#whos the special someone he wrote the poem for

[kohabielnin]

Valentine Day Headcanons

I know it took me a while to do this, as classes make it a little difficult for me, this is another gift for someone very special to me, the @kaval0 💕

Norton Campbell

• Incredible as it may seem, he remembered the date and was prepared days before as he saw the children arranging things to give gifts to those they like,

• Everyone in the mansion was surprised when he handed you a flower and chocolates,

• Naib stole some chocolates just to tease Norton, as usual,

• His embarrassed look when he handed you the chocolates was really cute,

• Both Melly, Frederick and Alice wondered if he was actually sick,

• In general, no one in the mansion expected Norton to give you chocolates

Ronald of Ness

• He closed the theater so he could have time with just you,

• I always saw this skin as one of Norton's most romantic skins because he's an actor,

• This man is not very good at cooking, so the one who helped him with everything was Lady Truth,

• He compares you all the time to flowers, especially roses,

• For a whole day, you can wear his hat and mask,

• He called Mr. Inference to boast that he had company on Valentine's Day...

Naib Subedar

• You two ate the chocolates together, it was cute according to witnesses,

• He worked hard to make the chocolates and even harder not to eat them 💕

• Norton played little a with Naib, but he didn't care and ignored Norton,

• He was a little shy when it came to handing over the chocolate, as he had never done it before,

• Eli helped him have the courage to go talk to you and Brooke watched so Naib didn't give up halfway,

• Spending Valentine's Day with him was definitely a lot of fun

Morningstar

• He made his servants make a feast just for you,

• He just loves spoiling you, whether it's a holiday or just a regular day,

• There isn't a day that goes by that he doesn't say he loves you out of fear of losing you,

• He made you a crown similar to his as a gift,

• He himself searched the entire kingdom for the most beautiful rose so he could give it to you,

• In general, Morningstar is a sweet, beautiful, perfect and sweetheart

Orpheus

• This man simply wrote the most romantic poem you've ever seen in your life, along with flowers and chocolate,

• Guess who had a pinky in the middle of one of the letters you received? Exactly, Little Girl,

• You two had a great day together,

• He took the day to listen to you talk about the books you like while giving your opinion about them too,

• He is very good with words, so sometimes he would say something or other to embarrass you, like a compliment in French that he learned from Frederick,

• There was no shortage of tea and cookies in the afternoon for you two

Bonus due to our zap/discord ship in which I am Frederick

Frederick Kreiburg

• Ok... you woke up hearing him playing your favorite song on the piano,

• If you ask him about this, you will only hear: "I feel like playing this song", with an indifferent pose as always,

• On the coffee table, there is a plate with some strawberries covered in chocolate and a handmade letter from him,

• He has a slight difficulty being romantic, but his small acts show that he cares a lot about you,

• He won't mind spending the day playing the piano for you if you wish,

• If you don't want him to spend the day playing the piano for you, he won't mind taking you somewhere relaxing with few people

[atierrorian]

| Glad it's you | — R.H

PARING: Rook Hunt x Deaf!reader

SYNOPSIS: All your entire life, you knew silence. But—it isn't as bad as people make it out to be. Because even with your biggest flaw, he still chose you.

˗ˏˋGENRE ´ˎ˗ — Romance, fluff, angst/comfort

˗ˏˋCW ´ˎ˗ — Rook is already a warning. Ooc, mentions of bullying, stalking(It's Rook, duh) horrible poetry.

˗ˏˋNOTES ´ˎ˗ — Wow! It has been a while and I am so sorry for not making anything in quite some time, I've become so busy nowadays that writing has barely crossed my mind, so I'll make most of my free time writing this!

✎| Masterlists|Navigation |

♡ "Are you really willing to accept me?" ♡ "I've accepted you a long time ago."

People always pitied you for as long as you can remember now. Frequently assuming it must be hard not being able to hear. And yeah, sometimes—but it isn't as bad as they make it out to be, if anything, you find solace in the silent world you have lived in all your life. Sure, there were times when it was hard to understand people, especially if they didn't know sign language.

Luckily, you mostly used poems to interact with them. Though, it was amusing to see them struggle to grasp your poems—that's what makes it fun anyway.

And so, making use of your skills, you swiftly wrote down another poem for a certain hunter. He's one of the few people you've known who could actually decipher what your poems meant. And it's not to say each and every time you show him your masterpiece, he always seems to be on your level when it came to writing back to you.

It always makes you feel giddy inside when he writes back to you. Re-reading every syllable. Caressing the ink that was clearly carefully written with such consideration with each word he used, you couldn't help but feel as though he was hinting to you about something.

You scoffed; shaking the thought away. Who were you trying to fool? This was the Rook Hunt you were thinking about! He's like this with everyone. Besides—why would he go for someone who had a defect? To say the least, you weren't insecure with your disability but, thinking about the blonde hunter who seemed to always cross your mind whenever you wrote—you couldn't help but feel your heart tightening in your chest from such thoughts.

In the end, why would he choose you? You're nothing special, far from it anyway. You're just someone who could never hear and someone who just writes to communicate. But, even then, you were still wrapped around his fingertips. And besides—it doesn't hurt to hope, right?

You felt a hand placed on your shoulder, you froze. You had never stayed still like a statue so fast in your entire life until now. What? Millions of thoughts were racing through your mind right now—was it another of the students who were here to once again chuck balled up papers again? Take your poems away from you and ripped them to pieces or flames it until there's nothing left but ashes?

"Awww, what's this? Another one of your silly stories?"

"Look! It's another one of their love poems!"

"Pathetic if you ask me."

You didn't focused on them, you never even knew what they were saying, and you could care less what insults or degrading comments they were spewing from their filthy mouth. Your knees on the ground while clutching onto what was remains of the paper you once cherished. And they tore it all up like it was nothing.

Shuddering from the memory, you closed your eyes and continued to look at your lap; prepared for whatever torture they were gonna do to you again. Tore your poems? Throw paper at you? Mocking at you while you cry in tears because they had nearly killed you? What else did they had in store for you?

You gripped the paper even harder, shutting your eyelids even tighter if that was even possible. You were scared.

Huh.

You felt a piece of paper slid onto your lap, hesitantly, bit by bit, you forced your eyes to open to see what it was. Was it an insult written in a letter? If so, then you're surprised that they were even intelligent enough to finally realized that you had a hearing disability instead of using their vocals to try and insult you.

But no, it was not anything you expected or thought. Instead, your vision was blessed with a familiar handwriting. Subconsciously, you read what was was written on the white letter that graced your sight, and goodness it always doesn't fail to make your blood rushing through your face. By the sevens, how does he always make you feel this way?

Why such a blue face? You don't need to be ashamed of such a heartache; If you need someone to wipe your tears, my heart will gladly volunteer; What you consider flaws, is what I consider perfection —

Mon Cherie, you are the belle of my dairy heart, You, sweetheart, have me wrapped around your fingertips; I will never let go of the string that wraps around my wrist; That connects me, to you.

My heart beats loudly; even you could hear it— If your heart longs for anything, Mon cherie, just write to me; And tell me all your silly sorrows. -Rook Hunt

Though it was short and simple, you couldn't help but re-read the words every now and then. You smiled seeing the words written on the paper. How could you not? His words sweet like candy, it was addicting in a way even you were worried you wouldn't get enough of it. Or maybe it's too late for you.

Your heart started racing so fast you thought even you could hear it. The more you examined the poem the more it started to look like a love confession. But it couldn't be that, could it? You so badly wanted to hope that you had a chance but you didn't want to get your hopes up.

You, sweetheart, have me wrapped around your fingertips.

Those lines, shit, you couldn't help but swoon over them. Clutching the poem, you finally gazed at the author with wonders and hope. He smiled at you and signed those three words you've been waiting to see.

"I love you."

Was it even possible for your heart to be beating faster than it was before? You held the poem closer to your beating heart, trying to conceal it; worried he might hear it. It felt like your heart was about to leap out of your chest. You sighed dreamily and thanked your heart for choosing him.

Meanwhile, Rook chuckled seeing your flustered expression. He found beauty in all things whether it was considered good or bad to others. But he found you the most beautiful of them all. He won't lie, he fell for you hard when he saw you. Because even when he learnt about your flaw, it didn't matter to him; you were still the fairest of them all. You weren't able to hear his words—but that's alright; he'll gladly write thousands or more letters if it meant to show you just how much he loves you.

He'd gladly and happily dance in hot and burning shoes if it meant to show you his devotion to you, just to show how much he cares for you. And if anyone were to make you doubt? Let's just say they wouldn't be coming closer to you anymore if they caused you pain. But before that, he'd come and comfort you, with words written on paper just so all your worries would go away.

Even if his fingers start to go numb and bruises appear, he won't stop until he finally sees you smile. He's glad that his heart chose you.

END

Wow! Uhm, heyy ik it's been awhile but I finally found enough inspiration to make this! Again sorry it's been awhile I've been so busy that I barely found any time to write at all, but I do hope you guys liked this!

[girly-interrupted]

when he says i love you but sid vicious said:

“every day without nancy gets worse and worse. I just hope that when I die I go the same place as her. Otherwise I will never find peace. Frank said in the paper that Nancy was born in pain and lived in pain all her life. When I first met her, and for about six months after that, I spent practically the whole time in tears. Her pain was just too much to bear. Because, you see, I felt Nancy’s pain as though it were my own, worse even. But she said that I must be strong for her or otherwise she would have to leave me. So I became strong for her, and she began to stop having asthma attacks and seemed to be going through a lot less pain. I realized that she had never known love and was desperately searching for someone to love her. It was the only thing she really needed. I gave her the love that she needed so badly and it comforts me to know that I made her very happy during the time we were together, where she had only known unhappiness before. Oh Debbie, I love her with such passion. Every day is agony without her. I know now that it is possible to die from a broken heart. Because when you love someone as much as we love each other, they become fundamental to your existence. So I will die soon, even if I don’t kill myself. I guess you could say that I’m pining for her. I could live without food or water longer than I’m going to survive with out Nancy. Thank you so much for understanding us, Debbie. It means so much to me, and I know it meant alot to Nancy. She really loves you, and so do I. How did she know when she was going to die? I always prayed that she was wrong, but deep inside I knew she was right. Nancy was a very special person, too beautiful for this world. I feel so privileged to have loved her, and been loved by her. Oh Debbie, it was such a beautiful love. I can’t go on without it. When we first met, we knew we were made for each other, and fell in love with each other immediately. We were totally inseparable and were never apart. We had certain telepathic abilities, too. I remember about nine months after we met, I left Nancy for awhile. After a couple of weeks of being apart, I had a strange feeling that Nancy was dying. I went straight to the place she was staying and when I saw her, I knew it was true. I took her home with me and nursed her back to health, but I knew that if I hadn’t bothered she would have died. Nancy was just a poor baby, desperate for love. It made me so happy to give her love, and believe me, no man ever loved a woman with such burning passion as I love Nancy. I never even looked at others. No one was as beautiful as my Nancy. Enclosed is a poem I wrote for her. It kind of sums up how much I love her. If possible, I would love to see you before I die. You are the only one who understood. […] all I can say is that they never loved anyone as passionately as I love Nancy. I always felt unworthy to be loved by someone so beautiful as her. Everything we did was beautiful. At the climax of our lovemaking, I just used to break down and cry. It was so beautiful it was almost unbearable. It makes me mad when people say “you must have really loved her.” So they think I don’t still love her? At least when I die, we will be together.I feel like a lost child, so alone. The nights are the worst. I used to hold Nancy close to me all night so that she wouldn’t have nightmares and I just can’t sleep without my beautiful baby in my arms. So warm and gentle and vulnerable. No one should expect me to live without her. She was a part of me.

Nancy, you were my little baby girl and I shared all your fears. such joy to hold you in my arms and kiss away your tears. But now you’re gone there’s only pain and nothing I can do. and I don’t want to live this life if I can’t live for you. to my beautiful baby girl our love will never die.”

[srbachchan]

DAY 6027

Jalsa, Mumbai Aug 18, 2024 Sun 11:04 pm

Birthday - EF - Jaishree Sharad Monday, 19 August .. to the enterprising hard working Jaishree .. and our wishes for greater glory .. ❤️❤️🌺

Many felt that the Sunday meets have not been projected on the Blog .. but I feel your love is all that needs to be recorded - in my heart !

Nothing more ..

But then , when I have ever not followed the Ef suggestions and corrections and wants .. some could not happen, yes .. the show for KALKI .. and the clothes for charity .. but it will and shall .. soon ..

and some from the work environ ..

.. and whenever there is a need and a time to spend by the self , it has always been with the thoughts of Babuji ..

As I read the Tulsidas Ramayan each day , I find little jottings in pencil on the verses and words and expressions , by him .. they are not entirely legible, but they must have reason to be there , and the reason could well be his notes from the Ramayan when he must have been doing the translation of the Geeta into the language and graph of this epic , the Jan Geeta ..

This is only a thought .. it could have been more .. and in time I shall find out what these markings were and why ..

So the day ends with Babuji and his letters to the many that linked with him and his ritual of responding to each one in his own hand writing .. and the questions asked and the responses given on his body of work, giving reason for the purpose of each poem or the prose or the thesis that he wrote and also the translations of great works of his time and others .. Shakespeare, WB Yeats et al, including some of the works of prominent Russian Poets ..

So I muse and search .. and find great philosophy and words of immense meaning ..

" my poetry is the poetry of those that have struggled with life .. my readers know me thus .. those who do not know me thus , they do not know me ..

when did I ever say that I have come to give the ultimate truth of life .. if I can give just one truth of life i would consider myself blessed .."

" what can I give to society ..?? 😁 today , what is most prominent is the desire to give , without having , without achieving .. when you have, if you achieve, if you become something , if you be something .. then the problem of giving shall never be there .."

" who are the poets that have impressed me ? .. let my readers see, tell and prove .. if there is not a need to do all this research, then read my poetry, if you can, and derive pleasure from it, .. to be impressed by someone depends on your own kshmta क्षमता,.. your own capacity .. to have read heard someone and not be impressed , then there must be a reason of it - either a shortcoming in them, or a shortcoming in me ..

I am not too conversant with modern American Poetry, my knowledge of it has been almost negligible ..

My birthday happens on the 27th of November .. but how is that such a special day that it should be celebrated ..

the poet Iqbal has said :

'many a poet is born after his death '

I remember .. because I do 🙏

Amitabh Bachchan

[alovelywaytospendanevening]

Lit Hub: The Question of Homoeroticism in Whitman’s Poetry

Walt Whitman’s best poems demonstrate an almost unimaginable prescience; he and Dickinson, among 19th-century American poets, possess a nearly chilling self-consciousness, an acute self-analysis. Edward Carpenter, the British anarchist, writer, and champion of the Arts and Crafts movement whose life and romance were the model for E. M. Forster’s novel Maurice, wrote this elegant description of a visit with Whitman in 1877; the emphases are Carpenter’s own: “If I had thought before (and I do not know that I had) that Whitman was eccentric, unbalanced, violent, my first interview certainly produced quite a contrary effect. No one could be more considerate, I may almost say courteous; no one could have more simplicity of manner and freedom from egotistic wrigglings; and I never met any one who gave me more the impression of knowing what he was doing more than he did.” That there were words for homosexual behavior in Whitman’s day there can be no doubt. Social structures for enabling same-sex congress seem to have been a feature of life in the modern city at least since the later 18th century, when the “Molly houses” in London offered a zone of permission for transvestism. Herman Melville, in Redburn, carefully evokes the nattily dressed fellows who hang out in front of a downtown restaurant where opera singers perform; he means us to understand what these stylish outfits convey. Historian and theorist Luc Sante describes a 19th-century pamphlet that takes as its project the publication of the locations of various quite particular spots of diverse sexual practice in New York City—so that those informed of, say, the address of a bordello featuring willing boys can take special care to avoid this hazard. Trenchant evidence comes from Rufus Griswold’s review of the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass: “We have found it impossible to convey any, even the most faint idea of style and contents, and of our disgust and detestation of them, without employing language that cannot be pleasing to ears polite; but it does seem that someone should, under circumstances like these, undertake a most disagreeable, yet stern duty. The records of crime show that many monsters have gone on in impunity, because the exposure of their vileness was attended with too great indelicacy. Peccatum illud horrible, inter Christianos non nominandum.” Which is all a way of saying that Whitman inscribes his sexuality on the frontier of modernity; he is writing into being—particularly in the “Calamus” poems of 1860, with their frank male-to-male loving, their assumption of equality on the part of the lovers—a new situation. He does not know how to proceed—he has no path —but he does it anyway. My guess is that he couldn’t have written “Calamus,” or the boldly homoerotic portions of the 1855 Leaves, even ten years later, as the advent of psychology increasingly led to a public perception of the normative, and imagery of the sacred family becomes the object of Victorian romance. As a category of identity—sodomite, invert, debauchee, pervert, Uranian—begins to emerge, so the poems with their claims of a loving, healthy, freely embraced same-sex desire become unwriteable, paradoxically, just as new language of homosexual identity begins to appear. Unwriteable, and, it would seem from Whitman’s later remarks, and some of his revisions, barely defensible. Carpenter and his readers were reaching for signposts of a gay identity when such a thing barely existed, but Whitman is ultimately a queer poet in the deepest sense of the word: he destabilizes, he unsettles, he removes the doors from their jambs. There is an uncanniness in “Song of Myself” and the other great poems of the 1850s that, for all his vaunted certainty, Whitman wishes to underscore. Again and again, he points us toward what, it seems, must remain folded in the buds beneath speech, since it cannot be brought to the surface. (Full article)

[rexd1z]

IL DOTTORE X READER

idk what the fuck is this.

drabble? headcanons? oneshot? I have no idea, I just wrote it.

Dottore is Zandik!!!

Mentions of corpses, cutting open a living person, removing entrails, blood, obsessive and stalker behavior.

pink is reader and porpol is dottore 🥺

GN! reader ig

English isn't my first language (I'm Chilean) so sorry if there are grammatical errors or something is not understood.

──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────

The first time he saw you, it was in the library and for him it was like love at first sight.

You met Zandik at the Akademiya, he studied in Haravatat and you in Vahumana.

you didn't even notice him staring at you with that crazy look of him.

He learned your routine and the places you go, even your favorite food and your favorite color.

He started following you everywhere from a considerable distance

Zandik draws horrible but he still made little sketches of you in the corners of his notebook

You ALWAYS noticed Zandik stalking you but you couldn't care less, you thought it was cute in a way.

After a few months of dating as "friends" (your dates were in the library or the Akademiya laboratory 💀), Zandik finally confessed to you.

He approached you thanks to Sohreh because she happened to be a friend of yours.

It was strange, he basically made you a poem talking about how he wants you to cut out his heart and eat his insides 💀💀💀💀💀

You accepted, you always thought Zandik was cute so, why not?

After joining the fatui, Zandik Dottore, dragged you with him and made the condition that you must be his personal assistant and be with him 24/7.

And Pierro accepted.

"-Zandik, what the hell are you doing? -you told him as you watched Dottore cut a a LIVING man in half and start injecting him with things that not even God knows what they are.

It was strange for you to have to start calling him Dottore, so in private you kept calling him Zandik.

-I am not Zandik anymore, darling -he said with his disgusting smile.

-Okay Zandik."

He always gets nervous around you even if he doesn't want to admit it, to the rest he must have an image of a hard, serious and cold man, but to you? It's another story.

but we must not forget that he is completely crazy, many times he did experiments with you (nothing totally risky) and he is so protective that he could kill someone if he lays a finger on you 💀

At some point he tried to take out his own heart to give it to you, you obviously interrupted his actions.

He's crazy, completely crazy and insane.

Somehow or another he managed to make you both immortal, so you will stay with him forever.

After creating his clones, he realized that everyone had a special affection for you, and those who didn't know you began to have the same obsession that he had with you at the Akademiya.

He tries to keep you away from his clones as much as possible, he is a very jealous man.

In short words, Dottore is really jealous and possessive, but he loves you with all his soul and even in death he will not leave you <3

Omega is the only clone he lets near you.

I literally wrote this at 3 in the morning and I'm dying of sleep plus I have school tomorrow

It's been a while since the last time i wrote something so it's weird to me😥😥😥

btw dottore is so babygirl I lovw him hes sosilly

[ahlyasimps]

Sebastian Sallow Headcanons

A/N: Prefer the way I wrote these headcanons to my Ominis ones.

✧ Totally the type to drag you out on some adventurous dates. Sebastian is a thrill-seeker who loves exploring dangerous places, so he might take you on a midnight broomstick ride to the forbidden forest or hocus pocus your way through a poacher camp. He might also challenge you to a game of Quidditch or suggest sneaking out of Hogwarts to visit a nearby village.

✧ Despite his daredevil and bullheaded nature, Sebastian is also a bookworm who enjoys reading about ancient magic and history. He needs to find a cure for Anne after all and some of the books he read genuinely sparked a passion for reading in him. He might take you to the Hogwarts library and show you his favourite books, or ask you about your opinion on wizarding history and magical beasts.

✧ Sebastian is known to be a shameless flirt and someone who can charm the pants off anybody but it’s a mask to hide a boy desperate to protect those he holds dear. This might make it challenging to get to know him at first. However, as you spend more time together, he might reveal his deeper thoughts and emotions, giving you a glimpse into his complex personality.

✧Sebastian has a sarcastic sense of humor and a love for puns/dad jokes, which can be both hilarious and infuriating at the same time. He enjoys banter and witty exchanges, and he loves to make his partner laugh.

✧ Sebastian is interested in the darker aspects of magic, he taught himself the Unforgivables after all. He needs someone who can understand this and not hesitate to pull him back when he goes too far. This could lead to some interesting conversations or debates about the ethics of magic (”how is a painless death from Avada Kedavra banned but burning someone alive with incendio isnt?” he likes to say). You’re the best person for this after all since the Unforgivables aren’t as taboo for someone so new to this magical world. He feels like he can have a genuine conversation with someone about it without being painted as the bad guy straight away.

✧ Despite his chill demeanor, Sebastian is fiercely loyal to his friends and loved ones. He might joke around and tease you in public, but he'll defend you and stand by your side when it counts. He might also show his protective side by teaching you defensive spells in the Undercroft or offering to walk you back to your dormitory after a late-night adventure. He refuses to let even a scratch land on you.

✧ Sebastian is a bit of a romantic at heart, even if he doesn't always show it. He might surprise you with a handmade gift, a poem he wrote just for you (which is about as bad as you’d expect it to be), or a surprise date that he planned with meticulous attention to detail. He wants to make you feel special and appreciated, even if he doesn't always know how to express it.

✧ Ultimately, dating Sebastian would be a whirlwind of adventure, mystery, and complex emotions, with plenty of opportunities for growth and exploration.

[samcvrpenters]

word count: 2.0k+

pairing: dan humphrey x fem! poet! reader

summary: dan finds himself with a secret admirer, who’s leaving him sweet poetry to show how much they respect and love him

warnings: could be seen as creepy but it’s not meant to be creepy, based on an ask/request.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

dan’s eyes are fixed on the antique parchment paper. the way it was folded neatly into quarters, and somehow straightened out even though he knows it’s years old. more than ten years, more than twenty years. he assumes it goes right back in time to the victorian era, because it looks so perfectly moulded, like it’s unable to be created in today’s time because nobody truly cares that much about such simple things like writing anymore.

he hasn’t opened it yet, because he feels that the sheer effort that someone is putting into this means that they’re putting effort into making him feel loved— feel special. it’s like some sort of love language that would be used by two hopeless romantics in the medieval period.

but knowing that someone is willing to do this much for him? he’s not opposed to the fact that he’s getting so much fan mail. is that what this is? he was a writer, and a known one at that. it would make sense for all of these to just be some person who just loves his work, not necessarily him.

but those poems?

the way this mystery person writes?

it speaks the truth, and the only truth of all of this was that someone respected him. loved him. someone felt that their heart belonged to him, and that was better than someone preferring serena van der woodsen to him, or even chuck bass.

because it meant someone appreciated him.

and really, that’s all he wanted out of all of this. to not be shadowed by the constant upper east side royalty and instead be looked up at.

he finally brings himself to unfold the parchment paper, which he believed looked a lot like tea stained paper, but he knew better. he knew that it was parchment. he had gotten one of these before, looked into it a little too, like a detective.

not like he knew it was you writing them.

he didn’t even know you. but you knew him, and that’s why you were leaving those exquisite pieces of writing that others would kill to have.

you’re an old fashioned writer, in the sense that you find yourself a pointed quill to write with and dip it in a bottle of ink. you need just the right consistency to make it perfect, and you’ve had a couple years of practice, so of course it is absolutely fine.

you’re not upper east side, nor are you completely poor. you’re from brooklyn, like him, and you can only find yourself looking up to him. really. a boy from brooklyn had managed to plant himself up in the upper east side and then personally destroy them with the book he wrote? it was incredible.

he finds his eyes scanning the words that are inked into the paper, his heart warming.

why were you so sweet to him?

he knows he needs to find out who you are, otherwise he’ll be forever getting sweet messages from his secret admirer. because that’s what you are. he doesn’t know who you are, and you’re admiring his work. you fit the definition.

it was written in cursive, hardly going out of the lines and curled in ways that proved extreme effort was put into it.

it spoke of admiration, of respect. of most things that was put in the last poem, yet with slight aspects of love in it. you hardly spoke of love in the last one, only a little. the strong metaphor of flowers and spring had slowly transformed into that of love, showing him what you truly thought of him.

and then he knew.

he knew that he had to find you.

he keeps it to himself, though. he refuses to ask around and accept any help from the upper east side, because that’s what you know him for. you know him to be independent and strong and— everything he thought he wasn’t, really. but you’ve given him the ability to rise up to the standards he’s set for himself and become even better.

he’d usually tell vanessa about something like this, sure. but after she exposed his book (making him have some sort of fame in his life), he refused to.

he hated her for it, really.

going through his stuff? digging through all of the things that are personal to him and not meant for the public’s dangerous gaze until it’s finally ready to be published? he hated that.

but, at the same time, it was what led you to like him. you wouldn’t have thought of him to be some incredible hero if she didn’t do it.

maybe you were giving credit to the wrong person here. maybe you should be writing those beautiful poems to vanessa, because she’s the one who opened up that part of him to the world.

he starts looking back through the one you sent him a couple of days ago, trying to find clues.

you talk of flowers.

maybe you’re at the park? maybe your love of flowers drives you to the park every day and you can sit there and write them for him?

no.

maybe you’re at the library. where else would you get the parchment paper from? he was sure they would have something like that there, but no.

you’re not there.

he thinks one day he’ll find you, quill in hand and writing your next work down on it for him to find. apart from he would have already found it, because it would have been with you.

maybe you have a stash of poems ready to send to him. maybe you’ve already wrote them all and you’re sending them out one at a time because you want him to look for you.

he’s not sure.

he’s been looking for days now, and the next piece of parchment comes in. it’s in an envelope this time, sealed with wax— a colour that he’s come to associate with you. light yellow. you talk of spring, and that’s the first colour he thinks of. light yellow. maybe you know that’s his thought process, or maybe it’s your favourite colour.

he peels it off, almost wanting to savour the wax seal because it might be a clue.

fancy a humphrey playing detective, right? rufus was always good at finding things. maybe it was a like father like son situation. maybe he would be able to become a detective.

looking for you.

searching for you.

wishing you were there.

he opens up the folded paper, eyes scanning the poetry. it’s the usual sort of emotion-evoking sonnet that makes his heart beat faster against his chest and make him yearn for you.

he’s glad that you have such an interest in writing. because maybe when he finds you, you two can be friends. yet it’s obvious that you speak of love when it comes to him.

he’s just not sure he’s ready to love words on paper. perhaps it was a materialisation of your feelings. maybe all you have to do is think of how much you adore him, how much you’re willing to make him the subject of your life, and it just appears in front of your eyes and you send it off.

are you from the upper east side?

are you from somewhere totally different?

are you from brooklyn?

his questions remain unanswered as he reaches the end of the sonnet, his head falling back against the wall as he stares up at the ceiling.

maybe it’s hidden.

maybe where you are is hidden, and all this time he just hasn’t seen it.

he collects up the poems again, putting them in the order he got them as he scans the first letter of every line to see if it makes a location. no. he assumes you want to stay secret, because it doesn’t reveal anything. why would it? you’re meant to be a secret admirer. not someone he knows.

but maybe you want him to know you.

he wouldn’t blame you. not really.

maybe you think that they can have a start to a perfect relationship just because of a few things you wrote. it wasn’t a careless sort of thing, though. you weren’t typing on a typewriter and you weren’t scribbling down on ripped up pieces of paper.

no, you care.

another one comes through the next day.

it’s in an envelope, and it’s the same piece of parchment as always.

he can’t help but yearn for you, even now. he’s pining over you in the same way you’re pining for him, and he doesn’t even know your name.

but you write something at the bottom, and it’s different to the usual quote that’s used.

it’s the first letter of your name.

and, of course, that doesn’t help him discover anything in the slightest, because there’s millions of people in the city and only twenty-six letters of the alphabet, and you’ve used one of them.

he sighs, again.

he can’t count the amount of times he has wished that you just appear in front of him, like some magical creature that would just appear at every opportunity you can. like he can just call for you and you’ll be there— and he would know your true identity.

dan finds himself at a cafe. he’s ordered a plain old coffee, and has poured a little bit of sugar in there, and he’s mulling over life.

he’s sat on a table next to two friends, who are chatting away. he’s listening to the conversation. he knows it’s eavesdropping, and he has no idea who they are, but he can’t help but listen.

“how are you feeling? i know after the cold you got a couple of weeks ago you’ve been feeling off. but it’s good to see you’re willing to go out for drinks.”

“yeah, i’ve been keeping myself busy.”

“with what? those shakespearean—like sonnets over some random man you admire? come on, i thought you were moving onto writing about nature or something. that’s what you told me.”

“yeah, well… i decided not to. but i’ve run out of paper now and i can’t send anymore until i go back out to visit my grandmother.”

“how do you run out of paper? there’s trees everywhere. it’s sold everywhere. why do you have to go visit some elderly relative to get it?”

“because it’s not that sort of paper.”

he manages to quickly conclude that one of those friends is you. who else would be sending sonnets to a man they admire and need a specific type of paper to do it? he wasn’t sure. he could only assume that it was you.

his head turns a little to glance over his shoulder. and he sees you.

you’re not a pretentious, money-hungry upper east side princess who wants nothing more than to gain total control of all your friends and acquaintances.

no.

you’re dressed in denim, something the upper east side wouldn’t do even if they were threatened.

and you’re beautiful.

you’re exactly how he imagined, really.

the eyes. the face. the smile as your friend says something funny and the understanding look on your face when it’s declared that they need to visit the bathroom for a minute.

he knows it’s you.

because this person is caring, like the person who’s been writing him poetry.

he turns fully around in his chair, watching as you took a small sip of the drink you had before setting it back down on the table.

“it’s you.” his voice is knowing. it’s not blunt. not cold. he sounds sweet. it’s not like he’s trying to make you feel guilty about it. no. he just wants you to know that he knows it’s you.

he watches your lips purse together, your eyes focusing on him, as if contemplating something for a moment before you allow yourself to nod.

“it is.” you respond.

and that’s when he knows.

he knows he wants you too.

[rodricksfilipinagf]

Imagine: Marrying Jamie (Jamie Tartt x Reader)

Your wedding was very lavish as expected of a footballer and his wife

You had an expensive designer dress

For your wedding vow to him you did a poem that you wrote yourself 

His was more simple but heartfelt and meaningful 

His dad was NOT invited but his mom and Simon were

His whole team was there, and so were a bunch of kids from one of your jobs 

Jamie and his team surprised you with a dance number 

Not to be outdone, you sang a mashup. Maybe there was a rap

You and Jamie go to a tropical island that’s exclusive but so, so pretty

You have sex all the time, and everywhere 

You also spend a lot of time on the beach, and when you’re not in the water you’re reading 

By night you perform karaoke and then go clubbing with him

After your honeymoon you instantly quit your day job 

Jamie and your friend Keeley are SHOCKED because you are so good at it and seemed so happy 

But really you only did it because you didn’t want to starve and it was the best opinion for someone with no connections or wealth of your own

Keeley insists you could have been a CEO just like her, and though it’s tempting there are other things you would rather do now that money is not an issue

You decide to write full time. Anything and everything. Books. Movies. Plays. Stand up comedy. 

You visit Jamie’s talent agency with him and ask if you need a separate agent for each thing you can do

You utilize your newfound social media presence as a way to get speaking gigs about being autistic

You are more likely to get a literary agent because you are Jamie Tartt’s girlfriend with a shit ton of Instagram followers

You are able to make short films with the money you now have and enter then into film festivals and put them on YouTube

You miss kids. Like really miss them. 

But school curriculums are too general for what you want to cover, and repetitive, and you don’t want to chance a troublemaker in your class

You think it’s unfair that specialized stuff only starts in college 

And you love being around preteens 

So you start a nonprofit in which you teach 9-12 year olds creative writing

And they don’t have to pay bc tbh you don’t think their parents would pay for it

The kids love it, they’re not afraid to mess up and be goofy and laugh

Perfection isn’t the goal, just having a good time 

At first you feel a little guilty about spending Jamie’s money to buy a whole new designer wardrobe

But then he reminds you how marriage works and how what’s his is yours and you feel less bad 

But you try your best to use your speaking gig money or book advance money for stuff like that

You know he would happily fund your creative pursuits though

You’re very happy in your decision not to work a traditional job because now you can spend more time on what makes you happy

Now to the romantic stuff

Jamie is a great husband 

So thoughtful and caring

He offers to do chores when you’re too exhausted

Is very supportive of everything you want to accomplish

Plans very romantic dates for both of you

Doesn’t pressure you into having kids

You have sex all the time now that you live together

Loves having you at his games but understands if something else comes up

Keeps buying you expensive bags and jewelry

You two get a puppy together that likes to sleep in your bed with you

Always makes sure to give you detailed compliments every day

Is very understanding of you not wanting to physically carry and birth a child 

Posts about you all the time 

Brags to his teammates about how beautiful and sexy you are

Every time he comes across someone who might help you out with your dreams he brings you up

Leaves you alone for hours so you can read without being distracted by how hot he is 

You guys try out each others’ sex fantasies 

You two go on vacation together whenever there’s a long weekend or football season is over 

He hates whoever you do

He loves that you’re obsessed with him

You guys take care of each other whenever you’re sick

He watches all your favorite stuff with you but refuses to shut up while watching 

You have to bribe him not to talk while going to West End shows 

He likes it when you cook him dinner after a long day of football practice

He likes making you breakfast in bed 

He likes giving you scalp massages and playing with your hair 

Basically he treats you like a princess and married life with him is a dream come true 

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Perv!Colin Gray~Headcanon

warning : dark thems, obsession, obsessive thoughts, one-sided love, filming without consent, implied murder, recording without consent, yandere-behaviour, no use of Y/n

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

°Since he looked under the shady tree to escape the summer sun and saw you, he had given his dead, cold heart to you. Had fallen for you.

°It seemed to be the same as the infinite love of Count Dracula for his Mina. At least that was how it was for the black-haired one. In his eyes you were destined for each other. He is hers and she is his, the only thing that was right for him. She was his new obsession.

°Since that day he tried to get as close to her as possible. Be it just a look, a smile, a conversation or even a discreet touch. It was all just another proof of love for him. And he enjoyed every single one of them. It was like a kick to try again and again. The more and longer he had contact, the more nervously in love and possessive he became.

°You had a few classes together and every hour his gaze was on you while his other hand moved over the paper with the pen. He drew and wrote down things that came to his mind. Whether it was your smile, which he returned, your eyes, which only looked at him. Or your naked body as he imagined it and that more than once.

°More than once he had reached for his mobile phone or his camera. Recorded everything of you when you belonged to him. Whether it was a look in his direction, a particularly sweet smile or when you leaned forward somewhere. Leaning back and your chest was clearly visible, stretching and your belly was visible. Or when you were kneeling down and your smell was coming up and you were presenting your panties to him.

°Everything you did was just for him. You were so innocent, unaware of your love. Unaware that you had no choice but to reject him. And in secret with his friends who had more influence than you would think, spread rumours about those who wanted to harm you. He protected you, protected you like Dracula protected his Mina. He would give you no choice, sooner or later you would come to him.

°Only when his attempts to get closer to her became more futile, he decided. You would only have to recognise his love for you. And first every Wednesday, then every two days, then every day a card, a poem or a cd would find its way into her locker. And he would stand nearby filming you opening it to see what you thought of it.

°He would have wanted to fall into her arms and explain who had left those presents in her locker when she came up to him. ,,Hey Colin, tell me you know a lot about poetry and stuff. Someone's been slipping me little gifts for weeks now, so to speak. So I wanted to ask if I could come to your club?" she asked and he could hardly believe his luck.

°You're starting to get it, he thought happily and said hastily, ,,Yeah, sure, then we can look together," before she happily pulled him into a hug. He would have loved to never let go of you again. Just leave you in his arms. Just stay with him. Sooner or later you would be like that.

°The day in question only came because he had prepared himself specially. He had prepared the room with a recording device that would pick up your lovely voice. Everything you would say he would record. Listen to it in his room, over and over and over again.

°When the door opened and you came in, you looked around at the posters, poems and posters with pictures. He saw your little smile, your curious but ignorant look. Saw you carrying a box with the things he had given you. Saw how the short top clung to your upper body. Your bra with lace showing underneath. As if you wanted him to see you like this.

°His fingers ran over the rosary that was wrapped around his arm. It seemed to cost him every ounce of strength not to throw himself in front of you and confess everything. His sins, his fantasies, his deeds, what he had done. Hoping you would pull him to you and kiss him back. Maybe even rebuke him for his immoral behaviour. Confessing what he imagined while touching himself, thinking only of you. A sigh almost escaped his lips.

°The two sat down at the table and went through the things together. He knew each one by heart, knew exactly what he had written. Everything brutal, everything loving, everything erotic, everything sinful that he had written down was only for you. He concentrated only on you and your voice. Saw how you took a poem and he asked you to read it out. Saw how you seemed to get warmer and your cheeks turned a light pink.

°He knew you had chosen the darkest and most perverted poem. How your voice almost broke under the praises you received. How you described his love for you. As you described what he had done. But she had no idea, no idea what he wanted to do with you, no idea what would happen.

°He would leave you no choice, you were his forever. Before you finished the poem you looked at him, slightly unsure. ,,You did well," he praised and tried to encourage you to continue. He saw you looking at him gratefully before your hand came to yours. You grasped it and squeezed it gratefully before saying his name. ,,Thank you Colin" it was three words and yet the scene burned itself into his mind.

°Burned in and in and in. Until you said goodbye to each other he hurriedly took the recorder and drove home in his car. He heard your voice as he pressed play. He heard your loving soft voice saying his name. He would have given anything to touch you again for so long. And he knew it was all just beginning. You were his and one look at his knife told him. He would do anything.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[cebwrites]

May I ask for some jealous headcannons for law, croc and zoro with bimbo s/o (hopefully I said that right :) how ppl find them really pretty and give them free things all the time (flowers,books,food) when their shopping together (*´∀｀) 

a/n: haiii, this concept really interested me - it is however stated in my rules that i don't typically write fem reader as mentioned though, i did like the idea so i wrote it through a masc pov instead (。・・)ノ

with a partner who receives a lot of gifts (Law, Crocodile, Zoro)

masc reader, he/they law word count: 1k

Law

Oh such a pity he'd fallen for a man so pretty

They aren't particularly fond of it but if this is the price to pay for having you by his side, so be it, but more importantly - mansplain, manipulate, malewife those pockets dry, darlin'

It was cute at first, to see them subtly pout and bristle whenever someone approached you with flowers, offers for drinks, or hawkers giving you an excess of free samples whenever the two of you passed by their stalls; it made you feel special, desired

However, the moment a lightbulb went off underneath your captain's scheming little mushroom hat, the fun slowly but surely started to dwindle; you knew something was up immediately when Law flashed you that crooked smirk, an expression you were more than familiar with, eyes shaded by the brim of their hat

It goes without saying that Law loves and does want to treat their boyfriend whenever possible, but he's also a bit of a cheapskate and if other people want to fill the role of spoiling you while he gets to sit back on full pockets well then that's just a win-win, even going so far as to encourage you to accept these gifts, too

Of course, when you give them a look and pinch their cheek after a the third or forth occasion, Law lets out a long-suffering sigh and hooks an arm around your waist - staking his claim, if you will - glaring off would-be Casanovas vying for your attention and paying for his boyfriend's meal with his own damn wallet (your turn to pick up the tab next time though, as per usual)

You will, however, still snag free food when possible for the both of you; if luck was on his side, Law would get to share spoonful's of ice cream with you between intimate glances and kisses in your personal bubble - all while he smugly watched those Romeos and their roses wilt as Law claimed you all for his own

Crocodile

Grown, malding ass man

You don't hear much of Crocodile's annoyance outwardly but it's clear in the way he gives you the cold shoulder and attempts to wins your affections back later with presents - gifts to your liking

Pretty much the only thing he can guarantee to provide you with his immense government-backed warlord wealth; but now some schmuck on the street thinks they can do him one better with their petty flowers and chocolates? Preposterous

Crocodile would give you entire libraries, spiral staircase to a comfy lair underground and all, if you just asked - he'd make you work tirelessly for this favor and hold it over your head at most opportunities, sure, but point is you'd still be getting it

The foolish shows of their affections through material goods was one thing, but what made Crocodile's blood singe with anger the most was those sweet-talkers; insipid little assholes trying to steal your love attention away from him with bullshit poems, flirty lines from a cheesy pick-up book that somehow has the gall to make you laugh at times from their charmingly awkward delivery

Pre-Strawhats and his dethroning, Crocodile had more than enough manpower and influence to simply make these people go away, vanished into the night, never to be seen again - you had half a mind of what was going on, noticing a handful of locals disappearing from your usual hangouts, but Mr. 0 was somewhat of a mansplain manipulator sweet-talker himself and surrounded by the luxury that you were, paid little mind to the semantics of these things

Post-timeskip, however, after both of you have had time to acclimate to the rough life on the sea again and shake off the lethargy from living in such comfort things are a little different

Crocodile has, surprisingly, mellowed out a little; ie he simply doesn't have time to be that ass mad about someone attempting to shoot their shot with a gorgeous man with the pursuit of infamy and power once again in his main sights - but the open knowledge that you are his man being out there yet these fools still try to push their luck does roil his stomach at times

Old habits and whatnot, no hard feelings 💕

Zoro

Honestly? He didn't pay much mind to it, not that it'd bother Zoro much if he did, though

People think his partner's hot? Fuck yeah, that just means Zoro scored with a smoke show before anyone else could and he's extremely proud of that fact

Zoro can ignore the stragglers trying to woo you with sweet words and free food is an added bonus because he knows he's free to steal bites off your plate, even though Sanji yells at you two about spoiling your meals

He knows you're fully capable of turning down some wise-guy ballsy enough to think they'd be good enough to be your potential suitor so until it's indicated otherwise, he's perfectly comfortable taking a load off on one of the benches while you leave your shopping bags with him to guard

What does make Mr. Demon of the East Blue a little antsy, though, is how physical some of these folks can get - yes, you're an adult man and a pirate at that, but the way certain people sidle up to you made the hairs on his neck stand on end and, had Zoro been more 'beastly' like his rumors implied, bare his fangs

A woman makes herself a little too comfortable on your arm, a man puts his around your shoulder in that cheesy yawning motion everyone's seen a hundred times, Zoro's immediately to his feet and grouchily saying that you have to leave with him now

It's adorable to see him getting so worked up, the ardent scowl on his face not just your marimo's resting expression and instead an active show of his irritation - you laugh it off later, easing Zoro's embarrassed flush with gentle coos while he reassures himself by running callous hands down the strong muscles of your back

[xueyuverse]

离思五首 — The Five Songs of Mourning (complete)

And a little analysis.

In the morning mirror with the residual makeup of self-love, the hairpin is covered with green silk.

In a moment, the rising sun shone on the blush-painted cheeks, a red rose is about to awaken.

The mountain springs flow freely around the steps, and thousands of peach trees and blossoms reflect on the small building.

Reading Taoism leisurely and not getting up yet, watching her comb her hair under the bead curtain.

The red color is pressed by the new season, and the flower threads are soft and the dust is auspicious.

First of all, don't think that the material and soil are weak, a little sloppy is the most pleasant.

All water is forgettable when you’ve seen the vast blue sea, no clouds so wondrous as those at Mt. Wushan.

Idly, I pass by some flowers without looking back, partly to study Tao, partly to think of you.

There are usually hundreds of kinds of flowers in bloom, but the pear blossoms and white flowers are especially picked.

Today there are two or three trees at the head of the river, sadly spending the last spring with their leaves.

自爱残妆晓镜中，环钗漫篸绿丝丛。 [Zì'ài cán zhuāng xiǎo jìng zhōng, huán chāi màn cǎn lǜ sī cóng.] 须臾日射胭脂颊，一朵红苏旋欲融。 [Xūyú rìshè yānzhī jiá, yī duǒ hóng sū xuán yù róng.] 山泉散漫绕阶流，万树桃花��小楼。 [Shānquán sànmàn rào jiē liú, wàn shù táohuā yìng xiǎo lóu.] 闲读道书慵未起，水晶帘下看梳头。 [Xián dú dào shū yōng wèi qǐ, shuǐjīng lián xià kàn shūtóu.] 红罗著压逐时新，吉了花纱嫩麴尘。 [Hóng luōzhe yā zhú shí xīn, jíliǎo huā shā nèn qū chén.] 第一莫嫌材地弱，些些纰缦最宜人。 [Dì yī mò xián cái de ruò, xiē xiē pī màn zuì yírén.] 曾经沧海难为水，除却巫山不是云。 [Céngjīngcānghǎi nàn wéi shuǐ, chúquè wūshān bùshì yún.] 取次花丛懒回顾，半缘修道半缘君。 [Qǔcì huācóng lǎn huígù, bàn yuán xiūdào bàn yuán jūn.] 寻常百种花齐发，偏摘梨花与白人。 [Xúncháng bǎi zhònghuā qí fā, piān zhāi líhuā yǔ báirén.] 今日江头两三树，可怜和叶度残春。 [Jīnrì jiāng tóu liǎng sān shù, kělián hé yè dù cán chūn.]

Yuan Zhen describes the beauty and shy vanity of a woman who woke up in the early hours of the day. His writing is thoughtful, as if it were a moment he had just experienced, on the morning of the day he wrote the poem.

The landscape is described from far to near, and one can imagine that the colors start out dark and gradually become clear and vivid. Yuan Zhen reads a Taoist work, but neither this nor anything around him stops him from watching his wife getting ready for a new day.

As mentioned earlier, here, the fourth part tells of the poet's devoted love for his wife. Nothing will ever be as splendid as his beloved is to him. Yuan Zhen was intoxicated by the rough sea and beautiful clouds of Wushan, whose beauty was unprecedented.

With the last part, we can conclude that throughout the poem there are dark details amidst the beauty, the apathy of someone who doesn't seem to see anything special anywhere. The land is neglected, the trees are withering. It was the end of spring and a widower was mourning.

[wisedelusionalmarshmallow]

@jegulus-microfic, June 19th - Mechanic, G, Word Count - 857

Regulus did mostly everything in his life with a sort of mechanic feel to it. As if he wasn't fully putting his heart into it. His spells were always perfect, the wand movements textbook perfection. He was able to recite what he had just read in his books prior to the lesson as if he had them in front of him.

But writing, writing was his thing.

Whether it was an essay, or a poem, or a journal entry. Regulus actually cared, and put his all into it. It's where he actually allowed himself to be vulnerable.

In the case of his essays, he lets his professors into his mind. Sharing his opinion and knowledge that far outweighs the complexity of what he should know at his age. Most teachers are impressed, except for his Ancient Runes teacher. She complained that he was too far ahead and now she has to find things for him to do instead.

In the case of his poetry, he lets his friends into his mind. He knew that they were all very bright when it came to school, but none really had an eye for art, nonetheless decoding it's meaning. So when Regulus serves his rawest emotions to them, veiled with heavy metaphors and complex symbolism. He doesn't expect them to understand.

In the case of his journal, he explains his own mind to himself. He doesn't hide behind his vast knowledge of magic. He doesn't hide his emotions behind frilly words. He's true to himself. Writes his emotions down with the simplicity of a child explaining the world to their parents. His complex emotions, deepest secrets, and truest thoughts come out late at night when everyone else is sleeping.

No one's allowed to read it. Many have asked and few have tried. In order to make sure no one does though, every time Regulus closes it he charms it to turn to stone.

So when he wakes up that Wednesday morning, and his journal has disappeared he doesn't worry, not right away. The book is stone, Evan probably stole it again to hit Barty with it.

He gets up out of bed and goes through his normal daily routine, showering, getting dressed, brushing his teeth and styling his hair. Only when he arrives to the great hall does he realize something's up.

One. Evan and Pandora are looking for him as he enters the great hall. Which is odd since they're usually engrossed in conversation. Two. The marauders aren't there. His brother and his brother's group of friends are almost always there before Regulus.

Evan waves him over and he goes to his usual seat at the table, wondering what's going on.

He spots his stone journal sitting on his plate. Regulus looks up to Evan to ask what's going on.

"We didn't read it," Evan quickly says.

Read what?

Regulus takes his seat and picks up his book, noticing there's a piece of parchment attached to the back of it. "Did you see who dropped it off?" Regulus asks his friends, peeling the note off the back of the stone.

Evan shakes his head. "Nope," Pandora continues his sentence, "It was here before we arrived."

How odd. Regulus starts to wonder who did this, but figures that the note may explain it better. So he unfolds the note and starts reading it.

Regulus,

Whoever wrote the note did not have good handwriting, Regulus squints to read it a little better.

I told them not to but your brother went into your room last night and stole this. I didn't want to know what you write in here. I can tell it's special and private to you so I will apologize as much as I can for your brother.

The boys read it out loud in the dorm room last night, I placed a silencing charm around the room to minimize the damage, but Remus, Peter and I all heard the things Sirius was reading.

I feel awful, it felt so wrong to be hearing your inner thoughts and I tried not to listen but, you mentioned my name a few times and well, I got curious. I apologize for that as well. I should have known better.

But if what you've written is true—which I suspect it is considering you never thought someone else would read this—I wanted to let you know that your feelings are reciprocated. Much to your brothers dismay, but, they are.

Sorry again,

And a million times more,

J.F.P

Regulus can barely begin to process the letter. On one hand, he's insanely mad at his brother for stealing his journal, and somehow finding the spell to revert it back to it's original form. But on the other hand, he's somewhat glad that he did it. It wasn't like Regulus was ever going to confront James about his crush himself.

But if Sirius read the stuff about his crush, then he probably read everything else too. Regulus sets fire to the note, watching the ash cover the stone. He looks up to his friends, “Someone found it on the floor outside of my room, nothing significant.”

[scruffytheclown]

My Top 5 Ghost and Soap Fanfictions

All are on Ao3

#5: Seasons - StinglessWasp

This fanfiction brought my love for Call of Duty out of hibernation. This author perfects writing Ghost and all his quirks but also how he is genuinely a good person who's trying despite his past. I absolutely loved the characterization.

#4: The Wind Will Howl Your Name - Minimelo

I absolutely adore this beautifully written, sweet, heart wrenching story. This author nails writing about the yearning for someone else. Also, this is one of the only Alternate Universe fanfictions I really enjoy. It doesn't waste time trying to build too much unnecessary detail in the world, but instead uses the different setting to complement Simon and Johnny's character and how they grow together. If that makes any sense at all.

#3: in lieu of the bells - headlocket

When I found out headlocket added a bonus chapter to all that's said in the low light I about cried. This is the perfect way to wrap up the best story I have ever read. I thought my heart was going to die from how special this ending was. It's perfect in every way.

#2: let these hills absolve me - flowersferns

This is by far the best Ghost and Soap fanfiction set in Ghost's point of view. I loved every minute of reading his internal monologue, with all of his overthinking. The setting was perfect. I loved being able to visualize this wonderful sheep farm in the middle of the mountains. A setting I think both of the boys deserve. I reread this a couple times and it hits me even harder every time. Just a masterpiece. This is actually what happens at the end of MWIII.

#1: all that’s said in the low light - headlocket

How do I even start? This is not a fanfiction. This is a work of art. Never have I read something that made me cry as much as this story did. I was not expecting so much symbolism and attention to detail in a fanfiction. The way something barely mentioned in one chapter will have a much deeper meaning as the story progresses is just incredible. Never have I cared so much for original characters and their relationships with Johnny and Simon. I will never recover from that poem Johnny wrote in chapter 12. Perfect. All of it is perfect.

[somethingvicked]

True love of mine part 3.

An Eddie Munson story

Stranger Things AU (no Upside-Down)

warnings: Female reader, slight angst, flexible timeline.

Chapter 2

Now

Y/N

Brent hadn’t come home yet when you arrived, so your little conversation had to wait.

You were restless and walked around in the apartment, turning and twisting your fingers around each other, trying to think about what to say to him.

That’s when it hit you to do something else to kill time. You may not know exactly what to say to Brent, but you knew exactly – or at least somewhat – what you wanted to tell Eddie, if you had the chance.

You had heard about the method of writing a letter to the person that had hurt you, that even if you didn’t send it, it could be a good way to get everything out.

You decided to do that.

An hour later – yes, that’s how long it had taken you to get everything you wanted to say down on paper – you folded the letter and looked down on it.

It felt… wrong to have finally expressed all of your feelings and just throw the letter away. Or to hide it away in a box; you had done that more than once through the years and obviously it hadn’t helped.

You had kept written poems over the years, even published a collection of your poems under a pseudonym.

And yet, that collection wasn’t even all of them. Benath your bed was several boxes of notebooks and loose papers of your writing – and for the last eleven years Eddie had been connected to each and every one of them, one way or another.

No one knew, though. Brent knew that you wrote poems, of course, he knew about your published work – you had a special account on Instagram dedicated to them – but you had never told him what you really wrote about. No, that wasn’t correct either, you had lied to him, plain and simple and told him that all those love poems, the longing ones, the sad ones talking about such deep hurt were poems you had actually written back in high school and had simply rewritten in present time.

You felt bad about lying to him, but the writing was more important. Somehow it felt like communicating with Eddie, through the channels of the universe, by putting your thoughts into words.

But since the words hadn’t run out, that you still felt the need to talk to Eddie said something, didn’t it?

No, you decided, you were going to send this to Eddie. To talk to him for real, once and for all. Make sure that he heard you.

 You wanted him to read it – to understand how much you still loved him, despite how he had hurt you and you had no idea why.

That you felt there was something wrong with you, that you couldn’t love anyone else to that degree – that it was like he had ruined everyone else for you, which was ironic since he was also the one person that had caused you the most hurt out of everyone you had ever met, not just boyfriends.

You looked online and found an address to send Eddie mail. But the problem was that it was an address for fan mail, and being a rockstar, Eddie surely got a millions of them every week. How could you make sure that this one caught his eye, that he understood that it was from you? You didn’t want to write a return address, in case the letter was read by someone else, you couldn’t be sure that that wasn’t a regular occurrence in by his team.

Then you had it. His full name. You would make out the letter to his full name.

Most people could probably figure out that ‘Eddie’ was short for Edward. But as far as you knew, he had never told anyone else his middle name. The only ones that knew were his parents (and his mother was dead, his father long gone), Wayne, the government… and you.

He had told you after all, even though he had sworn you to secrecy.

You wrote his full name and the address on an envelope, put a stamp on it and decided to go out to mail it. You didn’t want there to be any connections to you. Eddie would understand who it was from when he read it. If he didn’t… well, then you had done the best you could.

You still couldn’t understand what had happened, why Eddie had just taken off like that. The fact that he hadn’t offered any explanation – he hadn’t said that he had met someone else, or that the long distance thing had made him stop loving you.

Nor had his note said that he was fed up with going through his senior year for the third time – with a principal that had some kind of personal vendetta against him on top of it all – or that he was tired of being poor, living in a trailer park with his uncle despite being almost twenty, having to sell weed a prescription pills to rich ass high scool kids that tormented him and called him freak to his face yet had no qualms about buying his wares.

If he had written anything of the sort you would have understand. You would’ve been sad, angry and hurt, but you would’ve understand.

But instead he had only written: “I need to leave. Don’t look for me.”

You still had that note, in one of those boxes underneath your bed. Another thing you had in there, except your notebooks and the note, was the thing that had made you fall in love with him in the first place.

The first gift he gave you.

Then:

Hawkins, 1977.

Eddie

Eddie had been fascinated by the new girl since she read the poem at the talent show the other day.

He still remembered every word of her poem – which said something, since he rarely remembered anything anyone told him or unless he read them more than once; which reflected in his grades.

That talent show had made him notice her. But the time he fell in love, was when they had workshop together, two days later. That had also surprised him, that she had chosen shop instead of needlework.

He glanced over at her as she handled the tools with experience, her long hair tied into a bun so it wouldn’t get stuck in any of the machines, her front teeth worrying her lower lip as she concentrated.

It was as if she felt him watching her because she looked up just as she was moving the small jigsaw, meeting his eyes. He held her gaze, and she didn’t turn away, not until her eyes widened and she let out a loud yell.

Both of them looked down on her hand and saw that she had managed to cut herself on her index finger, clearly not concentrating on what she was doing.

Every guy - Eddie included, and he was ashamed to admit it afterwards - had expected her to cry.

Instead she all but growled – Eddie swore that she actually growled, muttering curses under her breath that would’ve given Eddie’s father a run for his money.

No tears. She kept muttering under her breath as she stomped over to the first aid kit, rubbing some saline solution on the wound before putting a band-aid on it. The teacher walked over and wondered if she wanted any help but the girl just bared her teeth at him like a cat, and growled again, something akin to ‘no’.

The teacher walked off – Eddie didn’t blame him.

He wanted to cheer her up, feeling like part of the accident was his fault, for making her lose focus, so five minutes later he came up to her and held out a flower he had made with steel-wire and copper cables. "Here."

Her eyes widened. "What... what's this?"

Luckily it didn’t seem like she was that angry anymore. She had probably had time to cool down while Eddie was busy.

"I... I made it. I wanted to cheer you up. I'm Eddie."

Her eyes lit up. "I know who you are. I remember you from the talent show – you guys were really good!"

She remembered him?

"Your poem was really good too," Eddie told her. "Deep. You're gifted."

She blushed, taking the flower from him, her hair catching the shine of the overhead light, making him notice how soft and lustrous it looked.

"Thank you, Eddie," she said, smiling at him. "I'm Y/N."

Y/N. The name that would from then on always be associated with the strongest feelings of his life.

Overwhelming love.

Deepest agony.

taglist: @ali-r3n @ficsbypix @mewchiili @melodymunson @ches-86 @jenniquinn @eddiemunsonfuxks

(let me know if you want to be on the taglist!)

please, like, comment and reblog!

Your likes are wonderful but reblogs expand my reading circle.

[oneshlut]

Your writing is so good!!! I’m so happy to finally have found someone who writes for Flug! (And I feel like you capture his personality so well :,) ) Could I request some headcanons for Flug with a partner who gives him a lot of handmade gifts. From paintings or little sculptures, to poems/letters and songs. Basically a really artsy reader who just likes giving personal gifts to Flug! ^^ (and maybe even some to 505 as well, like handmade plushies) Thank you sm!

A/N: you are TOO sweet! i love hearing about how much you all love my writing, and flug is one of my favorites to write for!! i'll try my best to convey the reader's personality and all, thanksies for requesting! <33

Homemade Affection (Dr. Flug x Artistic!Reader) [Headcanons]

Rules For Requesting

Characters I Will Write For

Masterlist

Summary: Headcanons of Dr. Flug with an artistic S/O, who creates trinkets, paintings, letters, etc. as gifts. Extra meeting and confessing headcanons

Dr. Flug is hardly someone you'd describe as creative. His inventions were great! But the designs were.. well, practical, I suppose. They were made exactly how they were supposed to be, just to the extent for the machinery to work. So he had never put too much effort into designs when it came to his work.

His inventions also usually never had anything special added to them. Flug makes things exactly how they're asked to be made, and nothing else. He's a man of order and schedule, and honestly can't live without it. Which is why he forgets to add an off button to most of his inventions.

You, on the other hand, loved free-will. Especially when it came to your own creations, art, paintings, writings--everything! If you did care for order and all, you make sure to add your own personal color to your schedule. Doodles can be found all over any paper you're given, and in your spare time/all the time, you'd create plushies, sculptures, collages.. truly, anything artistic. Anything you were given, you incorporated some sort of pigment into it.

You had first met him when you joined Blackhat Org., for villainy and such. Surprisingly, you were a great addition to the company! Surprising to Dr. Flug, at least. Now, he's usually not one to judge, but you were practically radiating with color, so he kinda thought you were just a Demencia duplicate. Upon meeting you, he found himself pleasantly shocked.

Flug was intriguing to you. So incredibly different than you, yet somehow, you two clicked. He was a nervous wreck, yet somehow put together. Kinda like you! (jk)

The more time you spent with him, the more Dr. Flug got comfortable with your presence. When he was having a busy day, he'd sometimes ask you to do small things for him. You, most of the time, obliged. Unless you were busy as well--most likely busy painting something that doesn't need to be painted.

Confessions? Oh--yes! Right, right.. well, Flug kinda had this whole plan written out of how he'd admit his feelings for you. He would pace around his room for hours, mumbling incoherent, scrambled thoughts of what would be the uttermost perfect way to confess. He doesn't know what the term "Don't overthink it" means. His rambles, walking to nowhere, and planning usually came to a pause when you stopped by.

How ignorant he was, because as he was writing out a plan that reached to the floor, you were cooking up your own idea to confess aswell. Except, you weren't focused on making it perfect. You wanted it to seem like it came from you. Yup, you were writing a confession letter to Flug. And yes, it did have doodles all over it.

When Dr. Flug left his laboratory for a moment, you stood to leave. Not after leaving your letter there, though. When he returned, he was worried about where you went, before the letter caught his eye.

He chuckled staring at the small doodles that covered the page. Then he read what you wrote..

Oh. His bag immediately flushed a deep red.

When the two of you got together, you immediately started on little crafts to give him. Either for dates, valentines day, christmas, or any holiday! Maybe one day for your anniversary..

Oh, Dr. Flug adores them. Every little thing you give him goes on a shelf right next to his jet collection. He treasures them as if they were of his own creation--because they were of yours. Nothing will be able to beat the feeling of receiving a gift from you. His eyes never fail to light up at the sight of your artwork. Yeah, he's head over heels. Not saying he worships you like a god, but he definitely looks up to you.

That confession letter definitely wasn't your last letter. Occasionally, you'd write him notes or letters for him when you couldn't make it to his lab. Sometimes love poems! Flug definitely tripped over his shoes reading your first love poem to him. He still can't believe such romantic subjects that he usually saw in movies were being shown.. towards him, of all people.

If you wrote a song for him? Dr. Flug would cry. Sorry, no way around it, his heart would throb and suddenly all his love for you was just flowing out in the form of tears. Afterwards, if you gave him a recorded tape of the song, he'd listen to it daily. Sometimes on loop in the background when he's doing work. He'd get distracted often, though...

The plushies definitely tugged at his heartstrings, though. You once gave him a plush heart, and he kept it on his desk everyday. Until 5.0.5. got to it. Dr. Flug once checked up on him to see how he was doing, before seeing him sleeping soundly, cuddling the knit creation you gifted him. After Flug sent a photo of it to you, because he was practically close to breaking down due to how wholesome the scene was, you knew exactly what you had to do.

The next day, you came in to the lab with two small hand-knit stuffies for 5.0.5. One sunflower, and one little mini-5.0.5. You were proud with how they turned out! Part of you wanted to keep them because of how cute they were, but you knew they were a gift for 5.0.5.

As soon as Dr. Flug set his sight on the stuffed plushies, his heart immediately warmed up. It honestly baffled him that someone would do that for 5.0.5., but I guess you were a naturally kind person. He was so lucky to have you, he realizes. After wiping the slightest bit of tears from his goggles, he took them and put them carefully with the rest of 5.0.5.'s stuffed animals.

Dr. Flug will now occasionally ask you to help him with his inventions designs, spotting your eye for color and overall talent when it came to.. well, art.

The two of you work together well, as both work-partners and.. partners. Flug adores your colorful nature, and you adore his technical nature. You snap together like yin and yang, and Dr. Flug couldn't ask for anything more than who you are.

If things keep going the way they are, you may wind up soulmates.