#verse | tenderness drowned

[withleeknow]

hi lovely!! first off congrats on 1k that's so so awesome and you deserve all that + more truly :( your writing is so tender and so lovey

i would to join in on your little drabble event!!! could you do something for hanji and the song compass by the neighbourhood? that song reminds me of him so so much so i hope you get the vision!! thank you angel and have a beautiful day!! ✮⋆˙

compass.

pairing: producer!jisung x reader genre/warnings: established relationship, hurt/comfort?, fluff, swearing, arson jokes? lmao word count: 1.4k

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

main masterlist / request masterlist / ko-fi

you're always there to help me when i'm down i'm lucky you've been keeping me around you're the star i look for every night when it's dark, you'll stick right by my side

compass - the neighbourhood

"fuck, fuck, fuck!"

the sound of jisung's verbalized frustration draws your attention to his desk and setup in the middle of room, where he's been sitting for the better part of two hours, hunched over the equipment like he often does when he's in the studio.

it's written all over his face just how upset he is that this particular piece he's working on isn't flowing right. the deep furrow between his eyebrows communicates utter displeasure. the clench of his jaw tells you he's angry, and that he's angry at himself for not being able to work through his block.

you abandon your comfortable spot on the couch in favor of pattering over to his side where he's all tensed up like an aggrieved hamster whose body can't contain the annoyance he feels. jisung can be short-tempered sometimes, but you know how to handle him in moments like this.

sliding a hand over his back, you say, "take a little break with me."

he huffs out a breath, eyes still focused on his laptop screen. "i can't afford a break. chan hyung expects this to be done in two days."

"so it's in two whole days. you can leave it for fifteen minutes, it won't kill you."

"but i still have to rework the first verse and figure out what in the fucking hell this second verse is-"

"han jisung," you scold him lightly, to which he instantly shuts up and peers up at you with his big eyes, immediately apologetic when he recognizes his harsh language.

"sorry," he mumbles, "i'm just stressed."

"which is why you need a break. you're not doing anyone any good just sitting here and trying to make your laptop explode with your eyes."

he lets out a pathetic-sounding mewl but he follows you to the couch regardless. jisung knows you're right because you always are. you're the more level headed between the two of you, whereas he's the one who lets his emotions get the better of him sometimes.

before, he would often succumb to his negative feelings. it's hard to keep his cool when nothing seems to go right and there's a deadline on his ass. he'd get so frustrated with his work that sometimes, he would delete whole tracks off his drive only to instantly regret it and spiral even more. he'd take it out on the people around him with his grumpy attitude and misplaced pettiness.

when jisung is overwhelmed, he tends to spin out in all directions. he splinters and drowns in a sea of his own making, constantly being pushed away further and further from shore because he doesn't know how to anchor himself, how to hold on so he wouldn't drift far away. his solution to soothe his anger has always been to give into it, to rip whole pages from notebooks and lock himself in his studio for hours on end until he could plow through the stubborn creative block. it'd often leave him exhausted - emotionally and physically so - and in no better state than he started out with.

jisung accepted this a long time ago - that his way of dealing with his emotions wasn't very healthy, but it was the only way he knew.

that is, until you popped into his world and taught him that people can be lifelines too. falling upon him like a wish that he never realized he was making his whole life.

"what's the matter, baby?" you ask, prompting him to air out his grievances as he lays his head on your chest while you card your fingers through his soft curls. he leans into you instantly, a long sigh escaping his pouty lips. jisung's got a lot of pride, and he would rather die before admitting to anyone that he loves to be babied by you behind closed doors.

he knows the question is just your way of getting him to verbalize all of his pent-up frustration, and not because you're eager to help him traipse through his mind palace and solve whatever dilemma he's having with the track. let's be honest, you never really have a clue what he's talking about, but it helps that you're keen on listening to him even though you can't offer him any valuable insight. more than you could ever know, it does wonders for jisung, just being able to untangle his thoughts and release the mess in his mind.

he could simply just talk to chan, sure, or any of his other friends who work in the industry. but again, his pride is an awful thing sometimes.

you never make him feel like he has prove himself to earn your love and attention, though. around you, jisung feels enough as he is. there's never been any need to toughen up in your presence.

"i just... i can't work with this track. nothing is flowing right. i hate everything i come up with." he rambles on about the things that plague his mind; topline this and beats that - they're really just words to you. you weren't blessed with the same genius in music that jisung was, so you just listen until he's done, until he concludes his tangent with a groan as he nuzzles further into the comfort of your warmth.

"you said that the last time, you know?"

"said what?"

"that everything sucks and you hate it."

"because everything sucks," he whines again, his eyebrows knitted together as he adorns a petulant pout. "and i hate it."

as you play with his fluffy hair, you feel him lean into your touch like it's the very thing that will bring him clarity. in a way, it does. your gentle touch may not give him the answer he needs, but it quiets the static in his mind, drowns out the continuous buzzing that muddles his brain.

"you're too hard on yourself," you say, to which jisung just huffs out a breath in disagreement. "i'm serious. you say this every time but it all still works out in the end. you're so smart, and talented. you shouldn't forget that."

his frown only deepens in response to your words. he knows you're right; things have always turned out fine before. trust the process and all that shit, but he's hot-headed and impatient sometimes, and he doesn't want to endure the stress that often comes with the process. he just wants to get to the finish line.

then, you continue, "remember 13?"

"what about 13?"

"you didn't like it at first either. you were so dramatic about it. but you sucked it up and finished it anyway. you made a hit and nobody could stop talking it. i believe in you. you just need to believe in yourself too."

in complete silence except for the sound of your steady heartbeat in his ears, jisung keeps laying on top of you like a weighted blanket, soaking up your words as a flower would in warm sunlight. of course he remembers 13 and the day he let you listen to the song for the first time. you'd nearly burst into tears in the middle of this studio, pressing kisses all over his face while you gushed over how proud you were of him.

"damn you," he mutters after a while. "why do you have to be so rational?"

"someone's gotta be. if i wasn't here, you probably would've ripped all your hair out, set your keyboard on fire and ran off into the woods."

he shoots up instantly, propping himself on two elbows as he glares at you even though you've got a valid point. it's not that far-fetched of a scenario.

"what?" you tilt your head with a coy smile. "am i wrong?"

jisung stares at you for a quick minute, and it's that very smile you're wearing that mitigates his frustrations and dulls his urge to sabotage his work out of self-inflicted anger. he says nothing at all, just leans down quickly to give you a kiss full of appreciation, despite the way there was a frown tugging on his eyebrows only seconds prior.

"you good now?" you ask, the words coming out a little muffled against his mouth.

if it's with you, then he is. you're the anchor that helps him part his stormy seas. you're the compass that always guides him home. he really doesn't know where he'd be without you, or how he'd manage in times like these if you're not by his side to ground him.

"always good with you around."

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 24.04.2024]

[guess-my-next-obsession]

~elementary drabble/question~

joels hair needs cut, but doesn’t trust anyone to do it. does he attempt it himself or does he ask reader??

A Helping Hand

pairing: no-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader (Elementary-verse)

rating: M (allusions to sex, no actual smut)

wc: <1k

series masterlist | joel masterlist

“Hey, baby?” Joel’s voice sounded from the top of the stairs as you and Sarah laid comfortably on either end of the couch, eyes glued to tonight’s program of choice, MTV’s: Sweet Sixteen.

“Yeah?” you called back, not moving from where you laid with your cheek pressed against a throw pillow.

“Can you come up here?” he asked, making Sarah grumble as your conversation drowned out the TV. With a sigh, you tossed your blanket off and slugged your way upstairs, exhausted from setting up your classroom for this year’s Open House.

“This better end in an orgasm for me,” you mumbled as you met him at the top of the stairs.

“Not why I called you up here, but we can arrange that, I suppose.” He grinned as he leaned in for a kiss, his arms slipping around your waist.

“What did you want, then?” you mumbled against his lips.

“Need you to cut my hair,” he mumbled back before ending his reply with another kiss.

“Why? Don’t you have a barber for that?” you asked, pulling away to look at him.

“Mom always used to do it,” he answered, grief and the desire not to talk about said grief thick in his tone. You nodded, swiping your thumb across his bearded jawline as you held his face, silently agreeing to leave it at that.

“Do you have everything?” you asked instead. “Scissors or whatever?”

“Got a hair clipper thing. Don’t know how to use it, or at least I don’t trust myself to use it. Might fuck around and cut it all off—“

“No, no. Let’s not do that,” you interrupted with a laugh.

“Why? You don’t think I could rock a buzzcut?” he asked with a half smirk, folding his arms over his chest. You held his forearms as they remained crossed, leaning in to try and give him a kiss but he dodged it.

“So sensitive,” you teased, poking the swell of his stomach.

“You’re dodgin’ the question.”

“I like your hair like this,” you reached up and combed your fingers through his dark brown waves. “Enough to pull on.”

“Alright, seductress,” he chuckled, a blush forming on his face as he gently pushed your hand away from his head so he could walk you into the bedroom with a pat to your ass. “Keep your hands to yourself and I’ll give you what you want later.”

“And if I don’t?” you asked, looking over your shoulder at him as you turned to walk into the en-suite. Joel’s smirk widened into a grin.

“Guess we’ll find out,” he shrugged before taking a seat on the closed toilet lid. You walked to stand in between his knees, his hands resting on the outside of your thighs as you finger-combed his hair.

“How short do you want me to go?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled against your skin as he lifted the hem of your shirt up so that he could plant a few teasing kisses right above the waistline of your pajama shorts. “Shorter, but long enough that you could still pull it.”

“Now who’s the seducer?” you purred, though you throbbing from the deepness of his voice paired with the soft press of his lips above where you desperately craved him.

“Sorry,” he lifted his head up and looked at you with those round eyes of his. “I’ll let you work.”

You gave him a chuckle and a shake of your head as you pulled yourself away from him and over to the sink where he had the clipper laid out with an assortment of guard sizes. You picked a pretty large guard, not wanting to take off too much on your first go around, and placed it on the clipper before returning to him on the toilet.

“You know I’ve never done this, right?” you asked with a chuckle. Joel simply shrugged.

“I trust ya,” he replied softly, his eyes just as tender as he looked up at you. It made you melt, an adoring frown growing on your face as you pet his hair back.

“Okay,” you hummed before leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “I’ll try not to fuck it up.”

After trimming his hair as short as your heart could take, you breathed a sigh of relief at a job well done.

“Think I’m done,” you announced, fingers sweeping some of the stray hair off his forehead.

“Do I still look pretty?” he asked, his eyes locking on yours while his hands lifted to hold your hips. You smirked down at him, leaning over to ghost your lips over his.

“You look gorgeous,” you whispered, relishing in the puff of a chuckle he let out before pressing his lips against yours for a sweet kiss.

“Lemme have a look.” He stood up and walked over to the mirror above the sink to check himself out. You stood behind him, watching his reflection as he moved his head around to look at it from every angle he could manage before nodding in approval. “Well done, baby.”

“You need to shower off all this hair.” Joel nodded in agreement before turning to you.

“You gonna join me?” he asked in a mumble as his lips brushed against yours.

“Duh,” you grinned. “You gotta pay up somehow.”

[0bticeo]

oooh but to be pinned down against the panel control by alastor during that one scene in stayed gone. maybe you're one of his contracted souls. maybe you're one of the poor souls seeking redemption. maybe you're one of his friends, if the radio demon has such a thing. maybe you're playing spy for vox. doesn't matter - you're here during his showdown with vox.

his façade drops. you take a step back, until your hip hits the control panels. there's nowhere to run. not with him looming over you. his ever-present smile stretches impossibly wide, fangs bared, hot breath fanning your skin. saliva trickles down his gaping maw. your breath hitches when it hits the tender skin of your neck, lips parting in a silent gasp.

"i'm gonna make you wish that i'd stayed gone."

his body contorts and stretches, limbs elongating until he encases you, studies you - pupils like radio dials emerging from a pool of black. he's close. too close. oh, and he's pissed.

you've never seen something as terribly beautiful as him.

his claws dig in your chin, craning up your neck just short of humanely possible until you meet his stare. he sings, still, static digging into your very bones until it steals your breath away, until it's only you and the radio demon watching you like you're his last meal. oh, and he's snarling his verse, voice dripping with venom as he goes, as you drown into him.

there's a distorted chuckle in his voice, the richness of his laughter merging with that of his audience's.

"oh, this will be fun."

[a-small-writer-in-a-big-world]

Always You

Soap is naturally charismatic.

He is someone who can easily jump into a conversation as if he had been a part of it since the beginning, weaving his way through the topic as if he were well versed when in actuality he doesn’t have a clue on what he’s talking about.

He relies on the charm of his boyish grin, the kind of innocence or naivety you might find in someone who is content with how they’re life is no matter what, as if the thought of life itself was enough to keep him going. He keeps an open body language and allows others to talk, easing them into the comfortability of his presence to make them more friendly so he trap them in his warmth of comradery.

His charm attracts everyone, even the distant lieutenant Ghost, who fell into his trap and opened his heart to being friends with someone so much louder than him.

Soap got you too. He practically drowned you in him everyday you worked together as he made time to talk to you when he wasn’t with you, drowning you in his friendliness and making you comfortably close to him as if you had known him your entire life when it had only been a couple of years.

It doesn’t stop at just friendly conversations. When he wants to, Soap can turn his warmth into hot words of burning promises and closeness that feels as though he takes the breath from your lungs with a single inhale. He says the right thing, always the right thing, in order to achieve that cloudy desire that has him being dragged to the nearest private area, the need too strong to wait more than a second without his touch.

His eyes never lose that pure, innocent look as he flirts his way to get that release of pent up frustrations and stress that weighs heavily on his shoulders, the effects of a tiring job that requires intense concentration. Yet mixed with that innocence is a storm of passion, a promise of what is to come if they decide to take that offer that is always on the table.

You’ve grown accustomed to his long, heated stares and suave words. You’ve watched him use his charm on so many others, you’ve watched him smooth talk his way through to one night stands that have him doing the walk of shame back to his room on base at ungodly hours in the morning.

He never misses, he’s never rejected because how could someone not want him? He’s too good to pass up, a drink of cold water in the desert, a refreshing apple to be bitten, eaten fully until there was nothing else he could give.

You laugh off the words that snake into your mind and whisper promises of something that will never come true. You ignore the way he looks at you like you’re the only one in a room full of people, the way he leans into you and touches your skin, leaving a tingling sensation behind.

You have to ignore it. You have to for the sake of yourself because that’s who Soap is and to get your hopes up for something more than just a heated moment tangled in each others arms is ridiculous. It’s your own fault for thinking that someone like Soap would want anything more than a night of passion, to want something permanent.

And yet you’re the only one he can’t bring himself to think of that way.

He wants you, there’s no mistake that he wants you in the most vulnerable ways, to have you anyway that you would allow him. To have his hands on your heated skin, to feel you against him as he pours his entire being into you while you cry for him.

But he doesn’t just want that and he doesn’t want it once.

Soap wants you.

He wants you beside him, holding onto his hand and touching him softly like an adoring pet. He wants the quick kisses, and the tender kisses, the hello and goodbye kisses lovers give to each other everyday.

The experience of loving someone so fully that even as he has given you his all, he still has more to give you, more to show you how much he truly loves you in all of your glory.

Soap wants to wake up every morning with you, tangled in the sheet with messy hair and morning breath. He wants to fall asleep with his arms around you and god dammit he just want you.

Yet you laugh him off, you don’t understand that his words of passion aren’t shallow, that the way he looks at you isn’t with desire but with deep affection that makes him stay awake at night staring at the ceiling thinking of the “what if’s”. He tears himself apart trying to brush against you just so he knows what it’s like to be touched by you, even if it’s just for a brief second.

You don’t know that if you gave him the slightest chance, the hint that you let him love you the way he wants to, he’d give his entire soul to you.

Soap would make you understand that it was never anyone else.

It was always you. It will always be you.

A/N: idk what this is but it might be an idea for an upcoming Soap x reader fic. Best friends to lovers with agonizing mutual pining anyone?

[call-sign-shark]

Navigation for Lost Souls

Drowning in the abyss?

The name is Shark, I'm 28 and I'm a content creator. In this blog, you'll find everything I write/create for my fandoms. I am mainly writing for the Peaky Blinders fandom atm but you will also find a handful of works I crafted for Top Gun: Maverick and upcoming ones for both the Grisha verse and OPLA.

I don't bite or at least not too hard, so feel free to jump in my DM and Asks, I'll be more than happy to chat with you.

Requests are semi-open and most works are 🔞.

Peaky Blinders

Direct link to Masterlist: Heaven in Your Eyes 🪽

Direct link to Masterlist: Tangled Desires 🫧

Direct link to Masterlist: Tender Cuts ( Luca Changretta x OC)

Top Gun & TG: Maverick

Shadow & Bones (Saga Grisha)

Heaven Lavey Shelby (Original Character)

Heaven's second masterlist

Heaven's Hunger Games masterlist

[violettduchess]

A/N: I know he has been requested several times by different people and now that I am reading his route, I felt I could do this properly 💜

Dazai x reader

WC: 425

He reaches for you when midnight cradles the world, when darkness paints the land in shadow by the light of the lambent moon. Dazai has his own shadows, dark creatures that roost in the hollows of his heart, and sometimes, take flight, dragging him into wakefulness. Their dark wings beat the air from his lungs, their curved talons sink into the tenderness of his bruised soul. Their cries fill his mind, louder than thunder, more insistent than the waves that break ceaselessly upon the shore.

And so he reaches, through the darkness, through the shadows, for a lifeline.

He reaches for you.

You’re there, gathering him into your arms, pulling him against the shelter of your body. He breathes in, a stuttering inhale that shakes his shoulders, echoes the clamor of his heartbeat.

But the next one is steadier.

As is the next one.

Dazai rests his cheek against the swell of your heart while you stroke his hair, that soft expanse the color of morning fog, gently running your fingernails over his scalp. Touch says what voices can't. After several minutes he shifts, tilting his head to look at you. Your hand goes still as you meet his gaze, drowning in the depths of his whiskey-colored eyes. He pushes himself up, expression soft yet determined. The shadows have vanished into the night, blending in with the dark pieces of sky not touched by celestial light. They are never truly gone. But they will leave him in peace now.

Gentle fingers take hold of your chin and you're still as he captures your lips in a kiss warm with devotion. Only the slight pressure of his touch is enough to keep you from moving. His fingertips are warm, trembling with the force of his tenderness. He presses kiss after kiss to your lips, writing you a novel of his love without saying a word. His hand slides away from your face, down the slope of your neck. He shifts, painting your skin with the poetry of his gentle caresses, the stanzas of his thankfulness dust your collarbones, verses of his heartsong are pressed against the soft skin below your ear. He tells you the legacy of how much he needs you, adores you, wants you, a master writer using his lips and tongue and teeth wordlessly. 

You lift your hips, bend your leg, encouraging him to let go, to allow the weight of his body to bend into yours. He complies, elegant fingers plunging into the curtain of your hair as he collapses into the kiss. You gasp. Words, his trade and talent, are unnecessary here. Not when you can taste his yearning on the tip of his tongue. Feel his affection with every breath. 

The night shifts, no longer the setting of his turbulent nightmares but rather the milieu of his every waking dream.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @tele86 @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @bubblexly

[toprayarc]

something that's incredibly important to me is how capable mari is as a person. not in the sense of her skillset, but more so her capabilities in human to human connection, compassion, and care. while she can be intensely cold, cruel, and ruthless, there is a piece of her inside that is waiting for the opportunity and safety to express itself. and that piece is soft, tender, empathetic, and wildly loyal— it's a piece of her that was taken advantage of, abused, and horribly betrayed, time and time again. when we learn, as people, that it is no longer safe to be certain aspects of ourselves, those aspects get hidden away and shoved down. whether it be in larger scopes, such as hiding these big pieces of who we are as people, or whether it be in the smaller sense, and we simply hide our mouth when we smile, our experiences shape us. when mari is given a safe environment to be able to express that, and feel comfortable in letting that piece of her grow, you often see these very vulnerable states that show just how stunted mari was in her growth. she was never given an opportunity to grow up and let those pieces of her shine, and simply hid them away to invest into these hardened, rough, and mean exteriors. while mari is capable of being the most untrustworthy person around, and holds a disconnect on not seeing people as people, she simultaneously can be the person you should trust the most in your life. she's devoted, loyal, and would go to any length for those she cares for. she's capable of being incredibly empathetic, wildly supportive, and intensely loving. but to see those pieces of her means you have to allow them to understand that it is safe to come out, so to speak. once you begin to invest into those sides of mari, the more they can develop, grow, and come to the forefront.

one of the most significant things about the breaking bad verse i'm using for my default verse is that it is a recovery narrative. mari has someone (jesse/@tocook) invest into her, devote time and effort and empathy to her, and helps cultivate a safe environment for her. with time, and plenty of bumps in the road, it means that she is able to recognize things about herself, accept things about herself, and stop fighting so hard to become someone she really isn't. she's still mean in her own ways, disrespectful, and generally kind of a menace, but the important piece of the puzzle here is that she is given a space to grow. this isn't a love heals all narrative, but it surely is a thinkpiece on how we, as people, are driven by other people and can often learn to accept ourselves through recognition and understanding. mari goes from being a hired gun, refusing herself any friends or company and drowning in her solitude, all the way to finding a new life and learning how to invest into herself in a real way. she becomes a jujitsu teacher for children, she eventually puts down the knife, and while she still surely struggles with plenty of things and does not have access to the healthcare that would fully help her heal (as she still does struggle, because again— this is not a love heals all narrative) she's able to figure out who she is as a person, and not a weapon, or a chess piece, or an asset. those neglected, stunted pieces of her are able to shine. she is able to grow up.

[dent-de-leon]

“Once upon a time,” sang melodious Elatis, enveloping him in her warm embrace, “There was a happy family.”  

Her honeyed words flowed saccharine sweet; a litany of pretty lies glistening in rose glinted glass. He welcomed her gladly, opening his mind to the Dream—for of all the mages who held his chains, she was by far the closest thing to kindness. 

Mollymauk fell into a deep sleep, dreamed of another world amidst a sea of glistening stars. Warmth, connection, a thousand hearts all beating as one. The faces of his mother and father. His dear sister. His lost brother. The burning light of every departed soul returning to the earth. Singing the cherished verses of childhood plays and ballads, losing himself in the steps of a merry dance. Here he is himself again, whole.

And for the longest time he was content to dream--to forget.

Until he started to become real again, stirred awake in the mages' prison.

The sight that greeted him was an eerily familiar one, the same empty stone walls he'd stared at for months upon months. A domed, high vaulted ceiling that cradled a softly glowing crystal crest, its otherworldly azure light bathing the whole chamber in ethereal radiance. The gentle thrum of whispering minds reverberating all around him, a chorus of disparate voices drowning out the rest of the world--a soft murmur that became a rushing current, a roaring tidal wave, a tempest sea--

It was almost enough to drive him back into the cold embrace of that terrible, clawing Emptiness.

The Dawn Crucible was a temple to the ineffable world of dreams and endless possibility, an archive of countless dreamers' dazzling fantasies and worst nightmares. A research facility dedicated to..."The work," as Elatis echoed gravely again and again, lost in a distant trance, her awestruck crimson eye burning into his flesh. A library built of a thousand sleeping minds.

At the very least, dreams are an escape. Exciting, unpredictable. The prime material plane is monotonously dull in comparison--he opens his eyes in the same luminous chamber, the same cold cell. Back always aching when he rises from the freezing stone floor on shaky feet, the world slowly drifting back into focus. The chains cut into his raw, blistering skin if he wanders too far. And he still carries the mark of every blood red Eye, every aching scar.

He stopped dreaming about escape a long time ago.

And yet, for all its constants, the waking world finally surprised him. Another wizard stood before him, hand pressed to the bars of his cell. Not the philosophers who marked him with their brand, tugged and tore at the threads of Fate that forever bound him. Not the other grand mages of the Convocation, the reigning nobles and wealthy aristocracy of Aeor. The hungry eyes as they bled him dry, all the eager spectators and patrons who reveled in the somnovem's cruel experiments.

When Tealeaf opened his eyes again for the first time--in the longest time--he was met with a strange visitor. His soft, wistful gaze was morosely melancholy. Haunted. Deep dark circles etched under his gentle blue eyes, his pretty face buried in layers of dirt and grime.

Molly could feel the magic stirring in his veins, a rush of warmth and the scent of ashes. Raw and tender in a way none of the Convocation or philosophers ever were. A patch of sunlight in the dead of winter. A feeling he had just the name for.

"Magician."

[hyikien]

what is it to feel the weight of destiny upon skin?

In the hush of Sunday mornings, beneath the arching spires of hope, I sought solace in the sacred. The church, with its hallowed halls and whispering prayers, was my refuge, a world bathed in light and certainty. But shadows danced with the flickering candles—a restless flicker, a silent insurgency in the heart of my faith.

What is it about the warmth of hands, the brush of shoulders, that ignites an inferno beneath my skin? I feel the burn, a caustic reminder each time our eyes meet. In the stillness of hymns, amidst a congregation that finds comfort in absolution, I am set ablaze, consumed in the labyrinth of what ifs. My heart trembles; it fights against the pulsing taboo that coils around every heartbeat.

“Why can’t you just see it for what it is?” they ask, oblivious to the way love sends signals that tear through piety like paper—fragile, urgent, needed. “It’s wrong, you know.” They don’t see the sharp edges of their certainty slicing into my tender heart. Each word knifes through the air, a verdict echoing against the stained glass that promises salvation.

“I feel lost,” I want to scream, but instead, it drips from my lips like a confession. “I’m lost amongst the verses that promise heaven while drowning me in hell.” My sanctuary transforms into a prison where every prayer becomes a silent plea for understanding, for belonging, for a kind of love that bends but doesn’t break.

And in the cacophony of misaligned destinies, my skin begins to rot under the weight of expectations. “You have to choose,” they say, as if choice weren’t a knife that cuts both ways, as if love didn’t exist in shades of grey. “Love is pure,” they preach, cloaking judgement in the guise of righteousness, yet they fail to see I’m bound to something that is not theirs to define.

In the dark corners of my heart, guilt festers. “You should pray more,” whispers the voice that haunts me, reminding me that sin is not just an act, but an existence. The bitter taste of shame mingles with the sacred wine, leaving a sour aftertaste on my tongue. “You must confess,” they urge, their conviction a casket for the truth I bury deeper within, afraid of its resurrection.

And yet, each Sunday, I return, bound by invisible chains to a ritual that no longer cradles my soul. The pulpit stands tall, an altar to traditions that drown the flickering flames of desire with extinguisher after extinguisher. “Keep your heart in check,” they warn, as though they could ever hold the weight of my aching truth—that the love I discovered in the silence of those shared moments is as real as the crimson hymnal, as intoxicating as life itself.

But the warmth of those stolen glances is often overrun by the chill of reality, a relentless frost that seeks to extinguish the flickering fire within me. "You know it's a sin," a voice whispers in the recess of my mind, haunting my every breath, every thought, questioning my worth, my place. As my heart races, I wonder if I am merely a ghost in my own body, wandering through life with a shameful secret tucked away in the fabric of my being.

“What if love is the sin we’re all led to believe is wrong?” I whisper to the emptiness, my voice trembling. “What if I can’t carry this weight anymore?” I stand at the crossroads of faith and desire, unsure which path leads to a salvation that feels like truth and which leads to a damnation filled with regret. The very essence of who I am hangs precariously on the edge, dangling between the desire to belong and the yearning to be free.

So, what is it to live in the chasm of conflicting truths, to navigate a destiny that feels predestined to break? As the incense lingers and the prayers rise, how do you choose between love and the promise of everlasting life?

-- @hyikien on insta!

[cto10121]

RetJ’s harmonies give me LIFE! 💕 Unfortunately, the sheet music doesn’t have their harmonies and the karaoke retained Damien’s harmony with himself. I tried to sing that part as well, but you may still be able to hear it, alas. Tripped me up something awful, but otherwise it was an easy enough recording. I was surprised I was able to sing it, since on the piano those notes are so high. So I 99% did something wrong, lol. I did change some things up re: translation for singability and rhyme purposes. The karaoke retained the chorus, so I let the French be; just mentally substitute the English verse.

For Love (Par Amour)

Friar Love can bring you to madness

Romeo But what man would settle for less?

Friar God is where my heart lies

Juliet All of love lives in his eyes

Friar Love’s a joy that you suffer

Romeo What’s the use of life without her?

Friar Love’s a sea that drowns you

Juliet Love’s the hope that has found you

Romeo Love is her, in her tender And I’ll make our lives a splendor With your help

Juliet Bind our names as one

Both Let whatever will come Come for love

Friar Love’s a tempest inside us

Juliet Love’s the north star that guides us

Romeo In the night, it leads us

Both Love’s the life that has freed us

Friar Free by love?

Romeo It may be God you love But for me it’s Juliet If love must pay its price Tell me, Friar, my debt! I ask you, father, please

Juliet On my knees I implore

Both To marry us today Put an end to this war

It’s time now to decide  What you would dare to do Like lambs among the wolves Our time is nearly through

Romeo I long so much to lie With Juliet as my bride

W/Juliet And hear the sweet lark’s song In the dark by my side Please, we need you...

Chorus If in love, there is true life We can hope for a new life For our love If our God above Grant us what we’ve dreamed of Love will be

Friar, Romeo, & Juliet We’ll be free...!

[cultivaet]

when  songs  are  sung,  their  verses  speak  of   the  crisp  green  apple  that  bleeds  pink,   nerium  sweet,   cut  by  pretty  teeth.   the  paradigm  of  cross-breeding:   plant  the  pearl  in  a  fertile  bed  of  oleander.   she  will  know  poison  like  a  second  blood  and  will  fear  it  not.     /     pale  green  eyes  born  amethyst,   the  strange  magic  of  life  beyond  death.    this,   the  half-moon  scars  in  taut  flesh  of  fair  shoulders,   endowments  of  a  rotted  motherhood.    waterlogged,   unbleeding.    unfurl  in  the  midnight  water  and  know  eternity  as it kisses deathless lips. /     kill  what  does  not  serve,   even  if  it  is   tender. love it still — as it rots in damp earth, honeycomb bones feed the newborn roots of nectared poison. drink this, the sweet-rare wine of infinite variety, green  eyes alight over porcelain: there is no love which cannot be regrown from its corpse. tend to these immortal longings and watch them flower.

birth name laeya wysteris celtigar. title lady of claw isle, widow of lord tbd of house tbd, the twice-born pearl. age thirty. gender cis woman. pronouns she + her. orientation bisexual + biromantic. residence claw isle, blackwater bay. alliances house celtigar, house targaryen of dragonstone. worship the seven, by name alone. father lord alester florent, fifty-four, alive. mother ruling lady laera celtigar, deceased twenty-one years. siblings ruling lord tbd celtigar, alive, 29 + lord utp celtigar, alive, 26 + lady visenya celtigar, 25. husband lord tbd of house tbd, deceased two years. cousins house targaryen of dragonstone, by lady celtigar + house tbd, by marriage inspired by laura palmer, twin peaks. cleopatra, cleopatra. ingrid magnussen, white oleander. rosaline, romeo and juliet. irene janson, dark passage. the lady in the lake, the haunting of bly manor. cecilia tallis, atonement. eve/lilith + siren tropes.

　　please be aware of a detailed attempted drowning (filicide) and brief suggestions of mental illness, killing a husband by poisoning as written below.

one. little girl in love with the sea spray and almond organza mold of girlhood. heavy lidded amethyst eyes, donated by the blood of her mother, placated by laughter as light as the foam she runs through. soaks flesh and fabric, threatens to drag little bones into that great, starving sea — saved by father, protector. he has always been stronger in body than mind, a stoicism that staunches where his wife bleeds: this, the one lesson that survives girl's mortal turn. silence survives. this is his contribution. he does not reappear in this story.

two. the twice-born pearl, they call her, dragged from the unshallow sea, lightning strikes and full moon turning the turbulent water a cataclysmic violet. in its depths: a half-dead mother cradles her daughter, a child still milk sweet with sleep fostered by the poppy, heavy limbs unable to struggle. there is no other way this was going to end. the ruling lady laera had not gone mad, as many suspect, in the days following queen laena's death — but such a tether between twins does not die as mortals do. it carries on into those fathoms of the in between, snagging, wearing thin with the enduring. even if she had been whole after the loss, death's silent moths would eat away at silken valyrian hair, woolen celtigar marrow. she would not wait for the madness to come for her. curled the small arms of her daughter around her neck and stepped into the water. lapped at ankles, knees ( thin skirts float, floating oleander bloom ), cause her naval and small toes to curl in protest. on and on .. in her strong mind: it cannot be murder if it is mercy. the child in her arms is a perfect duplicate of mother's doomed flesh and blood, has woven within her that purgatorial fabric between life and death. if not interrupted, the poor creature would carry it into womanhood and find madness in its moth-eaten body. with their deaths, so celtigar blood will remain unsullied. ripe to reign.

three. blackwater keep ( father's house ) collects children as little trinkets of trauma: scuffed pearls turned into wilted dustflowers, shy of both the sun and vivacity of the reach. and so the massive chasm splits celtigars into pairs: the eldest, who mourn that which they have known, and the youngest, who do not remember what it is they are meant to mourn. the eldest cradle mother's memory like a blade, a bird. a thing to use, hone, to feed. the ruling lady will serve them again, some day. this, bolstered by the diaries laera had kept, which are discovered and devoured by laeya in her earliest years of womanhood. an unconditional template for living passionately, even crudely, but holding tightly to the drawstrings of family and loyalty. reading them felt of velvet and moss, both impossibly sumptuous and breathing. they coiled such dichotomies in laeya's belly: to despise and devour, bask and delude, honor and proliferate. she did not offer any teachings of selflessness, save for the sacrifices for family, so laeya did not learn a varied humility. the diaries carved her, a sea salt-splintered juniper blooming in the great redwoods of the reach, into something equally unmanageable and plain to meaning. girl grown into woman, pink oleander growing at her feet, and one does not need to interpret her. she is clean, clear, fluid as the sea and reliable as the tide. but mind the nerium roots — thick and knotted, stretching below the soil like a king starving for land. reactive, poisonous. do not touch or attempt to disrupt, lest the stranger visit your breathless body in the night. four. mother's body lashed away by the sea, only the lord regent remains on claw isle. the children visit increasingly as they grow — particularly the second born child, a lord, doomed to deny laeya the title of ruling lady. the title, i say, and i mean title alone, for her own doom was the gift of thorns and burrs, to bury them in the pale flesh of brothers and sister, to demand wholeness, sincerity, affection. one does not move without the others feeling the pull. but there is such disparity. love, but intolerance. togetherness, but brutality. cultivate it. do not call it a weakness, this honesty of blood. weave it into the marrow of house celtigar and weave that marrow into the honeycomb bones of kings and rulers, and watch westeros bloom with what is has always been lacking. for the good of the kingdom. this, of course, is a convincing ruse for a simpler selfishness: a mother's vision of celtigar blood continuing to reign, absent the celtigar name, is a clever insurance of good fortune without bearing the weight. laeya, continuing this urbane clawing at the sentiment of the crown, keeps her mother alive. goddess, and ghost.

five. a singular complication: laeya, the eldest, was married first. her father's intentions had been pure, insisting not upon a man who might bring wealth or status to house celtigar, but who instead might be good to her. strong but amenable, insistent but flexible. even still beyond herself, in her father's vision of what she needs, dichotomies rule eldest celtigar. but how easily she betrayed such a sweetness, father's intentions unsuitable. for what good would a lowly house do to aid in her life's occupation? but the kind man, good man ( a duplicate of her father, by all accounts ) lived as she cultivated her second rebirth, to rise from the wilted bones of him. finally: poisoning disguises itself as sweetrot if carried out over years. the roots were dug reverently from her own garden, soaked in honeyed tea and mead. the murder of a lifetime, ten years of affection and humble care culminating in laeya returning to claw isle — husbandless, childless. but she is again buried in the very rot of her family, a putrid-sweet smelling thing. she thrives.

six. it is nearing two years since the death, pronounced an unfortunate illness by the foolish and undereducated maester. no one save her brother, the ruling lord, knows its true cause. most importantly, she is returned to the calling laid out by her mother: keep celtigar blood on the throne, or find it irreparable and raze it — raise it elsewhere so that it will thrive, if she must.

　　　　　CONNECTIONS. PINTEREST. TRACKER.

[sehtoast]

Give Me Your Rage - All of You is Left to Love Ch8 (Depowered Homelander x OC)

Chapter Directory

1.5k words

Summary: Mirrorlander works Homelander into a rage, ensuing aggression and panic attack from which Ben helps bring him down. Barely any plot, just good ol hurt/comfort

OC: Benjamin Colyer (The Boys-verse Spider-Man)

He tried to keep himself occupied. Tried his best to ignore the whispering in his mind.

TV would drown it out, he thought. Maybe a movie– or the news. Seeing the chaos in the world to make his own feel less suffocating.

All it did was fuel the fire.

VNN showed a livestream of Ben addressing a crowd in regards to another supe filling a seat in The Seven. His little spider stood there, spouting off line after line of corporate sludge, winning the hearts of millions with his emotive mask lenses and honeyed words.

Used to be you up there. You used to matter like that.

His brows furrowed. A shake of the head, praying to will it away.

Now look at you. Just some useless fuckin’ slob spending every day on the couch.

Hands covering his ears in vain.

Wasting away… Sucking down all that fucking milk. Wonder how that bug of yours even looks at you, hm?

No…

The tirade was never ending, dragging on until the sound of a window shutting pulled him just far enough out of his own mind.

Benjamin was home.

The man of the hour! The voice lilted. You really let him take everything from you, huh…

“I’m back!” Ben called from the bedroom. His greeting was followed by the sound of the sink.

Benjamin’s routine upon arriving home... Announce himself. Run his head under the bathroom faucet to fix his mask-flattened hair. Phone on the charger. Supersuit stripped away. Regular clothes on.

Just enough time for the voice in John’s mind to run absolutely rampant.

He stole your life.

Stole the world’s love.

Made you into his fucking house pet!

John, toeing the line of falling into a frenzy, rushed into the kitchen to avoid Ben as his little spider started to make his way from the bedroom.

Took everything from you.

“Hey, hun?”

His voice grew closer.

Used you up.

“No…” John hissed. “No, no, no…”

A shuffling of footsteps.

Now you’re nothing… and he has it all.

“John?”

Make him pay. Do it!

His body moved before he could stop it. As if he’d gone numb to everything but the pain and rage building within.

His fist connected with Ben’s jaw, knocking his little spider’s head to the side. His hand ached from the impact, but he was already mid swing with the other before he could realize it.

Ben caught his fist with ease. He said nothing, just… pulled Homelander into an embrace. Tight, but not crushing.

John fought, at first. Tried his hardest to rip out of Ben's hold, to continue his assault, but those arms around his upper body held him firm until the grunts and growls he didn’t even know he was making turned to tears.

“Fuck!” He roared, giving one last struggle against Ben’s hold. “Fuck, fuck, f-fuck…”

“It’s okay.” Ben cooed. “Give me your rage…”

He choked on a particularly harsh sob, reaching up to clench his head and rip at the shortness of his hair in helpless agony.

Ben unfurled Homelander’s grip with ease.

“Give me what you can’t hold anymore.”

His arms wrapped around Benjamin with all the strength he could muster, gripping and squeezing as though letting go would be the end of him.

The end of them.

What has he done?

Words spilled from his lips, apologies falling over one another as he sank to his knees. Benjamin followed him down, positioning to hold him comfortably. A leg over his, arms wrapped around his shoulders, chin resting atop of his head.

Somehow, the tenderness of his lover’s touch made it all hurt even more. His sobs became more guttural, rocking him to his core. A tsunami of pain, of shame and misery, regret…

Here he was, attacking the last person in the world that gave a shit about him. Driving away the only person in the world to ever show him real love. His Benjamin.

He was trying to hurt his Benjamin.

His chest heaved erratically with breaths that wouldn’t come.

Ben began to rock him, a hand trailing to rest just above his heart.

Each exhale was interrupted by a reflexive breath in, the two stifling each other until John felt dizzy. His panic escalated quickly with each failed gasp.

"I- I c-can't b-brea-athe!”

Ben used his grip to spin Homelander, turning his love to rest against him, back to chest. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen John have a panic attack, but this was certainly one of the worst to date.

"Feel me, baby. Feel my chest." Ben spoke firm and calm, his hands at John's shoulders to steady him against the lurches of his cries. “I need you to breathe like me…”

Homelander gripped Ben's thighs, chest heaving with breaths that only further robbed his lungs of air. Every breath stifled by a spasming diaphragm.

"Eyes closed. Focus... Breathe like me." Ben took a deep inhale, letting his chest push against John's arched back. Reaching up to run his fingers through Homelander’s hair. “You’ve got this. It’s gonna be okay.”

Homelander clenched his eyes shut and forced in a ragged breath, exhaling just as shakily. Head thrown back against Ben's shoulder, body rigid as he fought desperately to control himself.

"That's it," Ben whispered, hands still holding him steady. "In…" he took another exaggerated breath. "Then out…"

They repeated this way for some time until the iron grip at Ben’s thighs loosened and the sound of desperate gasps faded into unsteady breaths mimicking his own.

A shaky hand rose from his leg, and Ben grasped it. A kiss pressed to Homelander’s hand.

"It's okay…"

"It's not…" Homelander countered weakly. "I hit you."

"You did." Tone soft, forgiving. A hint of a chuckle to soften any other edges. Ben leaned to rest his chin on John's shoulder. It didn't hurt– but telling Homelander that would only reopen another wound. "Are you okay?"

Homelander scoffed in disbelief, another round of tears stinging at his eyes. The hand still at his little spider's thigh gripped again.

"I hurt you, and you're asking me if I'm okay." A sniffle, then a beat of silence.

"I hit you…"

Wouldn't be the first time, is what Ben wanted to add. He recalled an instance of being tackled out of the sky and thrown onto a roof, but that was… another lifetime, now.

John clutched Ben's hand firm to his chest. The rise and fall of it still unsteady, but far more calm than earlier.

"I forgive you," Benjamin whispered into his ear. The next part, barely even a breath from his lips- but something that needed to be acknowledged. Something Ben knew without having to be told. Because, why else?

"He's been loud lately, hasn't he?"

Ben hadn't been home much in the past few weeks. Too many events, too many instances of violent crime stopped dead in its tracks by the web-head, damage control and paperwork.

Too little time with John.

Who else would keep him company?

Homelander sucked in a breath and held it, nodding furiously as he tried to keep himself together.

"I'm sorry, baby…" Ben cooed, his fingers traveling to trail through John's hair.

They stayed like that, seated on the floor of the kitchen, holding on to each other for some time. Ben’s fingers massaged Homelander’s scalp, and sometimes deviated from their trail to thumb at his cheekbone instead.

John’s eyelids grew heavier with each passing moment, fatigue setting in now that the rage had left him. Eventually, he felt those strong arms loop behind his back and under his knees, and he was lifted from the floor.

Ben laid Homelander on their unmade bed and tucked him in. Pressed a kiss to his brow.

John made a small sound of protest, thinking that his little spider was walking away to leave him, so Benjamin simply climbed overtop of him and made his way under the blankets. Within seconds, Homelander moved to rest his head upon Ben's chest, nuzzling into him with a defeated sigh.

“I'm calling off tomorrow." Ben declaread. "Maybe the next day, too…No, definitely the next day."

"I'd… really like that," Homelander replied, sleep lacing his voice.

Ben’s fingers danced through Homelander’s hair as he soothed him. He wasn’t one to hold back on vocalizing his emotions to John, but Ben waited until he was asleep to speak.

“You’re my world…” He whispered. “No matter what happens, no matter how crazy things may get… I’m gonna stick with you. Gonna watch you come out on the other side of this change victorious.”

His hand moved to Homelander’s cheek, where he rubbed his thumb in circles. Ben looked at him contemplatively and felt his heart swell.

“You’ve never stopped giving me those damn butterflies…”

[002yb]

Current thoughts: The way Jason and Dick love each other and the strange balance they present through their dynamic by just existing within each other's presence that causes a state of neutralization. 

Jason is akin to a state of intoxication

Because Dick is all anger and rage that has been bottled up and taught hard chains and lines to cope rather than a release - it festers into something ugly and brutal and always licks at the back of his teeth to be let out. It's bandaids given by the weeping over gaping vivisections performed by loss and grief that never go away, sometimes he’ll wake up and swear he can feel blood on his fingers - sliding down to stain the white sheets under him. And he’s mastered masking it - not touching it - not letting it heal but not letting anybody see and using it to fuel the hunger that gets him through the night, the relish of broken bones and justification.

And for the shitty start they had Dick never actually thought the kid who grated against him would become the soothing feeling of forgetting. Because when spikes fall to reveal something so soft and endearing it's as if Dicks brain rearranges its own anatomy - like his dopamine release was directly connected to the kid who skates around him with a taunting smile he can't help but bite playfully at. And the wound is still there - and Dick doesn't know if it'll ever actually heal but there's something more secure - because Jason sews him up and offers to wait until it turns into nothing but a scar. And maybe it'll never heal - but Jason is prepared to stay forever and the thought of a future with this ridiculous kid that's climbed his way into his open chest settles Dick in a way he hasn't known since he was in the circus. 

Dick is likened to something of an addiction 

Because for all Jason is hard thorns and armor - hostile architecture coating his skin like how they once chased him out of safe spaces on the street - it's to protect a softer inside. Jason’s actions are presented through anger - but they were transformed from a perpetually bleeding love - the kind that lets you crush his skull under your foot and he’ll love you from hell. It's tender in the hurt - and delicate in its state and so full it might burst - the love Jason harbors for the wicked. And Jason knows anger is the only thing he's capable of - and he doesn't know where to direct it but he keeps drowning in his own guts and he's drowning - drowning - and almost gone. Robin fights for justice, he has no idea what he fights for without the mask - violent caresses of a heart.

And then there's this pull - a tug, a draw, a heave - and he's being dragged forward and he doesn't know where but there's a direction now and it always leads back to eyes so blue they mimic the sky. Dick is an addiction - and Jason has a past with shit like this - but he thinks it might be ok this one because the bruises decorating his bones like a curse are slowly healing. It's found in the way his barbs and threats fall short - a manufactured high - they don't quite reach and eventually they wilt and fall off until he's left bare and vulnerable. It's presented messily but so endearingly in the way he seems to have a second metaphorical stomach that's always hungry for Dicks attention - and suddenly it's easier to know what to do. Because he might mess this up but as long as Dick is here he knows how to seek him out - there's an end goal and now there's a little dirt path highlighted by laughter and lazy smiles. 

(ahh hope this one actually catches what i'm trying to say this was a struggle lmao - recovering from a tongue piercing is no joke.)(also ill for sure send an ask if i do make the writing blog!!)

Jason being intoxicating and Dick being addictive is such a concept and I think I actually really adore it (because I think this might actually be how I default write them LOL, especially in WtMBU/N&R verse and I know an addiction/intoxication motif reads as toxic but idc fffffffff). Thank you again anon for another lovely introspective on dickjay. It's so thought-provoking!! Also I wish you all the best with the new piercing; I'll be hoping for smooth sailings during the recovery. (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

Your analysis on Dick is a take I'm so immensely fond of though. There's nothing I adore more than when someone explores the darker side of this man. The side of him that's hurt and stays hurting because he never lets himself heal - because he's healed wrong. The side of him that's vicious and volatile, cold and cruel. It's not that Dick is always this way; it's not the forefront of his personality/character, but it's there. He's capable of wicked things: violent, ugly, brutal. Dick carries so much grief with him that it wrecked him, ruined him. With the hard lines he's learned to cope through, where else can his rage go but to tearing at his own skin and through his muscle; blood caked under his nails and lungs overfull from all the screams he's had to swallow down.

The self-restraint Dick is capable of is self-harm called discipline because it's nicer, more respectable. It's a slow and cruel death, but over time Dick has resigned himself to rot - psyche too tired from the burdens: I can't, I shouldn't, I won't.

Dick not being broken, per se, but fractured. No one being the wiser. Because even with wounds that healed poorly or broken bones that set wrong, Dick is strong. He's all fortitude and resilience. He knows how to push himself - there's no line for him to toe there. So Dick pushes and pushes until he's run down, burned out and smiling despite the burden because he can bear it. And no one need know.

But of course grief isn't kind. It leaves him introspective and withdrawn. He can put on a show when needed, but at his most honest Dick is just...quiet. Still. A sharp contrast to how he's usually dynamic and bright and wild.

Unrelated tangent indented below whoops

Lately (possibly for a while lol) I've really taken to the missed opportunity idea of Dick seeing Jason as the wounded part of himself [Dick] that never stopped hurting. Because here came Jason, Robin, wearing Dick's mantle and dressed in Dick's colors - every bit the part of Dick that Dick lost when his life fell apart.

Dick recognizes who he was, who he could have been, in Jason and it's - disconcerting. He hates it. Which would lead to such beautiful conflict that Jason wouldn't understand because he hasn't done anything wrong and Dick can't find the words to explain that it's not Jason that Dick hates, it's Dick. That's why he's cold and distant; it's cruel to walk away, but running from himself is all Dick could think to do.

Jason would make it so simple, too. Because Jason sees the wonderful things of Dick that Dick is too disconnected to remember about himself. Robin brought people hope and Jaybin would do the same for Dick. Jason would talk about Robin being magic, but the truth is that Robin was never anything magical. Jason brought that magic to Robin all his own. He brought it to Dick.

And basically it'd be this story of Dick coming to love Jason and also himself and uh oh I've derailed myself back to our regularly scheduled reply

~Warning for romanticizing of 'darker' analogies below~

Anyway, Jason being intoxicating. This. A big thank you for this, because this is such a striking analogy. With how this relates to Dick though, since this reply has veered strong that direction LOL. But yes, Dick finding Jason intoxicating; Dick being intoxicated by Jason.

Jason lowering Dick's inhibitions. Jason taking the edge off (the mental fatigue, the physical strain). That heady feeling of warmth and calm that Jason affords Dick would be addicting in its own right. For someone so controlled, Jason would be freedom.

In this same vein, Dick being addicting and Jason 'having a past with shit like that,' and 'thinking it might be okay this one time,' and knowing the dangers of thinking like that but doing it anyway because he's been hooked from the start and the high of being with Dick - having his time, his company; being teased by him, adored by him, loved by him - Jason can't go back. He wants more and more.

~ End of romanticizing ? ~

Jason falls back on anger because it's dangerous to be anything softer. He makes himself difficult because at his core he's starved and that's something easily preyed on, taken advantage of (he would know). Even still, he's greedy for attention, affection; respect, acknowledgement. And it's not like Jason is stupid or naive; he's aware enough to know not to give himself away only...he does. Time and again because loathe as he is to admit it, this boy is desperate and hurting. So he gives everything of himself away; he has patience in spades because he knows what it is to be hurt - his tolerance for it puts him in a position to be hurt again and again and he doesn't necessarily justify it, but he puts up with it. He goes back for more, a glutton for punishment or maybe because it's all he's really known. Maybe it's all he feels he deserves.

And it's no different when Jason makes himself a space in Dick's life. Jason is attracted to troubled people; like attracts like.

Maybe Dick would be the same as everyone else Jason has met. There would be a sharp learning curve because Dick is used to giving and Jason takes whatever is offered. Where am I going with this we're veering fast into dark waters LOLOL. But uh. Yep.

Basically ybb appreciates protective!dark!Dick trope.

I've burned myself out on this reply; it's been an adventure hahaha. Not even joking btw, this ask just called out what feels like the next few pieces of my N&R series LOLOL.

Thank you again, anon~ always a pleasure to see a message from you. (人´∀｀)+ﾟ:｡ﾟ+

[tma-entity-song-poll]

Battle of the Fear Bands B3R1: The Flesh

Big Town Banky Blaine’s Rockabilly Barbecue:

“More from the cannibalism side of the flesh, might be approaching the slaughter’s intersection with the Flesh”

Knives Out:

“A song about cruelty, about not knowing anything else."

Lyrics below the line!

Big Town Banky Blaine’s Rockabilly Barbecue:

… One, two, one, two One, two, three, four … Bright lights, what's cookin'? Smells to me just like a plebian feast Bring on by that prosperous behind and Fave a flavor? Place your wager! Come on down, bring the family Watch the wantin' wanna stay afloat Just one holds a place in perpetuity It's time to rock and roll … Broken bones galore! (Ooh, this one looks mad, his opponent is reeling) Y'all ain't friends no more! (Glad we're protected by this glass ceiling) We want gore! Knock 'em silly! Fist to the lips and uh, this loser wins! (Order up) … Hot Dog! Never felt so alive As the irony bleeds from the crook in his eyе Ya best be grateful, you ain't thе one to die At Big Town Banky Blaine's Rockabilly Barbecue Chop chop! Get 'em up on the pyre As a pile 'o green burns a hole in his thigh Now rack 'em up, HEY! Survive a day at a time At Big Town Banky Blaine's Rockabilly Barbecue … Round two! (Bra-ha-ha-ha!) Slow smoked and braised to perfection Another rack of proletariat ribs? Tenderized by the fight from the first verse Mmmhmmm, delish! Perverted for expendable poverty properly pummled? Yeah, go ahead and throw 'em a bone if you want a good rumble! Well, you got the money? Then we'll see you at BTBBRBBBQ … So this is our fate? Scrapping for scraps below the table So we can live to fight another day … Hot Dog! Never felt so alive As the irony bleeds from the crook in his eye Ya best be grateful you ain't the one to die At Big Town Banky Blaine's Rockabilly Barbecue Chop chop! Get 'em up on the pyre As a pile 'o green burns a hole in his thigh Now rack 'em up! HEY! Bleed the lot of 'em dry At Big Town Banky Blaine's Rockabilly Big Town Banky Blaine's Rockabilly Barbecue … One fight, two fight, red, white, blue fight One fight, two fight, red, white, blue fight One fight, two fight, red, white, blue fight Big Town always does it right! … This can't be the way This ain't a life, it's just survival Oceans of ravenous and ruthless eyes I'm terrified that I'll be the catch of the night They can't be our fates Just take my hand, we'll stand defiant More than the lesser thans, they've machinized We'll unify… … Boohoo, meat's back on the menu! Hot Dog! Never felt so alive As the irony bleeds from the crook in his eye Ya best be grateful, you ain't the one to die At Big Town Banky Blaine's Rockabilly Barbecue Chop chop! Get 'em up on the pyre As a pile 'o green burns a hole in his thigh Now rack 'em up! HEY! Ain't an ending in sight At Big Town Banky Blaine's Rockabilly Big Town Banky Blaine's Rockabilly Barbecue Big Town Banky Blaine! … Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Delish

Knives Out:

I want you to know He's not coming back Look into my eyes I'm not coming back So knives out Catch the mouse Don't look down Shove it in your mouth If you'd been a dog They would've drowned you at birth Look into my eyes It's the only way you'll know I'm telling the truth So knives out Cook him up Squash his head Put him in the pot I want you to know He's not coming back He's bloated and frozen Still there's no point in letting it go to waste So knives out Catch the mouse Squash his head Put him in the pot

[finishinglinepress]

FLP POETRY BOOK OF THE DAY: In the Grip of Grace by Marianne Mersereau

On SALE now! Pre-order Price Guarantee: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/in-the-grip-of-grace-by-marianne-mersereau/

Marianne Mersereau draws from the rich storytelling “porch culture” of her native Southern Highlands of #Appalachia to create, In the Grip of Grace, a memoir in verse replete with wild ghost tales, mythologies and folklores of the unique characters who populate the pages. Themes of #family, nature, grief, and the long-lasting impacts of war are explored. The #narrative #poems serve as witness to both triumphs and losses and to grace harvested from loss.

Marianne Mersereau grew up in the Southern Highlands of Appalachia and currently resides in the Pacific Northwest. She is the author of the chapbook Timbrel (also from Finishing Line Press).

PRAISE FOR In the Grip of Grace by Marianne Mersereau

“There’s so much love in these poems. Genuine and constant.”

–Erica Wright, author of All the Bayou Stories End with Drowned

Through her elegiac poetry collection, In the Grip of Grace, Marianne Mersereau pays homage to her Appalachian roots and to beloved places and people who now seem forever out of reach except through their vivid stories. The poet patchworks ancestor tales into her own visceral memoir quilt, sometimes relating memory snapshots from personal experience, sometimes bearing witnessing to family history. The effect is a warm cacophony of voices that call as the poet responds and reflects.

While the title refers to recurring themes of faith and family, it also magnifies how close bonds clutch our being in ways we don’t always consciously admit. Mersereau’s poems serve as cords tying her to a time and place where aunts might accidentally sew a snake into an uncle’s pillow, where curious children might find relief from bee stings in their father’s healing tobacco chaw, where a man might find high church in his solitude, and where a couple of religious young girls bash apart evil heavy metal records only to find themselves dancing to the same songs later in life. Ghosts, haints (both animal and human), strange lightning and mountain rituals also enchant the reader.

Some of my favorite poems in the collection are about the poet’s mother, who just happens to be named “Grace.” Mersereau pays tribute to her mother’s hair in a breathtaking poem about grief: “Her hair hangs like a long dark mystery/waist-length, the color of coal.” And in a tender memory about her father bringing in flowers from the farm field: “He kisses her and sets the jar/ on the table—a testimony/at the closing of the day.” In the Grip of Grace, we come to grasp how “the cord still feeds the rose/and pulls us home in frequent dreams.”

–Roberta Schultz, author of Underscore and Asking Price.

The touchstone for the poems in Marianne Mersereau’s superb book In the Grip of Grace can be found in her epigraph from Rilke―the “long gone are in us.” Her words conjure memories of family and the Appalachian ”holler, gap, ridge, and hill” of her childhood, its ground fertile with restless spirits and “seeming impossibilities.” Under the spell of Mersereau’s vivid and compassionate voice, readers will be held in thrall to these poems of her rich-storied life.

–Anna Egan Smucker, author of Rowing Home, No Star Nights, and other books.

Marianne Mersereau’s In the Grip of Grace is compelling poetry, adroit storytelling, and keen memoir. Using direct, immediate language to evoke memory, Mersereau extols the past and the necessity to remember it, as the book’s epigraphs by Rilke and Trethewey establish. The pages teem with ghosts and graveyards, ponies, family members living and dead, bats, Jesus, gardens and fields, miners and teachers, churches, and more, all against a backdrop of Blue Ridge Mountains and Appalachia. When the poet turns to the cruel murder of an elephant named Mary and reveals the younger elephants’ memory of their relative 23 years later, she is also honoring the power of human love. She writes, “[the townspeople] buried [Mary] . . ./ thinking she’d be forgotten, forgetting how loud bones speak.” Indeed, the precise set of experiences these poems recall is a testament to remembering; they remind us to listen for the bones of our loved ones speaking to us from this world and the other side.

–Annette Sisson, author of Small Fish in High Branches (Glass Lyre Press, 2022).

From an Appalachian holler to the ghost of a mountaintop long lost to coal mining, the narrative poems in Marianne Mersereau‘s poetry collection, In the Grip of Grace, form a rich mosaic of a life. Through family lore, miraculous cures, and the equally miraculous healing power of nature, Mersereau’s poems reflect the very essence of mystery as the speaker loses her religion yet finds her faith and becomes “a goddess / in the grip of grace.”

–Jill McCabe Johnson, author of Tangled in Vow & Beseech and Revolutions We’d Hoped We’d Outgrown

Please share/please repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #poetry #chapbook #read #poems

[forcebewitht]

Hi! I really love your writing about TWST so I thought I would make a request! Could I have headcanons of Jamil and his fem! s/o, who is good at singing, sing a duet with him while their out on a walk unaware that their being followed by Kalim, ADeuce and Grim?

You Make Me Speechless (Jamil Viper x Singer!MC!Reader)

You and Jamil had been dating for quite sometime now. It had been a bit of a struggle- given how much Kalim wanted to ensure you both could get the most out of the relationship as possible. He would often try to treat you both to lavish events or dates on behalf of Jamil (he only wants the best for Jamil!!)- which undoubtedly pisses the vice dorm leader off in more ways than one. He wished to spoil you in his own way- not by Kalim's hand, of all people. So, simpler times were things that were cherished between the both of you.

A simple stroll around the perimeter of Night Raven College was the date as of now, enjoying each other's company without the worry of classes, stress of mischief from the first years and Kalim....just you and Jamil. Your hands were interlocked, Jamil occasionally either softly rubbing his thumb against your hand or bringing it to his lips to plant a tender smooch upon it. These actions were sweet indeed, Jamil overall being very down to earth when it came to your relationship. A flower was spotted by him in a nearby bush, the second year now bending over to pluck it free. It soon was held out with a soft smile, his eyebrow partially perking up at you.

"A beautiful flower for my special flower~?"

You gave a partial giggle at this, trying your hardest not to swoon on the spot at your lover's action. You took the flower within your grip, smiling sweetly at him.

"What a rascal you are, acting all sweet like that to me...."

Jamil gave a chuckle at your reply, soon instead taking the flower from your grip once more. He stepped up to your form, breath now hushing against an ear as he tucked it into your hair.

"A rascal, you say? Mmmm- I beg to differ with you, diamond."

Your body partially froze upon feeling his breath fanning your ear as his voice hushed into it, eyes soon meeting his own. A partial smack to his shoulder was given, to which his prior grin only grew a little more mischievous.

"Yes- a rascal, I said!"

Jamil placed a hand over his heart at that, shaking his head at your proclamation.

"I am sorely offended."

A snort soon escaped your lips- he only really showed this more dramatic side of himself to you. It was just one of his many charms that made him all the more enduring.

"Offended? Well- excuuuuusseeee me, princess~!"

Jamil placed a smooch onto your forehead at that, glancing down to your eyes at your words.

"Shhhhh~ forget I said anything, diamond..."

Your eyebrow perked up at his shush-

"I know you did not just try to shush me!"

Jamil gave yet another grin at that, knowing just how much you enjoyed his teasing deep down.

"And if I did, hmm? What would you do, then~?"

A song immediately came to mind- it was just how your brain worked, given you had been singing since....gosh, forever, basically. You were incredibly good at it, actually- having ranked highly in local competitions for it back home...but that's a story for another time. So, instead of giving him a reply, your hand gently caressed his cheek as you sang it instead.

"Here comes a wave meant to wash me away...the tide that is taking me under....swallowing sand left with nothing to say, my voice drowned out in the thunder~"

It never mattered how many times he heard you sing- Jamil always felt as though he was being blessed by something he did not deserve whenever that voice of yours hit his ears. His hand soon placed itself over yours which was positioned on his cheek, the other now settling itself upon your hip as he sang the next verse.

"But I won't cry....and I won't start to crumble...whenever they try....to shut me or cut me down~"

The two of you soon found yourselves merely standing there like that- the rest of the world fading away as you harmonized wonderfully to the song. Your voices were carried and lifted around the trees, practically casting a warmth around the entire area in which you stood- a testament to the deep love you both shared for one another.

....And this was why you didn't even see Ace holding up his phone from a nearby bush with Deuce, Grim, and Kalim recording you both doing this. They had been following you to make sure everything between you both was going alright. Kalim was silently sniffling to himself about how beautiful the scene was and being angrily shushed by Grim- who was also complaining that he couldn't see. Deuce was trying to get Ace to turn that camera off to respect you both- buuuut Ace was flat out refusing that.

Guess that was due to the fact of how, despite the song, your love for Jamil and his love back for you could make anyone- even yourselves speechless.

✨End✨

((Thank you for the lovely ask, Reader! As per my other writings, I tried to keep everything as genderless as possible simply for the readability of anyone who wishes it. As a singer myself- one who has been in numerous choirs since I was in the 1st grade and ranked in high positions in choirs in my home, this was an awesome ask to write!! God, and his voice, too~! Hope you enjoyed! 💕✨))