grimes’ futuristic, synth-heavy soundscapes, with their blend of eerie and angelic tones, perfectly capture Uttara Bhadrapada’s ethereal essence. Billie Eilish’s sleepy vocals paired with haunting beats, and Soko’s raw, emotionally charged indie pop, are other clear examples of this nakshatra’s influence. Damon Albarn, known for his melancholy yet expansive sonic explorations (from Gorillaz to Blur), embodies the nakshatra’s ability to drift between genres and worlds. Similarly, artists like ABRA and Kilo Kish explore moody, genre-blending sounds that feel like secret conversations whispered in the dark.

#vedic astrology #uttara phalguni nakshatra #uttara bhadrapada nakshatra #revati nakshatra

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viviansturns · 6 days ago

Text

𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒊'𝒎 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 - wc 8k+

...every time chris has ever fucked up and apologized

cw: angst, crying, begging, repeated toxic actions, extremely toxic relationship, totally unresolved, codependancy, mentions of alcohol, no physical abuse

a/n- hi guysss i'm putting this in the text of fic so you read it!! so this is for my 1,000 follower special! i've done a long fic before (here) so i decided to do another but this ones terribly sad!

it's important to note that i did this is a completely different writing style than mine, especially nearing the end, and I really don't know how much I like it. in addition, i reached the maximum number of "blocks" due to the absurd amount of enters, so theres a continuation to this post. anyways, enjoy! and i'm sorry in advance

Sorry for being a dick

The party is loud enough that you have to lean in to hear what your friend is saying, but you don’t really mind. You’re not even sure you wanted to come at first—it’s one of those crowded, slightly pretentious housewarmings where everyone brings craft beer or overpriced wine.

Still, you like the kitchen best. It’s bright and a little too small for the twelve-ish people squeezed in, the chatter bouncing off white cabinets and cheap tile.

You’re perched on the counter, boot heels knocking softly, drink in hand, laughing at something stupid your friend tells you about her boss. You feel loose, relaxed. You’ve even forgotten for a second that you don’t know most of these people.

That changes when he walks in.

He doesn’t exactly enter the room so much as commandeer it.

Tall. Broad. Annoyingly handsome in that way you can tell he knows. He’s talking to someone behind him, voice a little too loud over the music in the other room, eyes flicking around like he’s casing the joint.

He sees the group in the kitchen, and his gaze lands on you for a second too long before moving away again.

You notice.

“Who’s that?” you ask your friend in a hushed voice.

“Chris,” she mouths. “He’s... you know. He’s cool.”

Which apparently means handle with care.

You shrug. Not your problem.

Except he walks over anyway.

He leans against the counter next to you, beer dangling between his fingers, sizing you up in a quick, dismissive glance.

“What are you all talking about?” he asks, all casual arrogance.

“Hey Chris. My boss,” your friend says.

You smirk. “We’re also mocking ourselves for being fake adults. And I was saying I still write poetry sometimes.”

“Poetry?” he snorts. “Christ. That’s—pretentious as hell.”

It isn’t said playfully. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it. Just tosses it out there like a fact everyone would agree on.

The conversation dies for half a beat.

You blink, then let out a sharp little laugh that has no humor in it.

“Wow,” you say, tilting your head. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission to have a hobby.”

That gets his attention. His eyes snap to you, startled.

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

For a second, he actually looks embarrassed.

“Shit,” he mutters. He straightens, rubbing the back of his neck. The air shifts—his arrogance deflating fast. “Okay. You’re right. That was... dickish. ’m sorry.”

You raise your eyebrows, a smirk tugging at your mouth despite yourself.

“That’s it? Dickish?”

He winces. “Super dickish.”

“Better.”

Silence stretches, filled with the muffled bass from the living room and the sound of someone laughing down the hall.

He huffs out a laugh, looking genuinely sheepish now.

“I really am sorry,” he adds, voice low enough that only you hear it.

You believe him. Which is stupid. You barely know him.

But he looks so uncomfortable.

You exhale, shoulders relaxing.

“Fine,” you say, smiling slow. “You’re forgiven.”

He blinks.

“That easy?”

You shrug, swirling your drink.

“I forgive way too easily. You’ll come to realize.”

His eyes lock on yours then, the apology softening into something else. He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t.

A silence falls between you that is surprisingly comfortable.

Finally, he clears his throat, suddenly awkward in a way that makes you bite back a laugh.

“Can I, uh—can I get you another drink? For being a pretentious asshole.”

You tap your glass thoughtfully.

“You can try,” you tease.

He grins—genuine this time—and holds out a hand for your cup.

You let him take it.

_______________

He disappears into the living room, leaving you with a flutter in your chest you’re definitely going to blame on the cheap wine.

Your friend gives you a knowing look.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the grin that creeps up.

“Shut up,” you mouth.

But you’re already looking at the doorway, waiting for him to come back.

Sorry for forgetting

You don’t really expect him to text you.

But you check your phone the entire next morning anyway.

Your friend teased you about it all the way home. “Oh my god, you like him.” Which is insulting, actually. You don’t like rude boys who say sorry too late.

Still, you left the party thinking about the way he’d looked when he realized he’d actually hurt you. The awkward apology. The hand rubbing the back of his neck. The real, messy way he’d said I’m sorry like he wasn’t used to saying it at all.

You shouldn’t care.

But you’re not immune.

So when his name finally lights up your screen, you have to bite back a smile before you even read the message.

Chris: hey. you around today?

You roll your eyes at the lack of capitalization.

You: Depends.

Chris: on?

You: On whether you’re gonna insult me again.

The typing bubbles appear. Vanish. Come back.

Chris: i was gonna try not to.

You laugh.

You: Fine. When?

Chris: like an hour?

You glance at the time. You’re not really free but it’s not like you have anything you can’t move.

Your thumb hovers.

You: Sure.

Chris: cool. i’ll let you know.

_______________

That’s how you find yourself sitting in the cramped back corner of your favorite coffee shop, half an hour later, pretending to read while checking the door every three seconds.

He’s late.

Not “five-minutes-traffic” late.

Twenty. Thirty.

You try not to care.

But you’re annoyed.

You check your phone. Nothing.

Finally, you toss your book onto the table and fish your phone out again, thumbs flying.

You: So was this the part where you show up or just leave me hanging?

You hit send. And immediately regret it.

It takes five minutes for the bubbles to appear.

Chris: fuck.

That’s all.

You scowl.

You: Oh my god.

A minute later, your phone rings.

You almost don’t pick up.

But you do.

“Hey.”

His voice is low, rougher than you remember.

“Hey,” you snap.

Silence.

“I’m… sorry.”

You snort. “You’re sorry?”

“Yeah. I… I forgot.”

Your mouth twists. “You forgot.”

He exhales, sounding wrecked. “Yeah. I don’t have an excuse. I just… lost track and I didn’t remember.”

Silence stretches.

You chew on the inside of your cheek.

“You do realize that’s actually worse, right?”

He groans softly on the other end of the line. “Yeah. I know. That’s on me.”

Your shoulders drop.

You didn’t want a fight. You just didn’t want to feel stupid sitting here alone.

“I cleared time for you,” you say quietly.

He’s quiet too.

“I know.”

Something about the way he says it makes your chest ache.

“I didn’t want to fuck it up,” he says finally.

You blink.

“Chris…”

“I know. Don’t say it. I’m an asshole. A coward. Whatever. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

You sigh. The coffee in front of you has gone cold.

“You did waste it,” you admit.

“I know.”

“But…”

You close your eyes.

“I forgive you.”

Silence.

He actually laughs—a short, disbelieving sound.

“Again?”

“Again,” you say. “But you’re running out of freebies.”

He hums, sounding a little relieved.

“I’ll pay you back for the coffee.”

“You will.”

“And I’ll actually show up next time.”

You let out a small laugh.

“You better.”

Another beat of silence.

“Hey,” he says, voice suddenly softer. “Thanks. For… not hanging up.”

Your chest twists.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

He lets out a breath.

“I’ll try not to.”

You hang up first.

You don’t finish your coffee.

But you do leave the shop smiling a little anyway.

Because you didn’t want to like him.

But it’s hard not to like someone who doesn’t know how to be good at this, but tries anyway.

Even if he’s late.

Even if he’s an idiot.

Because he said sorry, and you believed him.

Which is probably your biggest mistake yet.

You’re dating now.

It still feels weird to say out loud.

Not because it doesn’t fit, but because somehow it snuck up on you.

You can’t even say when it happened exactly. One minute you were teasing him about flaking on coffee, the next you were making out in his car, both of you too proud to admit you’d been waiting for it.

It’s not perfect. Nothing about Chris is perfect.

But it feels like it. He’s magnetic in a way you can’t describe. You don’t think you could stop liking him if you tried

—-- 1 month later —---

Sorry, work was crazy…

Tonight, it’s supposed to be your night.

You planned it.

A small, no-pressure dinner at your place. Just pasta, garlic bread, and that movie you keep saying he has to see because you love it and you want him to love it too.

You even clean your tiny apartment. Real cleaning, too, not just shoving socks under the bed.

You light a candle. One. You’re not that desperate…

You’re actually a little nervous.

Which is stupid. He’s seen you at your worst. (hair a mess, drunk at 2 AM crying)

But tonight feels like a test somehow.

And then he’s late.

You tell yourself it’s no big deal.

You know he’s busy. He works stupid hours. You knew that before you kissed him, before you let him press you against his stupid car door and promise to do better.

So you wait.

And wait.

You text.

No answer.

You end up sitting cross-legged on your couch, cold pasta in a pot on the stove, arms folded over your chest.

You’re not angry. Not yet.

You’re hurt.

Which is worse.

___________

When he finally knocks, you think about not opening the door.

You do it anyway.

He’s there, hands shoved into his jacket, eyes tired, hair a mess like he’s been running his hands through it all night.

He doesn’t look arrogant now.

He looks like someone who knows he fucked up.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You don’t move.

“Hi.”

He winces. “Can I come in?”

You hesitate.

Finally you step back.

He closes the door behind him carefully, like it might explode.

You don’t look at him.

“I’m sorry.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Yeah?”

“I am,” he says. He actually sounds wrecked. “I lost track of time. Work was crazy. I meant to text you, but—”

You hold up a hand.

“I don’t want excuses.”

He flinches.

You sigh, pressing your fingers to your eyes.

“Chris, I don’t care if you’re busy. Just tell me.”

“I know,” he mutters.

“Seriously,” you say, voice shaking a little. “Do you know what it feels like to be sitting here like an idiot? Stirring pasta for someone who’s not coming?”

He grimaces, biting his lip.

“I do now.”

Silence stretches.

You can hear the candle burning.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

He looks up sharply.

“Say you’re sorry.”

He doesn’t even hesitate this time.

“I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

Your chest tightens.

“Yeah.”

He steps forward cautiously, like he’s worried you’ll bolt.

“I don’t want to make you feel like that again.”

You sniff, blinking fast.

“You probably will,” you mutter.

He actually huffs a laugh.

“Yeah. I probably will.”

For a second neither of you says anything.

Then you let out a shaky breath.

“I saved you some pasta.”

He breaks.

Laughs, low and a little relieved.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get excited. It’s cold.”

He grins, eyes softening in that way that ruins you.

“Can I have some?”

You roll your eyes but turn to the stove.

He follows you, close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back.

When you set the pot on the counter, he slips his arms around your waist, pressing his forehead to your shoulder.

You stiffen for a second.

Then relax.

Because he’s warm. And he’s here.

And because even if he’s bad at this, he’s trying.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

You sigh.

“I know.”

He kisses the side of your neck.

“Still like me?”

You snort.

“Maybe.”

He chuckles, mouth brushing your skin.

“I’ll take that.”

Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that

He’s got one arm around you, phone abandoned on the coffee table. You’re telling him about your latest project for work—except you’re excited. Animated.

You don’t even realize you’re babbling until you hear the edge of your own voice.

“So anyway, if this client approves the new pitch, it means I could actually lead the whole campaign, which would be insane. Like, it’s not that big of a company, but still—”

You’re cut off by his laugh.

Not a mean laugh. Just dismissive.

“Babe,” he says, squeezing your arm. “You’re really geeking out about this.”

You go still.

Your face warms.

“I’m… what?”

He raises an eyebrow, still smiling, oblivious.

“You’re geeking out. It’s cute, don’t get me wrong. Just—I don’t know, you’re acting like it’s some world-changing thing.”

You pull away a little.

“Wow.”

His grin falters.

“What?”

You set your jaw, swallowing back the stupid sting in your chest.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Hey.” He sits up straighter. “What?”

You shake your head.

“It’s just funny, I guess.”

He frowns. “What’s funny?”

“That you think it’s cute. Me caring about my job.”

He blinks, mouth opening and closing.

“That’s not—Jesus. That’s not what I meant.”

“Really? Because it sounded like ‘Aw, look at you pretending to be important.’”

His face falls.

You hate the way your throat tightens.

“It’s not pretending,” you add quietly.

He scrubs a hand over his face.

“Fuck. Okay. Wait. Hold on.”

You stand up, pushing off the blanket.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m getting water,” you mutter.

“Please don’t walk away. Can you—just. Listen to me?”

You freeze halfway to the kitchen.

Your fingers curl against your palm.

“Fine,” you bite out, not turning around.

He gets up too, crossing the tiny space between you.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

He exhales sharply.

“Please.”

Slowly, you turn.

He looks miserable.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately.

You stare at him.

He lifts both hands, palms up, as if surrendering.

“I’m an asshole. I didn’t mean it like that. I was… fuck, I don’t know. Teasing? But it was stupid. And dismissive. And—just wrong.”

You cross your arms.

“It matters to me,” you say. Your voice cracks, which you hate.

He winces.

“I know.”

“It’s the one thing I’m proud of.”

He steps closer, carefully.

“I know,” he repeats, voice low.

He’s so close you can smell his cologne, can see the tiny scar on his eyebrow.

“I love that you care about it,” he says quietly. “That you’re… passionate. That you can talk about it for hours. It’s one of the reasons I fucking like you so much.”

Your breath catches.

He swallows hard.

“I’m sorry I made you feel stupid about it. That’s on me. It was careless.”

Silence stretches between you.

He waits.

And waits.

You sigh, deflating.

“You are an asshole,” you say.

He nods immediately.

“Certified.”

You try to glare at him. Fail.

Your mouth twitches instead.

He sees it.

“Forgive me?” he asks, voice small.

You roll your eyes.

“God, you’re pathetic.”

He grins.

You let your arms fall to your sides.

“Fine,” you mutter.

He steps in, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you flush against him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles against your hair.

You huff.

“I know.”

I’m Sorry I Didn’t Trust You

It’s one of those nights where you don’t expect anything to go wrong. That’s the worst part.

Because you’re actually happy when you get there—half-buzzed on cheap wine, buzzing from texts with Chris.

You’d invited him.

You told him about this gathering all week.

“Low-key,” you’d promised. Just friends from work and a couple of their partners. Nothing huge. Nothing to worry about…

He said he might come.

Didn’t promise, but you’d hoped.

So when he shows up halfway through the evening, you’re actually thrilled.

You spot him in the doorway, holding a six-pack, eyes scanning the room.

You wave.

You’re laughing when you do.

Because you’re in the middle of a story with Daniel—who’s literally your friend from work. Who’s engaged. Whose fiancé is in the kitchen.

Daniel had just made some dumb joke about your mutual boss’s hair transplant.

You’re giggling helplessly, cheeks flushed with cheap cabernet.

“Hey!” you call when Chris finally notices you. “You made it!”

But the second your eyes meet, you see it.

The way his jaw tightens.

The flash in his eyes.

Your heart sinks a little.

“Chris,” you say brightly, patting the couch cushion next to you. “Come sit—”

But he doesn’t.

He glances at Daniel. At your hand resting lightly on Daniel’s arm.

Your platonic friend.

And his face goes cold.

“Didn’t realize you were busy,” he says flatly.

You blink.

“Chris.”

Daniel gives a polite, awkward smile.

“Hey, man.”

Chris’s answering nod is so sharp it could cut glass.

You bristle.

“Sit down,” you try again.

“I’m good,” he mutters.

“Chris.”

He sets the six-pack down a little too hard on the coffee table.

“Didn’t know you had company.”

Your friend’s eyes widen.

You swallow.

“Daniel’s my friend,” you bite out.

Chris’s lip curls.

“Yeah. Looks real friendly.”

Silence slams into the room.

Daniel coughs.

“I’m gonna… refill my drink.” He escapes, shooting you an apologetic look.

You watch him go, then whip around to glare at Chris.

“Are you serious?”

Chris doesn’t back down.

“What? You two seemed cozy.”

You stand up so fast the blanket slides to the floor.

“Don’t you dare.”

He lifts his chin defiantly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t accuse me of… whatever that was.”

He folds his arms, eyes hard.

“You tell me. You were laughing, touching him—”

“He’s my friend. And he’s engaged!”

Chris’s jaw works.

You see it, the way he wants to back down. But he doesn’t.

“Didn’t look like you remembered that.”

Your mouth falls open.

“That’s low. Even for you.”

“Maybe don’t act like you’re single, then.”

The words are quiet.

Mean.

You flinch.

It’s like getting slapped.

People are staring.

You feel your face burn.

“Fuck you,” you hiss, voice shaking.

He blinks.

You don’t wait.

You shove past him and storm toward the door.

You hear him mutter something, but you’re already outside, cold night air hitting your face like a wall.

Your eyes sting.

You’re furious.

Humiliated.

Hurt.

You don’t even know where you’re going, just that you have to move.

You make it half a block before you hear footsteps behind you.

“Wait!”

You don’t stop.

“Wait. Please.”

He catches up, grabbing your arm.

You spin, shoving him away.

“Don’t touch me,” you spit.

He recoils, hands up.

“Okay. Okay.”

You glare at him, breathing hard.

He’s pale in the streetlight.

“Chris, what the fuck was that?”

He swallows hard.

“Please. I’m sorry.”

You laugh, bitter.

“Sorry? You just called me a fucking cheater in front of my friends.”

He winces.

“I know.”

“You embarrassed me. You made me feel like—like shit. For laughing with someone.”

“I know.”

Your voice cracks.

“Why would you even think that about me?”

His face crumples.

“Because I’m an insecure piece of shit.”

You blink.

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard.

“I saw you with him and I just—snapped. I was jealous. Fuck. I hate that I’m like this.”

You clench your jaw.

“You didn’t trust me.”

“I know.”

He sounds wrecked.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice cracking. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.”

Silence.

Your arms are wrapped tight around yourself.

You want to leave.

But you can’t.

Because he’s standing there looking like the ground just gave out beneath him.

“Look at me,” he pleads.

You do.

He steps closer, slowly.

“I trust you,” he says desperately. “I do. I just—sometimes I get scared I’m gonna lose you. And I don’t know how to deal with it.”

You swallow, throat raw.

“You can’t talk to me like that.”

“I know.”

“You can’t accuse me of shit because you’re scared.”

He nods rapidly.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll—I’ll work on it. I swear.”

You’re quiet for a long time.

He waits.

Finally you whisper, “Say it again.”

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I’m so sorry I didn’t trust you.”

Your eyes burn.

“I didn’t deserve that.”

He shakes his head.

“No. You didn’t.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t.”

“I won’t,” he repeats, voice breaking.

Silence.

You take a tiny step forward.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t touch you without permission.

Finally, you sigh and collapse against his chest.

He wraps his arms around you so tight you can barely breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair.

You close your eyes.

“I know,” you whisper back.

But you’re still angry.

I’m sorry I took it out on you

You know he’s had a long day.

You can tell from the moment you hear his keys hit the door.

It’s the way they don’t just jingle—they clatter.

You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, stirring something on the stove. The apartment smells like garlic and butter and the candle you lit an hour ago.

You want it to feel like home.

You want to be the good part of his day.

When the door swings open, you can hear him sigh.

Not relief, but exhaustion.

You peek over your shoulder.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just dumps his bag on the floor. Runs a hand over his face.

“Hi,” he mutters eventually, voice scratchy.

You swallow.

He looks… bad.

Hair a mess. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes shadowed.

But you don’t say that.

Instead, you smile gently.

“I made dinner.”

He snorts.

“Of course you did.”

You freeze.

The words are flat. Not grateful.

You stare at him, spoon paused over the pan.

“…Excuse me?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“Nothing.”

You set the spoon down carefully.

“No. Say it.”

He exhales, jaw clenching.

“Just—fuck. Can you not do this right now?”

Your stomach twists.

“Do what?”

He finally lifts his eyes to yours, and they’re sharp.

“This.” He gestures vaguely. “The whole perfect-girlfriend routine. Cooking. Candles. Acting like everything’s fucking fine.”

You go still.

Your throat tightens.

“I wasn’t… acting.”

He scoffs.

“Sure.”

Silence.

You can hear the pan sizzling.

Slowly, you turn off the burner.

You swallow hard.

“Okay.”

You walk past him toward the bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

You don’t answer.

“Where are you going?”

Your voice cracks.

“Anywhere you’re not.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

You don’t wait.

You shut the bedroom door behind you.

It’s not a slam.

But it’s final.

You sit on the edge of the bed, breathing hard, wiping at your eyes furiously.

You hate crying over this.

Over him.

You hear nothing for a while.

No footsteps.

No apology.

Just silence.

Your chest aches.

Of course. He won’t come.

He never—

The door creaks.

You look up sharply.

He’s standing there.

He doesn’t look angry now.

He looks wrecked.

His shoulders sag.

“Don’t,” you croak.

But he steps in anyway.

“Please.”

You turn your face away.

“Just—go away.”

He crosses the room in three strides.

He kneels in front of you, palms on your knees.

You try to shove him off.

He doesn’t let go.

“Look at me,” he says, voice raw.

You don’t.

“Please. Look at me.”

Slowly, shaking, you lift your eyes.

He’s pale.

Eyes glossy.

“Say it,” you whisper.

He swallows so hard you can hear it.

“I’m sorry.”

Your lip trembles.

He squeezes your knees gently.

“Say it better.”

He closes his eyes.

When he opens them, there’s nothing but desperation there.

“I’m sorry I took it out on you.”

Your breath catches.

He keeps going, voice cracking.

“I had a shit day. Everything went wrong. My boss was on my ass. I didn’t want to come home because I knew I’d just… ruin it. And I did.”

He lets out a choked laugh.

“I ruined it. Like I always fucking do.”

Your eyes burn.

He shakes his head, jaw clenched so tight you see the muscle twitch.

“You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.”

You sniff.

“No. I didn’t.”

He nods, tears welling.

“I know.”

Silence stretches between you.

Your hands are clenched in your lap.

Finally, carefully, he covers them with his.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean any of that. Not one word.”

You swallow.

“I just wanted you to be happy to see me,” you admit, voice tiny.

He breaks.

“Fuck,” he rasps.

He surges forward, arms wrapping around your waist, face pressing into your stomach.

You stay stiff for a moment.

Then your hands move.

They tangle in his hair.

He shudders.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your shirt. Over and over.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens.

“I know.”

He doesn’t move.

He holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

You stay like that for a long time.

Silent.

Breathing.

Trying to forgive him.

I’m sorry I shut you out

It starts small.

A text left on read.

No big deal. He’s busy.

You tell yourself that the first day.

By the second, your stomach’s twisting a little when you check your phone.

He’s not ignoring you exactly.

He answers.

Short.

Flat.

“How was work?” you ask.

“Fine.”

“Want to hang out tonight?”

“Can’t. Busy.”

No smiley faces. No jokes. No “I miss you.”

Just… silence.

You’re used to him being hot and cold.

But this feels different.

It feels like talking to a wall.

_____________

On the third day, you call him.

He doesn’t pick up.

You don’t cry.

Not yet.

Instead you show up at his door.

It’s late. You know he’s home because his lights are on.

You knock.

Nothing.

You knock again, harder.

Finally, the door creaks open.

He peers out, looking wrecked.

Eyes red-rimmed.

Like he hasn’t slept.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer.

Just steps back and lets you in.

The place is dark.

Messy.

You stand in the middle of his living room, arms folded tight over your chest.

“Chris.”

He sinks onto the couch.

Elbows on knees. Head in hands.

You wait.

He doesn’t look at you.

You swallow hard.

“Talk to me.”

Nothing.

Your voice cracks.

“Please talk to me.”

He drags his hands down his face.

“Don’t,” he mutters.

“Don’t what?”

He lifts his head finally.

Eyes glassy.

“Don’t try to fix me tonight. I can’t do it.”

Your heart lurches.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” you whisper.

He huffs a bitter laugh.

“Sure.”

You blink fast, willing tears not to fall.

“You’re shutting me out.”

He flinches.

“You know you are.”

Silence.

You step closer.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” you say carefully. “I just need you to let me in.”

He shakes his head.

“You don’t want in here,” he says, voice breaking.

You go very still.

“Try me.”

He swallows hard.

Then he breaks.

“I’m scared,” he rasps.

Your breath catches.

“Of what?”

He lets out a choked laugh.

“Of this. Of you. Of fucking it all up.”

You exhale slowly.

“Chris…”

He grips the back of his neck.

“I don’t know how to do this. Be good at this. Every time I think I am, I fuck it up. I say something shitty or push you away or… I don’t know.”

He wipes at his eyes roughly.

“I don’t want you to see me like this. Like some fucking mess.”

You move before he can stop you.

You sit beside him and pull his hands from his face.

He resists for a second.

Then gives up.

Your fingers wrap around his.

“Hey,” you whisper.

He won’t look at you.

You squeeze his hands tighter.

“Look at me.”

Finally, he does.

Broken.

You blink back tears.

“Do you think I’m here because you’re perfect?”

He huffs a miserable sound.

“Do you?” you demand.

He shakes his head.

“Then stop shutting me out,” you whisper fiercely.

Silence.

He breathes hard, chest rising and falling.

Finally, voice wrecked:

“I’m sorry.”

You squeeze his hands tighter.

“Say it better.”

He blinks, tears threatening to spill.

“I’m sorry I shut you out.”

Your throat tightens.

“I hate when you do that,” you whisper.

He nods rapidly.

“I know.”

You sniff, tears falling now.

“I don’t want to be on the outside.”

He swallows.

“You’re not.”

“It felt like it.”

“I know,” he chokes.

Silence.

You let go of his hands only to wrap your arms around his neck.

He freezes.

Then melts.

Buries his face in your shoulder.

Breathing ragged.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your hair.

You nod against him.

“I know.”

You feel his arms wrap tight around you.

Desperate.

Needing.

You hold him just as hard.

Neither of you says anything else.

But you both know this isn’t fixed.

Not really.

You’re just holding the pieces together.

I’m so sorry I wanted to hurt you

It starts over the dishes.

You can’t even believe it later.

But that’s all it is.

A sink full of plates and mugs and silverware that smell like old takeout.

You’re tired.

He’s tired.

You’ve both had long days.

You’re the one who says it first.

“Can you please help me clean up?”

Your voice is gentle. Careful.

But he’s sitting on the couch scrolling his phone.

He doesn’t even look up.

“Do it later.”

Your jaw tenses.

“I don’t want to do it later. It’ll be worse.”

He sighs—exaggerated, rolling his eyes.

“Jesus. It’s fucking dishes.”

You feel something snap.

“You said you’d help.”

“Yeah, well I’m tired,” he bites out.

“So am I,” you say, voice sharp.

He finally looks at you.

Eyes cold.

“Why are you always on my ass about this shit?”

Your mouth falls open.

“My ass? Chris, I just want you to keep one promise. Help with one thing.”

He snorts.

“Oh, one thing? Fucking hilarious.”

Your chest tightens.

“Don’t.”

But he’s not stopping.

He stands up.

“Here we go. The fucking lecture.”

You throw the dish towel down.

“Because you don’t listen!”

“Because you won’t shut the fuck up!”

Silence slams down.

You both freeze.

You blink rapidly.

Your lip trembles.

His chest heaves.

He doesn’t back down.

“Seriously,” he sneers. “It’s always something with you. Always needing me to do this, do that. You’re so fucking needy.”

You feel the tears immediately.

You try to swallow them back.

He sees.

He sees and he keeps going.

“God, it’s pathetic,” he spits.

You flinch.

He sees it.

He knows.

But he doesn’t stop.

“You act like I’d fucking fall apart without you. You think you’re so goddamn important.”

Your vision blurs.

“Stop,” you whisper.

But he’s shaking.

Voice rising.

“Maybe I’m sick of feeling like a fucking project you’re trying to fix. Like I’m some loser you can save.”

You gasp, choking on a sob.

He freezes.

It’s silent except for your breathing, ragged and wet.

You see his face crumple.

“Wait.”

You take a step back.

“Don’t.”

“Wait—fuck. Wait.”

Your voice cracks.

“Get out.”

He flinches.

You’re crying in earnest now.

“Get out. Get out get out get out—”

He doesn’t move.

He’s shaking too.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Get out!”

He drops to his knees.

Your eyes go wide.

He’s on the fucking floor, palms flat, head hanging.

“I didn’t mean it,” he sobs.

You hiccup.

He sounds broken.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes.

You try to back away, but he scrambles forward, grabbing your legs.

“Please.”

You push at his shoulders.

“Stop it—Chris—stop—”

He clings harder.

“I’m sorry. I wanted you to feel small because I felt small. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You can’t even see through your tears.

He’s crying too.

Loud. Ugly.

He presses his face to your stomach, sobbing.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your shirt. “I’m sorry I wanted to hurt you. I’m sorry I’m like this. I’m sorry.”

Your hands hover over his head.

Shaking.

You want to hit him.

You want to hold him.

You do neither.

You just stand there, crying, as he clings to you and begs like his life depends on it.

“Please,” he sobs. “Please don’t leave me.”

You close your eyes.

Your fingers twitch.

Finally, they sink into his hair.

He chokes on relief.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

I’m sorry I cant be better

It starts quiet. Too quiet.

He’s been different lately. Not in the way that used to scare you—the shouting, the biting sarcasm.

This time it’s worse. He doesn’t shout at all. He doesn’t say much of anything.

You catch him reading something on his phone in bed. He closes it before you can see. You spot the dog-eared therapy book on the table, spine cracked, pen tucked inside with notes you’re not allowed to read. He goes. Every week. He even tells you. But he never talks about it.

It’s like he’s built walls you’re not allowed behind.

You’re lying on the couch together. Except you’re not together. He’s at one end. Staring at the ceiling.

You finally can’t take it. Your voice cracks when you speak.

“Do you even want this anymore?”

His head turns slowly. Brow furrowed like you’re speaking another language.

You swallow hard. “This. Us. Because if you don’t, just tell me.”

He blinks. “You think I don’t want you?”

You huff, eyes stinging. “I don’t know what you want. You won’t let me in. You don’t laugh, you don’t fight, you don’t—”

You stop. Breathing hard.

He’s silent. Eyes flickering. Like he’s fighting with himself.

You watch his throat bob as he swallows.

“I’m trying,” he says finally.

Your chest squeezes. “I know.”

“But I’m… fuck.” He sits up. Rubs both hands over his face. “I’m scared if I don’t try I’ll hurt you. So I’m trying to… not feel anything.”

Your lip trembles. “Chris.”

He drops his hands. He looks so small. So young. So tired.

His voice breaks. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, blinking away tears. “That’s not enough anymore.”

He lets out a wet, hopeless laugh. “I know.”

Silence.

He sniffs hard. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be better.”

You exhale shakily. “Look at me.”

He does. Eyes red.

“You don’t have to be better. You just have to be here.”

He nods like he understands, but you see the fear in his eyes.

You crawl across the couch, pressing your forehead to his. He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t touch you.

He just breathes you in. Shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

You close your eyes. “I know.”

I’m so fucking sorry.

It’s late when he shows up. You’re already in pajamas, teeth brushed, trying not to cry. He’s been at “work” for hours later than he should be.

You open the door anyway. He’s standing there swaying, hair a mess, eyes red.

He reeks of cheap liquor.

“Hey,” he rasps.

You stare. Say nothing.

He runs a hand through his hair, looking everywhere but you. “Can I come in?”

Your throat works. “Why.”

He flinches at your voice. “Please.”

You don’t move. He steps forward anyway, close enough you can smell the sweat and alcohol. Close enough you see it on his face.

Something dead in his eyes.

Your voice cracks. “Chris. What did you do.”

He breaks. Shoulders shaking. He chokes on it. “I’m sorry.”

You feel the floor tilt. Your hands tremble. “Tell me.”

He shakes his head violently. “I can’t. Fuck—I can’t.”

“Tell me.”

He covers his face. Muffled: “I fucked up.”

Your stomach lurches. “Chris.”

Silence. He won’t look at you.

Your voice is a whisper. “Did you sleep with her?”

He makes this awful, broken noise in his throat.

You feel your heart stop.

“Answer me.”

He finally lifts his head. Eyes glassy, tears streaking down his cheeks. He nods once.

You can’t breathe.

He sobs. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, backing away like he’s poison. “Get out.”

He steps forward, desperate. “No—please—”

“Get out.”

He drops to his knees. Your vision blurs.

“Don’t do this,” he begs. Voice wrecked. “Please. I didn’t mean it. I was drunk—I was so fucking lonely—I didn’t want her I just—I just wanted to feel something.”

You cover your mouth with your hand. He claws at your leg.

“Please look at me.”

You can’t. You’re crying so hard you can’t see.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I’m sorry I did this. I’m sorry I broke us. I’m sorry I’m so fucking weak. I’m sorry I ruined everything good in my life.”

Your voice is raw. “You did. You ruined it.”

He chokes. “I know.”

“You ruined me.”

He collapses against your legs, face buried in your thigh, crying like a child. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You try to shove him off but he clings tighter. Begging. Mumbling.

“I’m sorry I broke us. I’m sorry I broke you. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to fix me.”

You finally wrench free. You stumble back, gasping. Sobbing.

“Get out,” you scream.

He flinches. Truly sobbing now.

“I love you,” he chokes.

Your heart splinters. “Get out,” you whisper, voice dead.

He stares at you like he’ll die if you say it again. But you just stand there shaking.

Finally he stands. Sways.

You watch him stagger to the door. He turns back one last time. Tears streaming. Voice shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

You slam the door in his face.

Then you sink to the floor and scream as hard as your lungs will allow you.

—- 1 month later —---

You sit at the edge of the couch, knees bouncing.

He’s across from you, elbows on his thighs, head bowed.

Silence.

Your throat is raw from crying for hours before he even got here.

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t dare.

Your voice cracks. “Say it.”

He flinches.

“Say what you did.”

He swallows hard. “...I cheated on you.”

Your eyes burn. Your nails bite into your palms. “Why.”

He chokes. “Because I’m fucking broken. Because I hated myself. Because I wanted to hurt me more than I hurt you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Congratulations,” you rasp. “You did.”

He sobs once. “I know.”

Silence.

Your voice is dead. “Why are you here.”

He finally lifts his head. Eyes ruined. “To tell you I’m sorry.”

You breathe. Shaky. He waits.

“You think that fixes it?”

He shakes his head violently. “No.”

Silence.

Your jaw trembles. “I hate you.”

He nods, tears falling. “I know.”

You sniff. Your voice breaks. “I don’t want to.”

That shatters him.

He cries for real. Ugly. Loud.

You lean forward, grabbing his shaking hands. He startles like he’s been burned.

“Look at me.”

He does.

Your voice is shredded. “I forgive you.”

He chokes on it. “No.”

“I forgive you,” you repeat, voice rising. Angry. Sobbing. “I forgive you, okay? I fucking forgive you.”

He sobs so hard he can’t breathe. Collapses forward onto your lap.

You card your fingers through his hair. Both of you crying.

But you whisper, so quiet he almost misses it: “But I don’t know if I can ever love you the same way.”

He clutches you harder. “I know,” he sobs. “I know. I’ll take anything. I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.”

>> continuation (sorry, tumblr only allows 1000 blocks per post and i'm trying this goofy ass writing style)

#sturniolo #the sturniolo triplets #sturniolo triplets #christopher sturniolo #chris sturniolo #sturniolo edit #sturniolo fluff #sturniolo smut #sturniolo fandom #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo tumblr #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo fanfic #chris fluff #chris x reader #chris sturniolo edit

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fullsunfilm · 25 days ago

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nct dream and how they love you ⋆.𐙚 ̊

7dream x gn!reader

ᢉ𐭩 no warnings, just a lot of fluff

mark

mark is the definition of a loverboy. he's sweet, patient, and loves you with his whole heart. there's an underlying current of trust and comfort when you're with him. despite his put-together demeanor, he's crazy about you on the inside.

he can't stop thinking about you. every melody he crafts, every lyric he messily scribbles onto his sheet music, and every thrum of the bass against his headphones are all for you. you ignite his passion for songwriting and are undoubtedly his muse.

there's a small part of him that is terrified of being over-consumed by you and your relationship, and an even larger part of him that's terrified of losing you. but that makes him blind to when he's losing himself. deep down, he knows that he'd risk it all if it meant he got to keep loving you.

renjun

you learn quickly that renjun isn't afraid of being affectionate, even if your friends are all gagging and whining at how touchy he is. his hands are constantly linked with yours, arms swinging forward and backward as you walk together.

but he's also cautious, constantly checking in and making sure to respect your boundaries. his steps closer to your heart are small and calculated. first, holding hands. second, hugs. then, kisses. he checks in before and after each of them. the words "is this okay?" leave his lips often.

there's nothing he loves more than seeing you smile. a true smile, not one you plaster on in an attempt to please a crowd. he learns how to discern them fast. he takes pride in it, in learning how to make you laugh until your stomach hurts or grin until your cheekbones are sore. you are one of the most important people in his life, and he wants nothing more than to make you happy.

jeno

jeno's love for you is quiet. he stands tall, happy to be a pillar for you to lean on as you move through your day-to-day life. on the outside, he doesn't say much, just offering hums of acknowledgement and gentle touches to you, but there's a sense of security each night you settle in bed next to him.

though the "i love you"s are on the scarcer side, he shows his love in more subtle ways. leaving a cup of your favorite coffee out in the morning, tucking you in when he notices you've kicked off the blanket in your sleep, and buying your favorite scented candles to light around the house.

he's practically made for comfort. on nights when you come home crying from work or school, his brain automatically starts spinning to find ways to ease you. he has all your favorite films, songs, and activities tucked away neatly in the library of his mind. some might say he's over-prepared, but he wants to be ready, so that when you need him, he's already there waiting with open arms.

haechan

his favorite activity is toying with you. he loves the push and pull you two have going on. there's something so enchanting about the banter you share with him, about the twinkles of mischief in your eyes as you quip comebacks at him. his favorite opponent in any game is you, because you're just so easy to tease.

paired with the chaos of your tom and jerry-like relationship comes the soft comfort of a big teddy bear. not a night goes by where haechan isn't tangled in your arms. he appears in your dreams, donning a bright, goofy smile. his warmth lulls you to sleep as he hums soft melodies. he stops only when your breathing evens and he's sure you've gone to sleep.

perhaps the thing you love most about him is his undying faith in you. wherever you go, no matter what endeavor you experience, he's not far behind. haechan is your number one cheerleader. his confidence in you is one that pushes you to be better, to strive for bigger goals, and become more confident.

jaemin

the ultimate house-husband, equipped with life skills such as cooking, cleaning, and dealing with three very pampered cats. although not explicitly mentioned, his pampering also extends to you. he loves giving you gifts and showering you with compliments. his schedule, although packed with responsibilities, always has room for you.

jaemin is completely enamored by you. he finds you to be the cutest being in the universe and he's not afraid to tell you that. he's completely smitten. without even realizing it, he's mentally planned out your lives together, categorizing expenses and resources for the both of you from each of his paychecks.

the most important message that jaemin craves to tell you every day is how much you should love yourself. he sees you as the light of his life, and he believes that you should see yourself from his eyes. that's why he loves taking photos of you and recording your memories. he wants you to have a gallery to look back on to see how you've grown and how beautiful you are.

chenle

before he was your lover, he was your best friend. maybe that's why there seems to be no petty arguments within your relationship. he wholeheartedly trusts you, and you reciprocate the trust completely. there's no jealousy or location stalking necessary. things that would normally destroy other couples seem absurd to the two of you.

wherever you go, chenle goes, too. he's practically your other half. you both come as a two-for-one deal. there's a mutual comfort that comes from just being around one another. without even saying anything, he can already tell what you need when you need it. chenle is undoubtedly your rock, even through the roughest of times.

he hates seeing you hurt. if he could, he would make all your problems disappear. his heart is constantly yelling for him to pay off your rent, to beat up the angry co-worker that made you cry, to make sure that nothing ails you. although he offers to, he understands why you deny him, and he instead helps you pick up the pieces and get back on your feet.

jisung

if there was one thing that surprised you the most about falling in love with jisung, it's that he is indeed a yapper. despite his timid, aloof demeanor in public, he's bright-eyed and lively when you're alone. although the difference is a bit jarring, you can't help but feel a strong tug at your heartstrings when you realize how comfortable he is around you.

he's curious about you. unlike other things, he feels like he'll never get tired of learning about you. sometimes, you feel like you're being studied by a mad scientist with how many questions he asks. from your opinion on aliens to your reasoning for the milk first vs cereal first debate, he wants to know you completely.

jisung doesn't offer much physical affection towards you. although he can't deny liking cuddles and shy hugs, his brain operates on the idea of "less is more". even out of his shell, he still likes to express affection on his own terms, which is why every hug or kiss feels like a milestone. every "i love you" is that much more important to him and to you.

#nct dream #nct #nct dream x reader #nct fluff #mark lee #mark lee x reader #renjun #renjun x reader #lee jeno #jeno x reader #haechan #haechan x reader #jaemin #jaemin x reader #chenle #chenle x reader #park jisung #park jisung x reader

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suiana · 10 months ago

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The death of an artist

he's always found you beautiful, even in your death and rebirth. you'll always be perfect to him. always

(yandere! musician x gn! reader) (cw: yandere stuff idk, im wiritng this while shitting i hope u enjoy my poopoo core, 2.04k words)

you might not have realised it but your silent admirer had always watched you.

he's watched you from the shadows, observing how you interact with others, how your eyes were once full of light and joy as you shared your paintings for the world to see.

it was beautiful.

you were beautiful.

he was but an aspiring musician back then. a couple of listeners here and there but never enough to fill up a concert hall. meanwhile you were a famous artist, with your paintings selling out for millions at all the art exhibitions you hosted.

you little admirer totally idolized you.

i mean, who wouldn't? all your paintings were so full of life, oh so meaningful, and most importantly, they were made with love.

love, love, love.

it was the one thing that made you stand out from all the hundreds and thousands of artists. the one thing that inspired him to even start writing songs.

your art made him feel loved. it made him feel wanted, even. he remembers how he'd get a fuzzy feeling from all your paintings, how it sent a delightful tingle up his spine as he takes in your carefully crafted masterpieces.

though there weren't any texts, all of your paintings spoke a thousand words. and they spoke to him.

with every new piece you put out, it was like he was getting to know you better. to know you on a personal level. it made his head spin and his heart leap in delight. after all, you were his idol. the one he admired so much that he began to pursue a music career dedicated to you. the career he once left behind in favour of living in this sad world.

though at one point in time, he hit a wall.

he couldn't get any ideas, no fresh inspiration for his music. the musician could only stare at his score as his mind desperately grasps at nothing. he felt like he was dying.

then you came through, like an angel of salvation.

well, looking back, you were more like a demon of salvation. especially because that one single text from you kick-started his disgusting love for you. it feels wrong to call you a demon though, not when you were so holy that he feels like touching you will corrupt your divine light.

he still remembers waking up and seeing your text on his instagram DMs. your bright red notification ping that gave him all the motivation he needed to think of a new idea.

'hey! just wanted to tell u i really enjoy ur music! cant wait to see u get famous >w<'

he swears he could die happy just seeing you message him. you messaged him. you know of his existence??? no fucking way bro. he still wonders if he used up all his luck when you messaged him so innocently that day.

of course... he responded and thus began a friendship (?) between the two of you.

friendship. yeah, maybe for you.

truth be told, he doesn't know if he ever saw you as a friend to begin with. he always thought you messaged him because you were interested in him too. whatever, these small details aren't important.

he released a love song not long after your first interaction with him. it instantly became a viral hit, taking his follower count from the thousands to the millions. he was glad it performed so well on the charts, they were his feelings to you after all.

the now famous musician had to thank you for getting him out of his rut. without you, he'd probably have gone back to doing medicine. so he did the best thing and that was to invite you out for a meal. he had to thank his muse, didn't he?

you were a little hesitant at first. that's okay, if anything he thought it was cute that you were suspicious of him. there will be plenty of time for you to warm up to him later.

the little get-together, or first date as he likes to call it, went well! you two saw each other in real life for the first time! and boy was he smitten. if he was unsure about whether he was in love with you before, he sure as hell was sure now.

you were so much more lovely in real life than you were over text. all smiles and laughs, your admirer feels that his songs didn't do you justice.

"this was fun! let's do this again!"

oh for sure he will do it again. he just wants you all to himself now. to keep you with him, a never-ending source of inspiration for the rest of his life. his beloved muse. the one he writes for. the one his songs are dedicated to. his.

so your falling off played out nicely in his favour. you were trying out an experimental style, said that he inspired you. it was one that not many would be able to understand at first glance, completely different from what your previous one was. your loyal fans stood by your side of course, him included. but the general public eventually started ignoring your newer pieces in favour for something they didn't need to use much thought to understand. for someone fresh, someone new.

he could see the way the light in your eyes slowly started to dim at the lack of interaction. sure, you said that fame wasn't important to you, that all you wanted was to showcase your art to the world.

but your little admirer could tell that it was bothering you more than you'd like to admit.

he saw the way your texts with him grew more erratic, the way the vibrant life in your eyes started to slowly dim, the way you started pushing out more works to compensate for the style change. you were desperate for the attention you once received. the way you changed in real time, becoming a slave to the consumers, like an animated robot that pushed out art just for the sake of it...

it was a little sad to see to be honest. it was like you were there, but you also weren't, you know? your name was on the artwork but he didn't see you in it.

but he was glad things turned out the way it did. it meant that he could be there for you when you cried and felt like a mistake. it meant that he could offer you a shoulder to cry on when the times were really bad.

"there there, it's alright. just let it all out."

his gentle caresses as you cried your heart out into his chest... it was delightful to see you depend on him so much. that you'd come seeking comfort from him in such a dark period of your life. he felt so wanted by you.

meanwhile, his fame was only growing larger by the day. while you were on a path to being forgotten, he was making a name for himself in the music industry. brand deals, billboards, advertisements. he was everywhere, like a ghost haunting you, to remind you that your friend was thriving while you weren't.

the musician wonders whether you've ever hated him. that you'd think he was stealing all of your fame. after all, your fame went down not long after you messaged him. he really wonders whether you've ever blamed him for making a change in your art style.

it doesn't matter now.

the artist in you was gone.

"hey, what if you make me an album cover?"

you only stared at him with dark eyes before looking away. everyone around you had slowly started distancing themselves from you. the change in your personality and looks had scared them. everyone but him had stayed. his words about horrid snakes deceiving you fill your head as you cling to the attention he gave you. who were you to deny your only friend left?

"sure."

you didn't give much thought when designing his new album. it was an avant garde album that had themes about desperation, love, and death.

how ironic, you thought.

you gave the complete piece to him a few days after, heavy bags under your eyes as your friend hugged and kissed your cheek. he's been taking care of you recently. having you move in with him, cooking you food and covering all of your expenses. he treated you like a lover. albeit you found it a bit weird that he told you not to leave without his consent. said that he didn't want people to harass you. you found it sweet of him. you were glad that he cared for you so much.

"my dear artist friend designed my new album cover, yes. i think they were a perfect fit to help design this particular album cover. they're..."

your fame immediately came back. interviews, likes, commissions, the things you were once familiar with came running back at full force after your friend's interview with a big channel.

you think if this happened earlier you'd have caved under the attention. the big spotlight, fans.... the attention will always be intoxicating. even now, you feel yourself smiling at the number of notifications you're receiving from strangers.

but you've realized that their attention is only temporary. the second you grow irrelevant they'll drop you again. just like they did before.

the only one who matters is your friend. the one who whispered sweet nothings and reassured you when you were drowning in a mass of nothingness. the one who gave you the attention you craved.

you immediately started a new piece in a new style.

'Intertwined'

a painting that gave you more fame than what you initially had before. it was a piece about self enlightenment, discovery, and contentment. and some claimed that it was the best painting that you've ever made. a masterpiece.

you showed your friend your work right after you were done and you could've sworn you saw a hint of shock in his eyes. maybe also fear? you don't know.

"this is... beautiful."

his words were slow, gaze intense as he stared at your painting for what felt like hours. you think he was mesmerized. you never asked him.

you made another painting after that.

'final duet'

again, people claimed that it was a masterpiece. your friend looked stunned again and he called it beautiful like always. he told you that he's never seen something so artistically perfect before and that he's proud of you. you like it. his compliments make you happy.

"this one is for you."

you made another piece. a simple painting of him in your style.

'untitled.jpg'

"is... it mine now?"

he proceeded to draw you into the painting as well after your words. you didn't understand what he was doing. but you found it cute. he was drawing you?

"there. now it's perfect."

he smiles down at you before pressing a kiss to your forehead like he always does. you've grown so used to his kisses that you were expecting one already. you lean into his touch before smiling softly.

"i'm so happy with you."

"me too."

the seed of life was sprouting once more, growing around the stem that it's learnt to grow dependent on.

he was everything to you. you feel like you'd die without him. but you know it'll never happen because your dearest friend will always remain by your side. he promised you. his words are like gold. he's the only one who matters.

you never want to be apart ever again.

thus you made your final masterpiece about love and dedication. a flower thriving in a dark environment and growing to love the dark, having died in the shining light once before.

'rebirth'

the blinds to the outside world shut on the two of you. no one else is important. he tells you he loves you. you repeat it. his hands wrap around you as you lean into his cold touch. you're cold too. you used to be warm once, he says he likes you cold better. shutting your eyes, all you focus on is the steady beating of his heart.

now no one will ever bother the two lovers ever again.

#yandere #tw yandere #yandere x reader #yandere drabbles #yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #yandere concepts #yandere musician #yandere musician x reader #gn reader #suiana rambling #suiana brainrotting

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