#this was my first time writing in public

[darkcademiasss]

Sentimental- @wolfstarmicrofic word count: 237 february 23

Remus knew sirius like the back of his hand, sometimes he wondered if he knew sirius more than he knew himself.

Therefore he knew when sirius looked at the rose in his hand and looked up at remus, he knew sirius was going to get sentimental .

Sirius crushed him, putting his arms around remus and hiding his face in Remus' neck. Remus could feel his breath hitch when he felt sirius nuzzle his nose on the crook of his neck.

"Sirius'' he lightly whispered trying to fight the blush that was rising on his cheek

"Padfoot come on" he repeated when there was no reply.

Sirius finally released him, remus immediately wanted to pull him in again and never let him go but he settled on fisting his hands.

" you got me flowers" sirius muttered.

Remus could see he was on the verge of crying and started to panic did he do something wrong? Does sirius not like flowers?

"I- I uh i'm sorry if you dont like them, I can take them back. I just thought you'd like it" he stuttered nervously, one hand scratching the back of his neck.

"No no dont you dare these are mine, I'll keep them forever" he declared blushing then looked nervous before adding " it's just that ive never gotten flowers before"

Remus promised himself there and then that he is going to give Sirius black flowers for the rest of his life

[lazylittledragon]

ok someone please correct me if i'm wrong but am i weird for thinking those 'audiobooks don't count as reading' posts are ableist as fuck????

[starbandit]

Backseat (Choi YeonJun)

Preview:  “So, uh..” He cleared his throat. “You wanna move this to the back seat?” He asked nervously.

Contains: bestfriend!yeonjun, unprotected sex, nipple play, semi-public sex, car sex, kinda confusing feelings, lots of making out  18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 

word count- 2.1k/unedited/cross-posted to ao3

“You ready for the most exciting night of your life?” You asked as soon as your passenger side door opened. Your best friend sat down, kicking the water bottle by his feet as he did. He had a mask pulled over his face, a hat tipped low. 

“How exciting are we talking? I didn’t bring a change of clothes with me.” He chuckled as he pulled the mask off and threw the hat on your dashboard. His hand came up to push his hair back before he looked over, flashing a smile that made your heart skip a beat. 

Choi Yeonjun. Your best friend since elementary school. The one who had transferred to your school from out of the country, the one who taught you Korean during recess, who you helped with English homework after school. When he moved back to Korea, you guys swapped addresses and emails and kept up with each other. He constantly told you about how training was going, about his debut date. 

Whenever they had concerts in your area, you were the first one to know. Yeonjun always spilled the beans and pulled some strings to get you there. You enjoyed spending time with the rest of the boys, but these moments alone with Yeonjun always meant the most. 

“Well it is close to midnight, so not too exciting.” You pulled out of your parking spot. “There’s a late night boba place close by, and maybe we can get some cheap burgers somewhere. Maybe get some gossip going in a parking lot somewhere.” 

“So thrilling.” He clicked his seatbelt. “How was the show?” 

“Amazing as always,” You turned to smile at him as you slowed to a stop at a red light. “The girls next to me kept talking about how hot you are. I wanted to tell them about the time you nearly shat yourself after we had bad sushi in LA.” 

“Hey! We promised to never bring that up!” He pointed at you. “You weren’t much better that night! You nearly threw up from laughing at me” He crossed his arms and pouted. 

Laughter erupted in the car, both of you arguing back and forth about who had it worse that night. Soon enough, your drinks and snacks had been collected and the two of you were off to find some kind of secluded parking lot. 

“Okay, give me some juicy gossip.” Yeonjun pushed his seat back and unbuckled his seat belt. He dug in the bag of cheap fast food and pulled out some fries. “What’s been going on since the last time we talked?” 

“Where do I even begin?” You took a sip of your boba and reached over to steal a fry from Yeonjun. 

The night began to fly by as the two of you laughed and dug deep into some serious topics. It wasn’t until a light silence fell over the two of you that you felt your heart begin to flutter again. You locked eyes with your best friend and suddenly the tension grew. His lips parted slightly and his tongue peeked out, wetting his lips. 

You wondered how they would feel. Pressed against your lips, parted against your throat in gasps and whimpers, how they would feel wrapped around your clit. How swollen and pouty they would get after kissing and biting. 

Before you knew it, you were leaning over to the passenger seat and Yeonjun was meeting you almost halfway. Your lips met and you couldn’t believe what was happening. His lips were soft, almost silky, and so plush. His hand came to rest on your waist, giving you some stability as you leaned over to him. He kissed you back with intense passion, his tongue slipping between your lips and into your mouth. 

You couldn’t help but gasp at the feeling, his tongue slowly moving with yours. He gently sucked on your lower lip and gave a tiny nibble as you pulled away. 

“So, uh..” He cleared his throat. “You wanna move this to the back seat?” He asked nervously. 

He couldn’t have asked sooner. The second those words left his mouth, you were crawling through the space between your two chairs and into the backseat, waiting for him to follow. He crawled back, laughing slightly as he tried to wiggle his legs through without falling on top of you. The second he fell into the seat next to you, you wiggled into his lap, straddling him. 

His hands came to rest on your waist again as you leaned down to kiss him. His lips met yours once again, this time a little harder. His hands gripped your sides as he feverishly kissed you back, both of your tongues fighting for spots in each others mouths. 

“Ah, fuck.” He pulled away, a string of saliva connecting your lips. A loud whimper escapes his lips as you grind your hips down on his. The growing bulge in his sweatpants sat perfectly on your heat, and you weren’t about to let that go to waste. Another gasp left his mouth as you dipped your head down to suck a mark on the side of his neck. 

You couldn’t help but lick a line from his exposed collarbone to the space under his ear, the salty sweat tickling your tongue. You could feel his pulse under your lips as you gently kisses the spot before sucking his skin into your mouth, gently nibbling as you left the red mark. 

“Fuck, Y/N.” His arms moved up your back and pulled you closer. You hummed lightly, pulling off the skin and giving it a light lick in an attempt to soothe the area. 

His lips captured yours again as soon as you pulled back, his hands moving to pull at your shirt. “Take it off,” He whispered against your lips. “Let me touch you, see you.” 

You pulled away to quickly take your top off and threw it into the front seat. Yeonjun immediately reached around to fiddle with your bra straps, undoing the clasp in a matter of seconds. The fabric slid down your arms and to the floor. 

You giggled slightly as you looked at Yeonjun. His eyes were focused on your chest, mouth slightly agape. His hands were trembling slightly as he sat back  and brought them up to your chest, slightly cupping your breasts. He slurped slightly as he closed his mouth, massaging your breasts. 

“Holy shit, they’re so perfect.” He whispered. His thumbs moved to flick your nipples and roll the soft buds. “Why have you been hiding these from me?” He looked up at you, moving closer to wrap his lips around one of the now hardened buds. 

Your eyes rolled back slightly at the feeling of his warm mouth around your nipple. The softness of his tongue caressing the sensitive skin sent waves through your stomach. You nearly lost it when you looked back down at him and he was watching your face with slightly hooded eyes. Your hand moved to pet the back of his hair, running your fingers through the soft locks as he stimulated your nipples. 

Yeonjun pulled away from your nipples, moving to kiss up your chest, leaning small hickies as he trailed up. His hand tangled in the back of your hair as he met your lips once more. You whimpered into his mouth when he pinched your nipple. Your hands searched for something to grab, settling on his still clothed shoulder. 

“Your turn,” You panted. “Take it off.” 

“Your wish is my command.” He smiled as he sat back, pulling the shirt off and over his head. He pushed his hair back, the strands falling back over his eyes. You ran your hands down his chest, feeling the muscles of his pecs under the soft skin. Your fingers ghosted over his nipples, a smirk painting your face as his chest shook with a sharp breath. 

It didn’t take long for Yeonjun to have you on your back, wedged between your legs in the cramped space. His fingers are making hasty work of the buttons on your jeans, finally pulling them off your legs in a few quick tugs. His hands traced up your thighs, feeling the soft flesh under his finger tips.

“Yeonjun, please.” You begged. “Need you, want you to fuck me.” 

He hummed in response, taking his bottom lip into his mouth as he pulled his sweatpants down to his thighs, cock falling free. “You want this?” He rubbed his cock over your clothed heat. “Tell me how bad you want this.” 

You groaned as he focused some attention on your clit. Even through the thin fabric, the feeling was incredible. “Please, I need you so bad.” You whined and pressed your hips up, pressing against him for some more friction. “I’m so wet for you, I don’t think I can wait any longer, Junnie.” 

It took half a second for Yeonjun to, quite literally, rip your underwear from your sticky heat. The now destroyed underwear flew under one of the seats as he tossed them away, leaning down to capture you in a kiss as he roughly pushed into you. 

A loud, guttural moan ripped it way out of your throat at the same time that Yeonjun let out a sigh. He pulled away from the kiss, opting to rest his forehead on yours to look in your eyes. He adjusted his hips slightly, the new angle caused his cock to rest in the perfect spot, making you involuntarily clench around him. 

“Let me know when I can move, ok?” 

You took a few deep breaths, adjusting to the unfamiliar feeling. Your best friends cock was nestled in you, in places you didn’t even know could be touched. You nodded your head, giving Yeonjun the ok to start moving. 

He rocked his hips forward, slowly at first, grinding against you in the most sinful way. You could feel your cheeks turning pink at the soft squelches coming from where you two met. 

“You’re so fucking wet.” Yeonjun grunted as he rolled his hips. “Just, slipping all over my cock.” His head dipped down to nip at your collarbone. You couldn’t help but turn your neck, giving him better access. “You’re soaking me, making a fucking mess.” 

You whimpered as he began to move faster. The waves of pleasure going through you made you believe you weren’t going to last long, Yeonjun was fucking you too good. He was hitting every spot perfectly, tiny grunts and sighs coming out of him as he worked towards his own orgasm. 

“Fuck, I want you to come first.” He slipped his hand between the two of you, fingers searching for your clit. You reached up, tangling your hand in the back of his hair and pulled him down. He met you with an open mouthed kiss, tongue licking into your mouth with urgency. Your teeth clashed a few times in the heated kiss but it only made you kiss him harder, messier. 

“A-ah,” Your voice wavered as Yeonjun made contact with the sensitive bundle of nerves. “Ah, fuck!” You groaned loudly, hands reaching to dig your fingers into his back, thighs, anything within reach. 

“There it is.” He smirked, sitting back up slightly to tower over you, still rubbing your clit. He rocked forward a little faster, matching his hand with his hips. “Gonna come for me, pretty? I wanna see what you look like when you come.”  

“Don’t stop.” Your entire body felt like it was on fire, your legs were trembling, hips pushing up for something, anything. Waves went through your body. You could feel your heart racing, the nervous ball in your stomach expanding. It wasn’t until Yeonjun took his free hand and pushed your legs back, holding them as close to your chest as he could, and gave another thrust that it all fell apart. 

The waves flew down your stomach and you could feel wetness dribbling. Your eyes rolled back as Yeonjun pushed you through your orgasm. The spasming muscles pushed him to his own orgasm and he hurriedly pulled out, finishing on your lower stomach. 

The two of you sat in silence as you both came down and tried to catch your breaths. Yeonjun reached over the seats to grab some discarded napkins and gently wiped you down, muttering small apologies as he wiped your most sensitive areas. After discarding the napkins and pulling his pants back up, he found his way on top of you again, this time in a gently crushing cuddle. 

“I’d say this was the most exciting night of my life, Y/N.”

[chiropteracupola]

"What Grows on the Oak," 2024.

it's the time of year, once more, for an original spooky story!

The oak trees lie across the hills like low smoke, soft and near, and the road dips down into the valley, as inviting as any road has ever been, but the girl on the bench of the buggy on the hilltop makes no move to follow it.

Rose looks out down the road and over the hills, and taps her fingers beside her on the bench. It’s a quiet enough afternoon that there’s little other sound but the high thin sound of insects, and the wind in the long grass, and Rose’s fingers, tapping. The horse, still in harness, looks up and flicks its ear, as if in protest at the sound, and Rose sighs and forces her hand still.

There is a girl in the nearest tree, Rose notices — the fact of it is idly categorized, without true interest. All the same, the light is catching in her hair, dashing shadows over her face as she sits draped across the curve of a branch, and Rose cannot look away from her.

The Fosters, at whose door Rose waits, have no daughter — no children but the one still-toddling son, who Rose remembers as a colicky, twitchy boy. Besides, this girl looks nothing like Mr Foster and his wife, for her hair stands out about her head like a bundle of mistletoe, pale as sun-worn wood. She is, perhaps, their hired girl. Rose is struck by envy, suddenly, that the Fosters’ hired girl had the time to shinny up a tree in the last light of evening, and still would be paid for her work…

Rose sighs, leaning her chin on her hand. Perhaps it is enough for her to be her father’s driver, and to have bed and board in his house — perhaps some day there will be money for school again, in San Francisco or even out east. And perhaps it is not enough, and perhaps there will not ever be.

“Hello, doctor’s driver,” says a voice at Rose’s elbow. Rose yelps in surprise, then turns. It is the girl with the mistletoe hair — dry moss hair — hair like a cloudy day in August.

“No, you’re his daughter, are you not?” asks the Fosters’ hired girl, and Rose nods. “Miss del Llano, that’d make you.”

“Just Rose, please.” She’ll be Miss some other day — not now, in her too-short skirts and with her plait hanging over her shoulder.

“May I come up?” asks the girl.

“Surely,” says Rose, and the girl has swung herself into Rose’s father’s accustomed seat in a fluttering of pale skirts.

“Your father is the doctor — what does he do here? “He is a leech, then? A bloodletter?”

“Don’t be silly, he’s not medieval!”

“Hm-mm, I shall believe you when you prove it me,” says the girl, laughing, and leans her chin on her hand to make herself Rose’s mirror. Side by side they sit for a while, and the dark gathers in across the hills until oaks and grassland alike are made one mass of shadow. Somewhere in the trees beyond the road, a horned owl utters its deep, melancholy cry out into the dusk.

“If ghosts had telephones, I should think they’d sound rather like that,” says Rose, the early chill of after-sunset driving her quite easily to a morbid sort of cheer.

“How the times change,” says the girl, with an odd, but not entirely unhappy, look in her eyes. “No, my dear; ghosts use the same telephones as you and I, as you well know.” Rose does not know, well or otherwise, much at all about ghosts, so she nods, and feels a little more of the girl’s weight settle on her shoulder.

“You have very cold hands,” says Rose, and the girl from the oak tree smiles and taps at Rose’s cheek with clammy fingers.

“I always have, I’m afraid.”

“It’s no bother, really.” And so they sit and watch the sky, the falling-dusk and the distant fog that creeps over the hills, until there’s light, sharp as a door opening.

Rose turns, and it is only Dr del Llano, leaving his patient with his hat in his hand. She turns back, and the Fosters’ hired girl is gone.

“How is Mrs. Foster,” Rose asks, without any particular feeling in her voice, and her father shakes his head in reply. But the road down into the valley, where lies the town, is before them, and Rose is pleased enough at the journeying that she asks no further questions.

It’s in the hills and on the road that Rose meets, again, with the oak tree girl, the mistletoe girl, the girl with hands like marble in the shade. Once again, Rose is waiting for her father while he attends a patient, and, lazing in the sun, Rose has pushed the sleeves of her shirtwaist up to her elbows.

And then the girl is there again, with her shock of cobweb hair moving, ever so faintly, in a breeze that doesn’t seem to reach as far as the buggy-seat.

“Hello, my pretty-lovely,” says the girl, putting her hand out to the horse still in its traces. Though usually affectionate, the horse puts back its ears and pulls its head away.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” says Rose, half-laughing. “Save your sweet words for someone who wants them, all the same.”

“Has she a name, then?”

“Other than Morgan, for what she is? Not at all,” Rose replies. Neither she nor her father have ever thought of one, for all that they’re fond of the hardworking little mare. “And have you a name, then?” For she’s remembered, now, that her oak-tree girl had never told her of it.

“I’m called Saro,” says the girl, and again swings herself up beside Rose. “What does your father do here, my Rose?”

“Oh, I oughtn’t say,” and Saro looks back at her with a stare of please? and Rose laughs and says anyway. She shouldn’t gossip, but she leans in close anyway, and whispers that “Old Man Lucas has got the clap, and him a widower these ten years!” Saro’s mouth twitches at the corners — she can’t hide her laugh for long, and it bursts, bright, out from her.

“I shall tell, I shall tell!” says she, and Rose coughs on her own laugh with a still-merry “Don’t!”

“You’ll have to catch me and make me, first!” and Saro leaps down from the buggy and runs, her skirts, her hair a flash of white in the golden-dry grass. And Rose, her spirits raised beyond what a grown girl such as herself should permit, follows. She’s less fleet-footed than Saro, earthbound still, stumbling on furrows in the land, catching her heels in ground-squirrel burrows.

Saro, she’s sure, is holding back for her benefit — letting herself be caught. And Rose does catch her, knocking her off her feet and into the grass. Saro’s laughing-merry still, her hair stuck full of grass-seed and foxtails. Close-to, Rose can see the freckles that dapple her cheeks and nose, the squint of her dark eyes when she smiles. Saro flicks Rose’s cheek, the snap of her fingers like a prickle of frost, and Rose lies there in the dusty field, entirely lost.

But Saro’s on her feet again before Rose can blink, before Rose can reach out to her, and Rose is standing, blinking in the sunlight, stumbling back to the buggy as she dusts bits of dry grass from her skirt. She buttons the sleeves of her shirtwaist again, the cuffs of which don’t quite come to her wrists anymore, and laughs when her father hands her up into her seat like a lady.

“The best whip I ever had,” he says, perfectly straight-faced.

“Gee-up!” says Rose, holding the reins in one hand and imagining herself perched atop a stagecoach. But even for all her imaginings, she’s as good a driver as her father says, and draws the horse into a gentle trot to see them home. It’s hill and dale down into the valley, hill and dale again like a song, and in the inner slopes lie trees in amid the dust-golden grasses of summer. Beneath the sparse, spreading branches, it is suddenly cooler, then warmer again, as the horse steps evenly onward and back into the sun.

“That’s mistletoe, you know,” says Dr del Llano, as he’s said a thousand times before, and points up at the gray-green mass that clings among the summer-sparse branches of an oak.

“Isn’t that for Christmastime?” asks Rose.

“It’s an odd thing we bring it in for the Nativity,” muses her father, still looking back at the tree as they pass it by. “Poison, that — and it chokes the life out of the oak tree, too. Not a kindly thing, mistletoe, but we hang it up with the flor de Nochebuena all the same…”

He doesn’t speak after that, but sings instead, an out-of-season hymn of sons newborn and deaths already foretold. If the verse telling of tombs ought to be grim, Dr del Llano doesn’t make it so, and so the story of gloom and gravity is nothing but a blithe eventuality, predicted all light-hearted by a man very certain of the truth of it.

Mrs. Foster dies soon after. Rose sits in the church as the priest says the first of the masses for her, the first of seven that her widower has paid for. She waits at the door while her father makes conversation — how she wishes he would hurry up! But the doctor in his black coat and the priest in his cassock are two crows alike, and so she is there in the doorway until her father says ‘good-by, Padre’ and comes to join her. Rose hardly has the time to shut her hymnal closed over the catalog tucked inside before he bustles past her, eager now to be on his way.

“Damned quiet place now that the mine’s shut up,” he says on the walk home, and Rose nods, though she does not remember the mine-town as her father does. She knows that there is no more coal to be had here and no more sand, and that with the mine has gone much of her father’s custom. Without black-lung and burns and broken bones, there is far less for a doctor to do in these hills.

But there is no other doctor than Juan Soto del Llano, with his limping step and his rosary about his neck and his rattletrap of a horse-drawn buggy with his only daughter to drive it, so he goes on as he has, and mends up broken bones and offers fever-cures to farmers and their wives, and to the valley townsfolk nearer home.

Henry Freeman is twenty-two, the bright young son of a new-money farmer. He is sickening for something, he is grey-faced and cold and his eyes do not focus.

Dr del Llano is at his door with hat in hand — money passes from the elder Mr. Freeman’s worn hand into his, and the doctor closes the older man’s hand over the coins. Out on the bench of the buggy, Rose scoffs and shakes her head. The fog-touched night is cold even through her coat, and she shivers involuntarily.

“He oughn’t to do such things,” she says, to no one but herself. But all the same, Rose turns her head, and Saro is there beside her, smiling.

“What oughtn’t he do?” asks Saro, with the questioning merriment in her voice that Rose has come to like so well.

“He doesn’t ask for payment, when it’s hill sickness,” and, seeing Saro’s quirk of the mouth, the way the question lurks in her well-dark eyes, Rose continues. “Father doesn’t know what it is, still, and he can’t mend it. It cannot be consumption, for it doesn’t settle in the lungs, but all the same — it is as if something is drawing out the life from them, every one.”

“So your Henry Freeman shall die, then,” says Saro, blunt.

“Don’t—“ says Rose, and stops, cold. “Who are you?” she asks, and looks Saro in the eyes, the brown of them so dark that Rose can barely find her own reflection. And the girl with the mistletoe hair reaches out, and pulls her hand across the golden curve of the hill as if she is stroking the grass that lies like dry cowhide on the ground.

“You know my name, doctor’s daughter, is that not enough?”

“Saro—“ Footsteps, and Rose’s head turns without her willing it. Doctor del Llano still has his sleeves rolled up, the edges wet from scrubbing. He doesn’t let them down again as he drags on his coat, hauling himself up to the buggy-seat as if held down by a great weight.

“Father—“ says Rose, and looks to Saro beside her, but even as she turns back, Saro is gone again.

“I’ll not talk of it,” he says, and hauls his bag into the buggy. It might well weigh as much as all the world. Rose huffs, and pulls her arms against her chest, and sets them on the road again.

And so it goes, over and over again — the Misses Hayward, unmarried, a few years older than Rose herself — Martin Foster, only three — the widow Ruiz, whose husband died down the mine before Rose was born. All of them greying, cold, dying quick. There is sickness in the hills, and it is sickness that the doctor cannot cure, and Rose — Rose finds that she barely cares. She stands in the church, once more, at Lillie Hayward’s funeral, and cannot look at the coffin, but only turns her head to search for wild light hair among the townsfolk in the pews.

But Saro doesn’t come to town; that’s not the place for her, Rose knows. How could she stay anywhere else but where the wind drags the points of oak leaves down the sky, where the tall grass parts under her hands like water?

So life goes on as it did before — the spiders building their webs across the age-grey clapboards of the doctor’s house by the old mine, the oak leaves stuck by their prickling edges to the drying wash, Rose’s father singing softly in his parents’ Spanish as he stocks his black bag at his desk in the front-room.

Rose leans against the desk, chipping at the varnish with her fingernails. In concession to the afternoon heat, the eastward window is flung open, and the thinnest breeze flicks at the pages of the last Sears catalog laid idly within her reach. She has begun to resent the sun — she closes her eyes, hunting darkness for darkness’s sake, and thinks of Saro in her white skirts, standing candle-slender in the dusk between the hills, Saro’s hands that are always cold, pressed softly against Rose’s face, her neck, her chest.

Telephone, its jangling sound sharp in the late-summer quiet — her father’s soft noises of questioning and assent — the practiced movements of putting harness to the horse. But for all that the interruption is sharp, there’s a pleased rise in Rose’s heart nonetheless, for if she is lucky, she will see Saro on the road.

She reins in the horse when her father tells her so, and hands him his bag as he jumps from the buggy — once he’s gone, Rose allows herself a secret smile. It’s early in the evening now, with the light all golden, her father’s horse with its dark mane a-gleaming in the last of the sun. Rose has a flask of coffee with her, brewed black as her father’s coat. She drinks most of it, hot and bitter, never mind that it had been meant to be shared. It doesn’t keep her awake — she drowses, head on her arms, and feels a breeze like soft hands stroke along her neck.

Today she has a headache. Her face is hot, even with her collar unbuttoned and her hat laid aside in her father’s seat. The day is warm, and the air tastes of dust, hot and dry in Rose’s throat. Saro’s hand on her cheek is as sweet and cold as anything Rose has ever snuck from the ice-house. Saro’s mouth against her neck is a cool draught.

“My dear sweet Rose,” says Saro, quiet, with only the barest hint of her usual merriment. “You’ve been ever so patient, even while I took my time with others.”

“Mm,” says Rose, and lets the weight of her body press up against Saro’s cold frame. Perhaps — perhaps that cold could leach the heavy heat from her head, the feverish blur from her eyes.

Saro’s fingers are at the buttons of Rose’s shirtwaist, now, the full breadth of her hand an ice-print on Rose’s chest. Saro from the oak tree, Saro with her hair like mistletoe. The hills rise golden around them, the wind rushing in Rose’s ears without touching her skin.

“May I?”

“Please,” says Rose, at the last, and lets Saro draw away the last of her living warmth.

[cecropiacrown]

May I Have This Dance?

When Feng Xin offers his hand out to Mu Qing, as if to ask him for a dance, the two generals of the South can feel the eyes on them. 

There are poorly concealed snickers and not so hushed whispers as those around them make bets on who will win the impending fight. They think it's a joke; of course they do. Just something General Nan Yang is doing to goad General Xuan Zhen into anger.

But much more is going on than meets the eye.

Mu Qing's heart hammers so loudly in his chest, he wonders if Feng Xin can hear it through their private communication array, which they both still lurk in. 

He was his normal cool and collected self when they had planned this, but Mu Qing's nerves have caught up with him now that they're finally following through.

Feng Xin had asked for permission to do this because of course he did, and when Mu Qing said yes, the two still waffled back and forth on how exactly they wanted it to go. Ultimately, Mu Qing gave Feng Xin permission to ask and here they are now, on display in front of everyone they know, about to do something no one will expect.

With as much nonchalance as he can muster, Mu Qing places his hand in Feng Xin's and lets himself be pulled to his feet and led to the dance floor.

The hushed murmur of the crowd has stilled and an air of confusion settles in around them. Mu Qing's hand is trembling, but the only one close enough to see that is Feng Xin, who gives him a reassuring squeeze and the most loving smile as his voice rings clear in Mu Qing's head.

“I have you, Mu Qing.”

Mu Qing returns the smile a bit nervously and responds in kind, “I know, Feng Xin. But everyone is staring.”

“Let them stare. Focus on me.”

And suddenly they're on the dance floor and everyone waits with bated breath, most of them certain this is an elaborate ploy on Mu Qing's end; something he's doing to catch his rival by surprise. Surely the fighting will break out soon, will it not?

But then General Nan Yang’s free hand finds its way to General Xuan Zhen’s waist and it all falls into place from there.

Their hands haven't parted since Mu Qing accepted the dance and they stay connected still as Feng Xin leads them into rhythm with the music. 

Mu Qing is quite a skilled dancer and Feng Xin isn't too bad himself, which makes sense, since Mu Qing was the one who taught him.

Still, Feng Xin trips over his feet just a little from the nerves he undoubtedly has and Mu Qing laughs. It's bright and unhindered and so very genuine. His eyes crinkle with the motion and suddenly he doesn't remember that everyone is staring. All he remembers are the many nights spent teaching Feng Xin how to step in time with the music and where to hold at Mu Qing's waist and then he's thinking of all the times they've kissed and then he can't help it--his entire heart is there in the smile he gives Feng Xin.

It doesn't matter that others are around because the grin on his face is for Feng Xin only, and any bystander can see that clear as day. 

Mu Qing lets his eyes close and presses his forehead to Feng Xin's and Feng Xin takes what he can get and pulls Mu Qing even closer. He doesn't need to open his eyes to know Feng Xin is smiling back at him. He feels the love radiate like the sun and he knows his face is flushed, but it feels so good he can't find it in himself to be embarrassed.

It's a bit dramatic and over the top to announce their relationship to all of heaven this way but, it suits them, doesn't it? And, truthfully, Mu Qing wouldn't have it any other way.

[isfjmel-phleg]

I want the sheer chutzpah of my friend's husband, who, despite admittedly having never paid attention in English classes, has decided to write a Tom Clancy ripoff -style novel, has 41,000 words, and expects to complete it at 100,000 by April and seek publication.

[watchyourbuck]

★ Wip Wednesday ★

tagged by the marvelous @theotherbuckley @daffi-990 @wikiangela @thewolvesof1998 @disasterbuckdiaz @forthewolves @fionaswhvre @try-set-me-on-fire @eddiediaztho @eddiebabygirldiaz & @jamespearce9-1-1 I appreciate you all so much💗✨

Buck’s uncomfortable. He’s smiling out of courtesy, and following the conversation, but he’s uneasy. Eddie knows him well enough to notice. He’s doing that thing he does where he desperately tries to sway the conversation a different way. As always, he accompanies it with timid eye contact and a lot of hand gestures. Buck’s looking around for Eddie, so Eddie walks towards him. A long time ago, surrounded by a fence, he promised to Buck he’d never be confrontational again. He’s kept his word. It doesn’t mean he won’t step in if he has to. The man has him cornered. He has one hand on Buck’s upper arm and the other wrapped around a tall glass of champagne. He’s leaning way too close, his breath probably lingering on the tip of Buck’s nose. “Is there a problem here?” Buck’s eyes widen when he sees him. He’s surprised, but Eddie swears he sees them whisper ‘thank god.’ The stranger half-glances at him from over his shoulder, flicking the wrist he’s using to hold the glass dismissively. “Back off,” he says, with a hint of ownership that doesn’t sit quite right with Eddie. He clenches his jaw before speaking. “I’d love to, but that’s my husband you’re harassing.”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Tags!! @eowon @hippolotamus @lover-of-mine @wildlife4life @buckleyobsessed @evanbegins @mattsire @eddie---diaz @giddyupbuck @cowboydiazes @princessfbi @911-on-abc @butraura @buttercupbuck @housewifebuck @honestlydarkprincess @bucksbirthmark @firemedicdiaz and anyone else who’s interested!

[bibliosims]

bonus kalei pics

[mist-the-wannabe-linguist]

Once again it had to be Salientes to bring them back to reality, urging them to get back to the covert. While patient, the courier was visibly growing anxious the longer they stayed out in the cold, his large ears swiveling around and wings visibly itching to take off. "Do you think you can fly, Agrippa?" he said, stepping closer to help her stand if needed. Agrippa slowly lifted herself up and made a few testing flaps, which looked more like barely controlled muscle spasms than intentional wingbeats. She looked so pitiful, Lucien wished she were still the cat-sized hatchling he could take under his coat and bring her home on his own. Yet, she nodded with as much confidence as she could muster. "Alright, alright... Salientes, would you allow me to take your harness, please-" The dark dragon threw his head back and bared his teeth. "What? No, you cannot use my harness on Agrippa, it is not fitted for her! You are flying with me." No, Lucien had to fly with Agrippa. He refused to be parted from her any longer, not even by a wingspan's distance. He reached out for the large buckle on Salientes' neck, but the dragon backed up and brought one front foot down in a hard stomp. "No, Lucien. I understand how you feel, but this would be terribly unsafe. You are flying with me and that is final." Lucien was about to protest, but Agrippa did not give the chance. "It's alright." This was the first time she spoke since they found her, barely a whisper, as if her vocal cords were pinched by the cold. Lucien's shoulders fell in defeat and he turned back to climb in Salientes' saddle.

yay! color palettes!

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

The whole discourse about the privacy/secrecy/support thing has been sitting with me for a few days (I mean other than it always does to a certain degree) thanks to all the excellent discussion happening and I know I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said a million times before, but I think what we're seeing and what we're going to learn (e.g. from TTPD) is that it wasn't just the support issue, but how it was shown/handled.

We've all gone out of our way to show that introversion =/= lack of support. Someone can be shy, reserved, etc. and still show up for their partner, whether in public or at home. To chalk any of the differences up to the clash between introversion and extroversion is unfair to folks who count themselves among either tbh.

@thisisctrying said something the other day that hit the nail on the head about how if that support had been offered in private, there very well may not have been a Joever to begin with, or at least not at this point in time. (Sorry for loosely paraphrasing, and for namedropping you! Long time listener, first time poster.)

If this were a case where the "shy" partner said, "I am really uncomfortable with the spotlight personally and do not want to court it, but I will support you in your ambitions and offer you whatever you need to make them happen and make the glare bearable," I suspect that would have gone a long way to making Taylor feel seen and comfortable in pursuing her goals in the way that she now has. Again, that might have been more akin to the balance that seemed to have been struck around 2019 from what we can see, but even speaking in a general sense, there are lots of couples out there, celebrity or not, that have similar approaches where there are highly driven people and busy careers involved.

(A famous example being Dolly Parton's marriage. Tbh I know next to nothing about her and Carl, but she's always heralded as an example in this regard, because her husband is famously uncomfortable with the spotlight and hasn't accompanied her to public events in decades, but she's said that she never minded that because that was always work to her, and what was important was that he supported her in pursuing all her career goals and basically ensured she had a place to call home to return to at the end of the day.)

We're kind of in a brave new world with her current relationship because it felt like, at least at the start, we were maybe watching her figure out her boundaries in real time as to what she was comfortable with or not and adjust accordingly. Like so many have said, I fully believe the extreme privacy thing was initially driven by herself and her experiences in 2016, and she needed that quiet time to recover from all of the things and figure out how to exist in the world again.

Stating the obvious, it seemed like eventually privacy was equated with secrecy, turning the relationship and the celebrity into the elephant in the room and something to never be spoken of to the outside world. People are free to choose whatever works best for themselves and their relationships, and for some the separate public lives might work, but the “kept me like a secret but I kept you like an oath” theme is all over her work and it’s clear that it’s a sore spot for her, because she’s been made to feel shame just for the life she leads so many times in the past.

What I’m trying to say is that it’s pretty obvious something Not Great was happening behind the scenes, which didn’t just amount to “she wanted to be a public celebrity and he wanted to be a private hermit.” (Also, in case anyone forgot, this is a person who also chose a public-facing career who also has to engage in press for it, but I digress.) As her career reached new heights post-folklore, if she had the support at home to do all the things without judgment and with encouragement, and in turn offer the same support to her partner, she may have very well lived just fine with that, not unlike Dolly Parton’s case.

By reading between the lines in all the press since, as well as comments on tour and general ~vibes~ with TTPD teasers, it seems like one of the issues was that that was likely not the case. There was all the stuff that we saw — the reticence to acknowledge each other in the media (particularly on one side), the lack of public support even at events at which they were both in attendance for their respective jobs, the great lengths they went to not to be photographed together at events they attended yet no problem taking pictures with other friends and coworkers, the jobs that separated them, the withdrawing from the public even for work accomplishments, etc. Which could all be manageable if a couple chooses to do so together and are not inherently a sign of trouble in themselves.

But what we’re seeing now I think is a reflection of the things we weren’t seeing then, and it seems to indicate some very deep hurt. (I know, call me Captain Obvious.) And like so many have been saying, it feels likely that that part of that hurt is rooted in that very lack of private support where a person would expect it from their partner. Obviously as a Taylor fan blog I’m going to be more inclined to understand her side of a story, but tbh, it’s also because… this is sooooooo common, and something I’ve experienced in my friend group. (@taylortruther is right when she says most breakups are the same one way or another lol.)

One partner is resentful of the other’s success, or resentful that the other’s priorities begin to evolve as new experiences unlock new goals, or feels the other’s ambitions are not worthy of pursuit, and coupled with perhaps their own struggles in the same domain, it’s easy to see where that can chip away at the other partner’s morale and faith in the relationship. I know I’m just speculating here, but I also don’t think it’s totally unfounded. (Again, because a) I’m picking up what she’s putting down and b) it happens to sooooooo many women even among us dull normals.)

With all the pointed mentions about how much Taylor feels supported in her current relationship and how she in turn loves to offer the same show of support to not only her partner but other loved ones, how she’s stepped out more in the last year to a whole host of events, how she’s mentioned feeling like she locked herself away for years and she’s just proud of her partner and happy she can show up for him even if the chaos around it is unsettling, it paints a picture of what perhaps was happening before last year.

To feel like you’re all alone in carrying the weight of the relationship (or burden of it), of twisting yourself into knots to accommodate the other person’s boundaries (or insecurities) but not feeling reciprocity for your own has to be so painful. (The idea that it may have been even darker and to have a partner not only be unreceptive to your own needs but even perhaps resentful/dismissive/belittling of them is even more painful to think of. I guess we’ll find out when TTPD comes out if that was the case, too.)

At a certain point, that lack of acknowledgement will force your hand to be able to reclaim yourself. And it feels like the further removed Taylor in particular is from it, the more she moves from being sad about the life she felt she gave up by leaving, to angry at the life she felt she was giving up by staying. Especially being in a relationship now where it seems like everything comes much easier, where she can be open about the person she’s with and show up for them, all the stuff that seemed as challenging as climbing Mount Everest in her past is nothing more than a molehill at best in her current life.

TL;DR: I don’t think it’s privacy that inherently spells doom for a celebrity relationship like this; it’s the mutual support and respect that does. If Taylor had felt that in the later years of her previous relationship, I think we could be seeing a different, though not necessarily unfulfilled, person right now in 2024, who’d be happy on tour but whose personal life would look a little different. But it seems like by losing that support she lost parts of herself, and we’ve seen her reclaim that in spades in the last year, and perhaps to degrees she didn’t even realize she could from before all the Bad Stuff started happening in her young adulthood.

I know this was extremely long-winded and unnecessary, especially about total strangers we only know through scraps fed through the media, but I just always bristle at this idea that issues like these boil down to “personality differences,” as though one person wants to live in a city and the other on a remote island, or some shit like that. The whole support (and gender tbh) issue is one that’s just very close to my heart because again, I have seen it play out with so many of my friends in long term relationships and marriages and I just think people in relationships (and women in particular in some circles) deserve better than to feel like they’re being, well, tolerated.

[icewindandboringhorror]

boy in silly sitting positions compilation

[jessamine-rose]

*lovingly tackles Aine*

Read my Yandere! Pierro longfics first ♪( ´▽｀)

Last week, my beloved mutual @ainescribe surprised me with Savior! Darling fan art and AHAI9232@2-!/! CRYING SCREAMING I WANT TO LOOK AT THIS ART AND WORSHIP YOUR VERSION OF SAVIOR THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BLESSING ME WITH YOUR ART—

*clears throat* Anyway, now that I finally have the time to properly sit down and comment on the fan art, I’ll do just that. Feedback will be in the tags and it will be unhinged. Once again, thank you so much to Aine for drawing this <3

[holocene-sims]

next // previous

august 19, 2021 12:15 a.m. star noraebang

song in queue: man & woman - kim bum soo w/ park sun joo ✨

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

~ inseparable opposing images ~

[klanced]

katie your lawyer au tags have me on my knees I never thought guys in suits doing stuff would seem interesting but wow…wow. your mind

Thank u Anon this AU is incredibly indulgent for me.......... ok time 4 more world-building.

I think @heynhay's original idea of Keith & Lance working together at the same firm is best. For both plot reasons but also for my own morale LOL

So everyone works at a fairly large private firm that splits its practice and has some of its associates doing profit-driven law (i.e. corporate or finance) which subsidizes the public interest/service work that the other associates do.

The firm is like "Altea & Daibazaal LLP" or something. Yes I am implying that the firm was started by Alfor and Zarkon. Yes I am implying that Allura and Lotor are nepo babies.

I know I originally said that Keith and Lance were law school rivals but I've changed my mind... (RIP to the law school rivalry dynamics

Instead I'm making it so that Keith and Lance are the same age but Lance has been practicing longer because he went straight into law school after college. Whereas Keith started working after college and got like a Master's degree in Social Work or something before deciding on law school at 26. (I just think Keith is the kind of person who goes to law school later in life.)

Okay onto the specific Klance dynamics... Keith and Lance are both pushing 30 and are also literally lawyers so they are professional and serious about their work... But there is wiggle room for them to still be rivals :p

Lance and Keith are both junior associates at the firm. Lance has seniority because he's been at the firm longer but he's still a year or so away from formally becoming a senior associate.

Lance really, REALLY wants to make partner and he sees Keith as his biggest threat/rival because Keith is Shiro's little brother, and Shiro recently made partner at the firm, so Lance thinks Keith might be a nepo hire. Also some of the senior associates recently left the firm so now Lance is stuck showing Keith the ropes and he's lowkey super bitter about it.

Basically TLDR Lance starts off Not Liking Keith at all for various real or imagined reasons and begins a work rivalry with him. Keith doesn't actually GAF about making partner because he's only planning on working at the firm for a few years to help pay off his student loans, but Lance doesn't know that. However, Keith is a naturally very competitive person, and he also likes having Lance's attention, so Keith immediately goes all in on the rivalry.

Lance, internally: "This Fucking Guy."

Keith, internally: "I am so good at flirting."

The first few months are rough between them. However both are also incredibly productive in their work.

The romcom part of the AU kicks in once the two of them have to start working together on a huge high stakes civil case and they're both like wow.... *twirls hair* he's so competent.............. <3

Anyway misc. things:

TBH I have no idea what kind of law Keith and Lance might private practice... I'm also really torn on what Shiro, Allura, and Hunk would practice hdjsksdhedf

Pidge is hired on a fellowship for either environmental law or data security/privacy law.

Coran does employment law.

Keith went into law school planning on going into public interest/not-for-profit legal aid and swore he would never, ever do corporate law but then he saw his student loans and was like. Hm. Okay maybe some Biglaw is okay. And that's how he ended up at the firm.

Keith:

[missr3n3]

Augusnippets Day 4

amputation/degloving/vivisection

Cut Down the Altar TW: blood and gore, flaying, stitches in mouth, barbed wire restrains, non-human whumpee, non-human whumper word count: 288 @augusnippets

[February 2009]

“I must say, it's quite a thrill to discover new terms all these centuries into my time on Earth.”

Joshua remained silent throughout Cairyx's lecture. Not that he had much choice – between fresh stitches sealing his lips and a struggle to swallow blood spewing from his severed tongue, he could barely wince when the creature's long, sharp tarsal claws dug into his ribs, pinning him to the ground.

“Today, I learned the word ‘degloving.’ To my delight, it does not simply mean removing fabric from a hand, but removing skin from flesh! However, I was thinking…”

Though his arms were already immobilized by barbed wire inexplicably jutting from crimson, sandy ground, Cairyx found this insufficient. More claws from one of Cairyx's eight arms pierced through Joshua's joined wrist. With three limbs holding him down, he could do little more than squirm and draw rasping, agonizing breaths through his nose.

I won't die. No matter what it does next, I won't die.

“Wouldn't it be interesting to combine the two concepts? Make my own gloves out of my precious creation's infernal skin?”

Another pair of Cairyx's limbs came into Joshua's blurry view. One cradled Joshua's shaking hand. The other used its claw to make an incision at his wrist, dragging the bleeding line of fire up to his middle finger. Though Joshua squeezed his eyes shut, it did little to block out the reality of Cairyx's plan. He didn't need to see to know the searing waves of pain spreading across his palm meant skin was separating from flesh.

By the time Cairyx moved on to his other hand, only one thought repeated in Joshua's mind, a desperate mantra:

Izzy. Simmons. Maddie. Leah. Someone, save me.