#terrible poet x only person who likes his poetry

[ripthomasthorne]

- What’s your favorite color? - Burgundy, big time.

#bbc ghosts #ghosts bbc #ghostsedit #thomas x kitty #kitmas #terrible poet x only person who likes his poetry #mine

[kirimoochi]

rooming with him.

₊˚ ᗢ kazuha x gn!reader, modern au.

⤷ what is he like as a roommate?

For someone as innocent-looking as him, it was hard to believe that he was someone who liked to smoke. A few of his friends might have differed and told you that he was most definitely that person, however, it never struck you as being true until you walked in on him smoking out on the balcony in just a t-shirt and shorts. 

Being part of the student council and various clubs must be taking a toll on him. He oftentimes overworks himself to the bone and it's easy to notice that than his habit of smoking. He tends to go home late because he’s finishing his studies at school, or he’s out with his club for socials. Thursdays are the hardest for him since all his literature classes have assignments due the same day. 

To make it easier on him, you go out of your way to take out the trash whenever it fills up and replace the Brita filter. It was small though some of these things are enough to stress the poor man out. Especially when it's been a long day and he just wants to get a drink of water from the fridge. 

He cooks and cleans the kitchen a lot more than you do. Even if he’s busy, he makes sure to make a large portion of food so that the two of you can eat together or have something in the fridge. He’s the type to meal-prep on days when he goes to the gym. You eating some of it never bothered him as it was better to not let anything go to waste. You just have to be aware that he mostly cooks seafood and the occasional chicken. He’s terrible at cooking beef for some reason. 

He likes to play his bass out in the living room. He can try to be quieter on days when you ask him to, like during midterms or finals, but he never likes to play in his stuffy room. You notice that sometimes his friends tease him in front of you about how he just wants to show off to you. He only replies to them with a small smile and glances at you. 

On the rare times you see his room, it’s rather clean and tidy. There were a lot of posters of artists he liked to listen to, and the occasional music sheets, though it was never overbearing. He had a lot of books lined up on the shelf and many of them had different colored annotations. If you ask him, he would be joyous to lend you some of his favorite poets. When you do so, you notice the way his cheeks are painted with warm hues. 

He just hopes that when you enter his room, you knock, otherwise you might see him working on love poetry about you.

#₊˚ ᗢ kirimoochi #genshin #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #kazuha #kazuha kaedehara #kazuha kaedehara x reader #kazuha x reader #genshin headcanons

[livethinking]

«Poetry is not a luxury»: Maya Angelou, Gwendolyn Brooks, Margaret Walker and poetry as resistance

«Poetry is not a luxury»[1], Audre Lorde said. Poetry is not a game, another amusement to dampen the boredom of a humdrum life but it’s a need, a necessity as instrument to the battle against oppression, to self-determination and to identitary resistance because «poetry is power»[2]. And this is as much true and confirmed when poetry becomes activism, when lyricism expresses, and thus bears witness, a discomfort and makes it universal, fathomable through the poetic language; when writing in verse is the only way to express ideas and makes sure they’re recognised in their own dignity, thus it’s necessary in order to save and let respected the existence of that human being who has thought it, in order to this existence can be recognised as such, can arise from oppression and systematic hate, can give voices to those whose lips were ripped off, such as women, for whom «[…] poetry […] is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we [women] predicate our hopes and dreams towards survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action. Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought»[3], so, poetry’s place where they can expresses opinions, needs, dreams, hope, in other words themselves, where the cultural system gives preference to other voices, wherein censorship is not official, i.e. perpetrated by an organisation or a law, but it’s cultural because it’s the culture that systematically chooses (a given social class) what creative expressions are more or less are in line with its own values or strengthen them. That’s why for centuries poetry (but also the whole literature) has been place wherein affirm ourselves and the individuality of our own identity, or express pride for a communitarian identity; as it was for women, who found in poetry an instruments they can express their real self through, getting out of the patriarchal control and out of the role they were bonded to by society and came less to the expectations of this one. In this way, women could so analyse her being woman, dreaming to choose who are and what to do, self-determinising and exploring their femininity beyond believes given by a certain historical moment; as it was for black community, wherein black poets could express the a beauty, the varieties, the complexity of their subculture, their traditions, history and so express the pride of being part of this ethnicity, fighting against racism and networking against the oppression perpetrated by a system that privileges white citizens (and more often men). These two concepts converge into the poetic experience of black women poets, for whom poetry became a place wherein speaking of their experience as women and black citizens, wherein they can exist and affirm their existence, «The white father told us: I think, therefore I am. The Black mother within each of us – the poet – whispers in our dreams: I feel, therefore I can be free. Poetry coins the language to express and charter this revolutionary demand, the implementation of that freedom»[4]. Let think of great poets like Maya Angelou, whose poems «often respond to matters like race and sex on a larger social and psychological scale»[5], or like Gwendolyn Brooks, whose poetry, especially the latest, is a political and civil poetry, taking as cultural reference heroes and subjects of the battle for liberation of black people (such as Winnie Mandela, wife to the anti-apartheid activist), but also like Margaret Walker who «through her work, she “[sang] a song for [her] people”, capturing their symbolic quest for liberation. When asked how she viewed her work, she responded, “The body of my work… springs from my interest in a historical point of view that is central to the development of black people as we approach the twenty first century”»[6].

1. Maya Angelou: I know why the caged bird sings

«The poignant beauty of Angelou’s writing enhances rather than masks the candid with which she addresses the racial crisis through which America was passing»[7]. That of Maya Angelou is a lively and melodic voice, her poems can talk even when there’s no human voice to give them sound, they have as mode,s the language of the intense, brave speeches of the great activist of the battle for black people’s rights like Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. Angelou was able to bring together all temporal planes in her writing: both in her poetry and autobiographies, she managed to give voice to the last, to make it a new present, part of the hic te nunc of the existence in action and not anymore as something disappeared with time, but as something that is still here partly, that is still a being. A past that is personal, her life, her youth, her terrible traumas, the beauty of growing before as a girl than as a woman; a pat that is of her community, the troubled story of afroamericana and who that the lyrical I becomes a We, the collectivity becomes a person. The personal experience is thus an exemplum for the common one and becomes even global. The present meets the past, that of when a given poems was born, that of readers, of the poet, it’s the daily battle which becomes memory, it’s the journey to the self-determination in a place where is hostility but also the future, it’s the caged bird that sings and whose song is heard by the free birds, the future is a song overcoming its own time: «The caged bird sings/with a fearful trill/of things unknown/but longed for still/and his tune is heard/on the distant hill/for the caged bird/sings of freedom»[8]. “The caged bird”, dr, Maya Angelou’s favourite metaphor, taken from Paul Laurence Dunbar, famous afroamerican author, is a symbol for the inner freedom that wins ones the oppression of the external, is an eternal song that’s heard until now and if it’s clearly listened, one can hear the thousand of voice from the past and here we can find the beauty in Maya Angelou’s writing: the ability to speak through not one but a thousand of voices, voices of both the present and the past, giving relevance to the last ones, and consequently she was able to tell the future, to be understood by who’ll be after her.

2. Gwendolyn Brooks: writing poetry that will be meaningful

The poetic voice of Gwendolyn Brooks, the first afroamerican woman to win the Pulitzer Prize, is raw, bitter when the language gets filled with political and cultural meaning, when brings a message without forgetting the sweetness, the beauty of a poised, refined style. Worked, studied poems, perfect verse and rhymes, but also intense, hard, which don’t take away to be tough, to tell the truth on oppression, pain, on the battle to re-humanise her own identity in a culture where it was deprived of its otherness, of being an Other Ego, an Other Truth. This happens especially with the her most famous poem collection, In The Mecca, a turning point for Brooks’s poetics. «I want to write poems that will be non compromising. I don’t want to stop a concern with words doing good jobs, which has always been a concern of mine, but I want to write poems that will be meaningful […]»[9] and this was so. Brooks managed to delineate a world, give multiple meanings to the words she used, to the poems, to speak with the voice of her great gallery of characters. In her poems, there’s her Lyric I, but also her characters. Such a polyphony that only few, even among novelists, can make it in such little verbal marks. «The words, lines, and arrangements have been worked and worked and worked again into poised exactness: the unexpected apt metaphor, the mock-colloquial asides amid jewelled phrases, the half-ironic repetition – she knows it all»[10]. A poetry that can speak to its people, community, that hopes, fights for a future where Gwendolyn Brooks «[…] envisioned “the profound and frequent shaking of hands, which in Africa in so important. The shaking of hands in warmth and strength and union”»[11].

3. Margaret Walker: poetry as hope, poetry for the people

Margaret Walker’s poetics is the voice of a whole people, is culture that becomes creative work of a lonely person for the universality and becomes bringer of values. It’s the song of a choir, a choir for the last, of the story of slavery, of that community that still fights for the right to exist; it’s a choir that still sings and never stops to sing the lines of this wonderful poet.

One of the most loved and praised poem of Margaret Walker is “For My People”, which contains all the characteristics that made unique Walker’s poetry and it’s an excursus through the past and more recent history of US Black community, from the tragedy of slavery, to civil battles still fought nowadays in the heart of the New World; «poems in which the body and spirit of a great group of people are revealed with vigour and undeviating integrity»[12]. She uses as reference cultural elements of her community, recalls heroes, events that form that culture as vast as unheard by those who spit poison to not lose the position of privilege, and if this culture isn’t heard, then Margaret Walker addresses also to the deaf. She speaks to them as well, making universal a history that’s particular. Walker speak to everyone through her rhymes, she speaks to the humanity; her poetry talks about tragedies but is full of hope because she knows there will be always someone who still listen, fight, defend, doesn’t forget, «[…] the power of resilience presented in the poem is a hope Walker holds out not only to black people, but to all people […] “After all, it is the business of all writes to write about the human condition, and all humanity must be involved in both the writing and in the reading”»[13]

Viviana Rizzo

References

[1] LORDE, A., “Poetry Is Not a Luxury”, in Audre Lorde, Sister outsider, Trumansburg N.Y., Crossing Press, 1984, p. 371

[2] TODOROV, L’arte nella tempesta. L’avventura di poeti, scrittori e pittori nella Rivoluzione Russa, trans. ita. by Emanuele Lana, Milano, Garzanti S.r.l., 2017, p. 120 (iBooks)

[3] LORDE, A., “Poetry Is Not a Luxury”, in Audre Lorde, Sister outsider, p. 372

[4] Ibidem

[5] EDITORS, “Maya Angelou”, in Poetry Foundation, web, 2021, (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/maya-angelou, retrieved on 24th February 2021)

[6] EDITORS, “Margaret Walker”, in Poetry Foundation, web, 2021 (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/margaret-walker, retrieved on 24th February 2020).

[7] HOLST, W.A., “Review of A song Flung up to Heaven”, in Christian Century (giugno 2002), pp. 35-36, cit. in EDITORS, “Maya Angelou” in Poetry Foundation

[8] ANGELOU, M., The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou, New Work, Random House Inc., 1994, p. 194

[9] EDI TORS, “Gwendolyn Brooks”, Poetry Foundation, web, 2021 (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/gwendolyn-brooks consultato il 24 febbraio 2021)

[10] LITTLEJOHN, D., Black on White: A Critical Survey of Writing by American Negroes, New York, Grossman, 1966, p. 91, cit. in EDITORS, “Gwendolyn Brooks”, in Poetry Foundation

[11] EDITORS, “Gwendolyn Brooks”, in Poetry Foundation

[12] UNTERMEYER, L. “New Books in Review” in Yake Review, vol. XXXII, n. 2 (inverno 1934), p.371, cit. in EDITORS, “Margaret Walker”, in Poetry Foundation

[13] EDITORS, “Margaret Walker”, in Poetry Foundation

#Black women #literature #poetry as resistance #Maya Angelou #ethnicity #resistance #black history month #Margaret Walker #poetry #Black community #Gwendolyn Brooks #activism #people #Black people #battle for civil rights #black lives matter

[nitannichionne]

If He Was YOUR Fan, Chapter 5: Top of the World (Henry Cavill x Reader Fanfic)

You finally stop in front of Westminster Abbey and you gasp.

“You said you hadn’t gotten around to it,” Henry gives a shrug so small only you can feel it since you’re holding him.

“Ohhhhhh,” you whisper, sliding off.

He takes your hand and leads you inside. There is an evening tour going on.

“Oh, we’re late--?” You gasp, about to step toward them, but Henry squeezes your hand slightly. You step back and see a young man walking toward you.

“Mr. Cavill?” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Gordon, your guide this evening.”

“Hello, Gordon,” Henry nods, shaking the man’s hand. He introduces you and you all take off in another direction, but not before some of the people in the back of tour group start to notice you. You cringe as a few phones swing your way, but unless they are using zoom, probably got nothing.

You nod through the tour, but then you finally reach it. “Yes!” You move quickly.

“Ah, so you know Poet’s Corner!” Gordon smiles.

“Yeah!” you are excited and start reading names and telling what they wrote to catch your attention. “You see, from junior high on, I started reading these people. They were such a comfort, such a getaway, so inspiring, you know?  I absolutely loved them.” Your eyes are bright with tears.

“Your favorite English poet?”

“I don’t know, they all said things that struck me,” you say. “I mean, like Elizabeth Barrett Browning-she started writing when she was eleven! I was twelve!” you laugh, shaking your head. “Thomas Hardy—but not his heart, it’s with his wife, and then—” you sigh. “then there’s Herrick…” your face tears up. “He was the one who made me feel like I was beautiful no matter what—”

“Not Shakespeare?” Henry asks.

“No!” you laugh. “I love Shakespeare, but there is this poem called ‘Delight In Disorder?’ Or ‘No Fault In Women? No?” you take a breath. “He talked about how our imperfections make us beautiful. I mean, men don’t act that way, but I thought, if one can see it, maybe there was hope—” You stop, realizing you were about to say something terribly personal, and turn back to the memorial, hugging yourself. “It’s a beautiful place, really!” You gaze upon the entire monument of graves, tablets and busts, trying to memorize everything, but your vision blurs with tears. “You probably think I’m silly—” You turn and see Gordon and Henry standing and smiling. “Yeah, you do.”

“No, madam,” Gordon nods respectfully. “I think you get it.”

Henry puts his arm around you. “Need more time?”

“Oh, I could stand here forever—” But from a distance, you hear a group coming in and you look up at him. “We should go. It isn’t going anywhere, right?”

Henry nods slowly. “Right.”

You finish the tour and Gordon walks you to the door.

“It’s been an honor, sir—” Gordon nods to Henry who nods back, then looks at you and half bows. “and a great privilege, madam.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

You walk away, and Henry pulls you closer to him as you walk out. “I think you made his day, pet.”

You gasp softly. “Why? What—”

“Not everyone loves literature and writing as you do,” he smiles down at you. “people like you are why Poets Corner is there-to remember and inspire the present and future with the past. I am quite sure he’ll never forget you.”

Your cheeks heat, feeling embarrassed. “I have been there before, but…it’s so, so, so—”

He kisses your temple. “Nothing to explain, darling,” he whispers. “nothing to explain.”

You move on and once again, Henry has made a reservation:

“Oh, my God, what a beautiful view!” you breathe as you ascend in the London Eye, looking at London from a bird’s eye view via ferris wheel. “This is great!”

You look at the virtual guide, which is a map of the city from on high with buttons one can push for information. Henry steps behind you and presses each one, systematically giving you a quick overview of downtown London. His voice is smooth and cultured, his words measured and articulate, total poetry in motion as he tells you about each site by heart. You try to listen, but the feel of his body behind, you the firmness and warmth of it, the softness of his lips as they brush your ear perhaps accidentally, the sound his voice that causes you relax against him, makes you a poor student at the moment.

At the height of the wheel, overlooking twinkling city of London and the moonlit river, Henry slowly turns you toward him and kisses you. You’ve been waiting for this; your first kiss was hot and branding, and you craved more, even that reckless and delicious yet aching feeling that he started in the pit of your stomach before. He doesn’t disappoint, and you arch to him again, his arms on either side of you and hands on the sightseeing console trapping you in his embrace. You rake his back, your finger tips digging into the small of his back, and he lifts his head with a small gasp as his hips surge forward compelling you to widen your stance.

“You have really got to stop that,” he smiles down at you with hooded eyes, his breathing quickened once again.

You are panting. “I’m not sure I can.” You do it again, and love the feel of him. His eyes are smoldering. Not here, you think. Not here. Ever?

But the answer was in his eyes as you private car starts downward. “Let’s…head to my place. Still got all that food from Godfrey’s.”

“Oooh, and olives!” you say excitedly, running your fingers through his hair. “I saw wine in there. We’ll make appetizers.”

He frowns slightly and nods, a small smile forming on his lips. “Alright, then. Sounds like a plan…when we get down from here.”

“We’re heading down,” you remind him, feeling a bit nervous now that you feel the wetness of your own arousal, your heartbeat thudding in your ears. You are beginning to ache for him, and you hope he doesn’t know that your heart and body are having a hard time being reined in by your mind and good sense.

“Got about ten minutes,” He whispers. “I’ll think of something…” He lowers his head to recapture your mouth with his and you arch again to his caresses, allowing yourself to surrender to his embrace knowing the night hides you and that reality would come before your ultimate surrender when you reach the ground.

@mistress-of-ward​ @nuggsmum @messyinsomniacbookgirl @jencanbeyouryengeralt​ @sweetdreamsofgelato​ @maryann84 @omgkatinka​ @the-soot-sprite @viking-raider @keanureevesisbae​ @henryobsessed​ @summersong69​ @kinbhot4henners​ @sunshine96love​ @michelehansel​ @radofrivia @thelastsock​ @michelehansel @tumblnewby​

Thanks for the follows and the messages! I’m really having fun with this and it makes me happy you are, too! Let me know if you want to be on the tag list.

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill fluff #romance #superman #geralt #henry cavill fanfic

[sugarsugarmoon]

Passion Project

Summary: artist!yoongi x poet!reader. yoongi and yn are friends that are attending the same university. in need of a muse for his latest assignment, yoongi turns to you for a rather intimate portrait.

Genre: fluff, fluff, and more fluff

Warnings: some swearing, teeth rotting, heart aching, cliche ass fluff

a/n: This is my contribution to the @heartsforbtsnet​’s “The Chronicles of y/n” collab. It was tough for me to write only fluff, but I loved it. I love Yoongi 🥺. There will be an nsfw follow-up piece.

WC: 3830

Everyone always said “don’t go to art school,” and “what are you going to do with a fine art degree?”

You didn’t know, but you knew what you loved. Your passion is split between creative writing and film photography. You would give anything to be able to write poetry for a living, but you know that you’re no Rupi Kaur. Opportunities for poets aren’t very common. But you remained true to yourself, writing everything at every given opportunity.

You fell in love with photography at 13. You had saved up all of your spare money for a year to be able to take Film Photography 101 at the local youth center. From the first roll of film that you processed, you were in love. And now you’re here. Studying the things you love most.

You were filling an elective requirement and taking an intro to drawing course. Most of the people in there were musicians or writers or photographers like yourself. One of them was the music production and painting major Min Yoongi. You thought it was weird to see him in that class the first time you saw him there. Painters usually knew at least a little bit about drawing.

The first day of class, you’d gone around the room and said who you were and what you hoped to get out of the class. You had said your name and that you hoped to gain any skills in drawing at all. Min Yoongi had said that he struggled with still life, focusing mainly on the abstract in his paintings. He wanted to get better at figures. You could relate because you could draw a pretty decent mountain range, but a person? Forget it.

You knew Yoongi from around campus. A friend of a friend, kind of deal. You sat beside him and another Photography major that you get along with, Jeon Minju. Minju is sweet and silly. Yoongi is quiet and sarcastic. It was a weird juxtaposition that you found hilarious. Drawing might just be your favorite class this semester for that simple reason.

The class started out easy enough. Only drawing shadows. One continuous line drawing. Your favorite was playing with charcoal. It was just fun to manipulate and smudge. You loved playing with negative space and light. And getting your fingers covered made you feel like a child playing with chalk.

Yoongi and Minju were both good with light as well. Yoongi’s shadow drawings were incomparable with the rest of the class. You kept thinking to yourself that it was absurd he was here.

Until it came time for figure drawing.

That’s when you realized that though most artists can figure out light and shadows...figures are something completely their own. You listened carefully to every word from the professors mouth, trying to improve your craft. You were not great by any definition of the term, but man, were you better than Min Yoongi. His drawings looked like they were done by first graders who were trying their hardest to make anything look right but just couldn’t get it.

You tried to encourage Yoongi and not laugh at his drawings, but sometimes it was hard when the person in it looked like a straight up penis. 

“Dude,” you said to him once, “you’ve seen a person before, right?”

He had blushed crimson and turned away from you. You felt a little guilty about making him embarrassed, and you tried to walk it back. The damage had already been done, and he didn’t show you any of his drawings for 2 weeks. When he finally showed you one, it was so much better.

“Yoongi, honestly I’m sorry I made fun of you, but this is so good.”

It wasn’t “so good,” but it was pretty good. You wanted to boost his confidence. It seems to work all right, and he starts showing you more of his drawings. You feel a slight feeling of redemption inside at fixing your own mistake.

Over the course of the semester, you, Yoongi, and Minju spent a lot of time together. Something about bonding over the stress of not being good at drawing had bonded the three of you. Every Thursday you eat lunch together at the taco stand in the student center. You even organized a couple of movie nights, watching B-movies together and laughing at how terrible they are.

Birdemic: Shock and Terror was one of your favorites. The three of you had laughed so hard at it because none of it made any sense, and it looked like it was filmed on the cheapest piece of crap camera in the weirdest locations possible.

You sat in your living room, eating popcorn and chips, watching the movies together. It started out kind of awkwardly keeping your distance from each other. Minju on one side of you, Yoongi on the other.

You kept your shoulders away from both of theirs, tending to lean further toward Minju just because you didn't want to make Yoongi uncomfortable. You felt unsure about him at first. Soon you'd started to get to know him more, and you learned that he wasn't cold like he had initially seemed. He was funny and sarcastic. You loosened up. You didn't mind if your shoulder brushed his or if the two of you shared a snack, occasionally brushing finger tips.

It was comfortable, your friendship with Minju and Yoongi. The three of you nearly inseparable. Your schedule coincided with Yoongi’s more than Minju’s, so you ate lunch together nearly everyday, swiping into the dining hall and finding his friends or yours. They knew now to save 2 seats for both of you.

The two of you were nearly inseparable except for when you were in classes. He would meet you in the quad, paint splatters on his face and hands, beaming at you. It was such a seamless friendship. He was an introvert who was kind of over people. You were an introvert who was kind of over people. It just clicked. 

****

One night in November, you had a movie night planned with Minju and Yoongi. Minju calls you around 6pm panicking because she hasn’t finished one of her photography projects. You had finished it earlier in the week, and you offer to come down to the photography building to help her. She insists that she wants to do it on her own, but she won’t be able to make the movie.

You tell her it was no big deal and that you can reschedule for another time. You text Yoongi, and he asks if you still wanted him to come. At first you want to say no because you aren’t going to end up watching the movie you planned. Then you decide that it would be nice seeing Yoongi anyway. He is one of your best friends anyway, so why not?

When Yoongi arrives at your door, he’s wearing a gray beanie with a square, unamused gray smiley face on it. He has one AirPod in one ear. His slight frame is clothed with a gray hoodie with a white shirt poking out the bottom. He has on fitted, tapered sweatpants with a white stripe down the side. Quintessential cozy Yoongi.

He has a brown bag in his hand that you can tell is full of food. There’s a small damp spot on the side from condensation.

“I brought food,” he says with a shrug. 

He makes his way to your couch like he lives there himself. He tosses the bag down on the coffee table, plops down on the couch, and begins to rummage through the paper sack. He pulls out several different containers, each holding some of your favorite foods. You feel a weird feeling in your chest as you watch him sitting there, casually opening the lids on each of the takeout containers.

You shake off the feeling and sit next to him. You dig into the food, picking out pieces of oi kimchi with your chopsticks and popping them into your mouth. Looking at the table, you see that Yoongi got extra of your favorite, oi kimchi, even though he doesn’t like it very much. You smile at the sight of it then keep eating.

The two of you sit in near silence, chewing away on the samgyeopsal and galbi.

You turn to him and ask, “Do you want to watch a movie? It’s almost Thanksgiving. We could watch my all time favorite Thanksgiving movie.”

“Two questions,” he replies. “One: THERE ARE THANKSGIVING MOVIES? Two: YOU HAVE A FAVORITE!?”

“Well, one, yeah. And two, of course.”

You switch on the TV and click over to the hard drive that you have connected to it. You hover over the title “Thankskilling” and turn and look over at Yoongi. He reads the title and chokes slightly on his food. A satisfied smile spreads across his face, and he nods at you. Both of you turn your attention back to the screen.

The two of you laugh out loud immediately upon, “Nice tits, bitch!” being uttered by the turkey. Yoongi laughs hard out loud.

“Oh, I am so excited about this,” he utters.

The movie continues on, you and Yoongi laugh and add commentary as you watch. The tears brim in your eyes as you watch, and Yoongi grabs your leg hard as he laughs at “Gobble, gobble, motherfucker.”

You look down at his hand on your knee and stare at it for a moment. You feel weird seeing it there, but it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels warm, calming, and comfortable. Yoongi turns and sees his hand resting on your leg. He immediately pulls it away and looks up at you, cheeks turning pink. You turn away and try to pretend like you didn’t feel something in the pit of your stomach.

The rest of the movie, the two of you sit a little further apart from one another, still laughing and commenting the whole time. When the movie is over, you chat, turning slightly toward one another, joking about the turkey and school with one another.

After an hour, your roommate walks into the apartment from her study group with her friends. She looks up at the two of you on the couch and raises her eyebrows.

“Sorry, yn, I didn’t realize you had a date tonight. I would have stayed out longer.”

You feel the heat coming to your cheeks, and you drop your head. “It’s not a date. It’s just Yoongi,” you snap as quickly as possible.

You don’t look at Yoongi at all, so embarrassed by Jinhee’s comment.

“Well, I gotta go,” Yoongi mutters awkwardly next to you.

He gets up and stalks out the door quickly past Jinhee. He barely tosses a “goodbye” your way as he makes his way into the hallway. You glare at your roommate, and when she closes the door you roll your eyes.

“Thank you so much for making that as awkward as possible,” you say and begin cleaning the food off the coffee table. You sulk off into your bedroom as soon as you have cleaned up. Jinhee shouts sorry after you.

***

Near the end of the semester, the professor assigns you a project. Any medium that you want to use to draw. 5 human figure drawings.

Passion.

That’s it. That’s the whole prompt. He didn’t give you any more information. He just said passion. When asked by students, he did say that it could be the same figure or 5 different figures. Any size. Any paper. Any style. And an author’s statement about the techniques used and how it represents passion.

Easy enough. But challenging in so many ways. You decided to draw your 5 best friends - Jungkook, Jimin, Hoseok, Namjoon, and Seokjin. The passion there would be the different passions you see within all of them. Jungkook’s passion for boxing. Jimin’s passion for baking. Hoseok’s passion for dance. Namjoon’s passion for social justice. Seokjin’s passion for acting. Together, the five of them were the most passionate people that you know. They were chasing their dreams, and it helped you feel like you could absolutely complete the assignment.

Yoongi was a different story. He seemed panicked from the moment the professor said that it was figure drawings. You could see him wracking his brain for something that could represent passion to him. You wanted to grab his hand and comfort him, tell him it would be okay.

You and Minju chatted excitedly after that class about the ideas that you had. Yoongi lagged behind, dragging his feet slightly. At the lunch table in the dining hall, Yoongi seemed distracted, poking his food and barely eating.

“Yoongi, what’s your deal, man?” Minju asks, a small smirk on her face.

“I’m not sure,” he says in a faint voice.

Minju turns to you and shrugs. You keep working on your bowl of cereal. You know it’s not the most nutritious meal, but hey, you’re in university. This is the time to eat cereal for every meal. You aren’t sure what you could even do for Yoongi, and you’re pretty sure the project is getting to him. He was fine before class started.

“Hey, Yoon, is it the project getting to you?”

“I just don’t know what to do,” he grumbles.

“Well, that’s okay, Yoongi. You have some time,” Minju pipes.

You stuff another bite of cereal into your mouth, looking between the two of them. You aren’t sure what you could even encourage him to do because you know him, but you don’t really know his passions beyond painting and music.

“Maybe you could draw something that has to do with painting?” you ask between bites.

“I just don’t know,” he says and turns his eyes back down to the plate in front of him.

The three of you sit in awkward silence eating your food. You are unsure how to comfort your friend, but you don’t want to push him any further. When lunches ends, you all go to your classes, saying brief awkward goodbyes.

*******

You hardly see Yoongi except for in class over the course of the next two weeks. He’s a little distant and stoic in class, so you just focus your attention on drawing your final project. You love the way that the shadows you create on the paper show the love and beauty within your friends. They aren’t perfect drawings, but you see each of your friends in each of the drawings.

For your artist statement, you decide to describe the technique and medium normally but write the statement about them into poems. 

Seokjin. Charcoal on paper. The faces you wear Hide the pain within you You put on each of your masks Dazzling the crowd Your eyes sparkle They tell the story Of your life And the thousand others You play

Namjoon. Graphite on paper. Someone said You couldn’t do it When in reality You were doing it all along You hold up the world Against the light To see it for what it is Examining it like a researcher Like a warrior You won’t stop

Hoseok. White charcoal on black paper. Your movements Fluid Like water Dancing Lapping at the shore

Your passion Love Like the moon Pulling Pushing the passion from within you

Jimin. Graphite on paper. Like the cinnamon roll. You are warm and sweet. Filled with love and spiciness. Without the tang of the cinnamon, The sugar would be too sweet. Without the sugar, The cinnamon would bite too hard. You, like the cinnamon roll, Are a comfort A joy A love To be savored.

Jungkook. Charcoal on canvas. The sweetest and softest. The kindest and brightest. The golden boy. The strongest and the fiercest. The boldest and the truest. My golden maknae.

You looked at your drawings and the pages, the short poems. You feel a pride inside that swells in your chest as you breathe deeply, looking down at it. The way that you feel like the aura of each of your friends radiates from the pages. Even from the black and white, you can feel Hoseok’s orange, Seokjin’s pink, Jungkook’s red, Jimin’s purple, and Namjoon’s blue. The warmth of them jumps off the page.

You wonder to yourself how Yoongi is doing.You send him a text, and he doesn’t respond. You assume he’s working hard on all of his classes because it’s the end of the semester. Personally, you’ve put together a portfolio of 200 poems and completed a photo folio. You were burned out, and you felt like the drawings took the most time for you. You can imagine that with painting and drawing, Yoongi is swamped.

You see him on the day that you’re supposed to have a gallery walk for all of the classes final projects. He isn’t in the room at first when everyone starts setting up, their pieces and their statements displayed together. He jogs into the room a little late with papers stuffed under his arm, pressed against his side.

He lays out his drawings hastily and flops down a paper in front of them in the last open spot. He doesn’t greet you and Minju, but you figure he’s just stressed. The class begins, and you make your way around the room. You read each artist’s statement carefully, feeling self-conscious about yours when you read the explanations that your peers wrote. Much more in-depth about the topics and the subjects. You worry about your grade.

You make your way to Minju’s, and you smile at the drawings of cameras and photographers. Minju is so committed, so passionate about photography. You can feel her smile in each of the drawings. They’re not perfect, but they are pretty good. Minju was the most talented of the three of you. The smile creeps across your face again as you read the words detailing her love for photography, the way a camera feels in her hand, the joy she feels when the developer starts to reveal the image.

When the timer goes off, you continue to move. There are a few more that you read before you arrive at Yoongi’s. You stare at the pages, your eyes darting around the page at each of the features. Your breath catches in your throat, and your stomach does a flip. There’s no way.

On the pages before you, you see the curve of your own nose and cheeks. The way your hair rests against your collarbone. The glitter in your eye. You can’t mistake the face and body that you see in the mirror every single day.

You snatch the artist’s statement off the desk and pull it close to your face. Your eyes scan the words as tears start to well your eyes.

Passion. To me passion is the way that you can watch any B movie and find the good in it. Passion is how you write poem after poem, searching for the precise word. Passion is the way that you want to capture every beautiful moment on film. Passion is your smile as you read a text from your mother. Passion is the way that you bite your fingernails when you’re thinking hard. Passion is the way that your pen moves on the paper as your forehead crinkles. Passion is the way you make me feel. Passion is you. Graphite on paper.

You can’t stop the tears that fill your eyes, and your heart is pounding in your chest. You turn and scan the room. You can’t see Yoongi through the sea of bodies across the room. The feeling overwhelms you, so you decide to take a moment in the hallway. No one will notice you're gone.

Once in the hall, you take a deep breath. You hear a shuffling down the hallway from you. You snap your head toward the sound, and there stands a cat-like man in a black sweatshirt and a gray beanie. He’s looking at you with a sadness in his eyes, and the tears start to fall from your eyes.

“Why are you crying?” Yoongi asks, walking toward you.

You shake your head unable to form the words.

“Did you see it?” he asks, timidly. “Oh my god, you hate it!”

He turns his face away from you, but he doesn’t walk away. He brings his thumb up and wipes a tear away from your cheek. You sniffle and wipe the tears from the other side. Your eyes finally meet his.

“No, I didn’t hate it, Yoongi. So far from that.”

A light spreads to his eyes and across his face. “Really?”

“Yoongi, those things that you wrote. Did you mean that?”

With a smile on his lips, he gently grabs your chin and says, “I meant every single word of it. Over the last few months, things have seemed...lighter. Brighter. You’ve done that in my life. My paintings are more bright, with warmer colors. Hell, I’ve been whistling. You make everything seem okay. Honestly, yn, you make me so happy, it’s stupid.

“Yoongi, I feel the same way. You should read the sappy poems that I’ve been writing. You have changed me for the better. I look forward to talking to you every day. I light up if your name shows up on my phone.”

You mean to say more, but at that moment, Yoongi tilts your chin toward him and presses his lips against yours. His mouth is soft and pillowy; the sweet minty flavor in his mouth draws you in further. You kiss him more deeply and wrap your arms around his neck. When the two of you separate, you smile at him. You can’t help but be reminded of Cho Chang in Harry Potter. You kiss the boy that you like so much while there are tears on your face.

The classroom door clicks, and you hear a familiar voice from the room.

“Oh god. It’s about time you too,” Minju calls toward you. She giggles then you hear the door click shut.

“As much as I love this moment, we should probably get back inside and get back to class,” you whisper against Yoongi’s lips.

“I don’t want toooooooo,” he whines and kisses you again.

You pull away from him and lace your fingers through his. You pull the reluctant man toward the classroom. He whines and moans the whole time, but eventually, he gives in and enters the classroom with him.

After the class period is over, you and Yoongi walk down the hall with Minju, you two holding hands. You kiss him on the cheek, and Minju murmurs, “gross.”

“I don’t even care what grade I get,” Yoongi says. “I got the best possible thing from that class.”

He looks at you and both you and Minju, and the two of you groan at the cheesy comment.

“What? I mean the ability to draw better,” he laughs. “Oh!? Did you think I meant you? Look, you’re great, but I mean...I’m an amazing drawer now.”

#heartsforbts #btswritingcafe #coycollaboration #btsguild #minthlynet #yoongi x reader #yoongi fluff #yoongi fanfic #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi bts #bts fanfic #bts x reader #sfw bts #reader insert bts

[firewoodfigs]

letters to a young poet 

Summary: Riza Hawkeye, a young, aspiring poet, exchanges letters with her fiancé, Roy Mustang during his time in the military academy. He attempts to write her poems and prose about life and love, and occasionally sends her presents to remind her of him. Like his boxers.

read on ao3  

(a/n: (i) title is taken from Rilke's book. (ii) tw: the timeline of this is largely based on yet another man's battlefield, so there are brief mentions of racism here. (iii) I recommend reading on ao3 instead because... formatting issues, again xD (iv) original poetry at the end)

for @royaiweek 2020 - thank you to the lovely mods for organising!! 💖 

~x~

“Promise you’ll write to me when I’m away?”

“Of course, Roy,” Riza drawls idly as she adjusts his coat and ensures that his tie is neatly in place.

“Thank you. I’m going to miss you terribly, you know,” he says, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead before stretching his arms out invitingly. Smiling, she leans in and allows herself to be crushed to his chest in a warm, firm embrace.

God, I’m really going to miss her, he thinks, as he inhales her scent - a lovely mix of gunpowder and peonies and old books - and incarcerates it in his memory.

Roy steps back to admire her pretty countenance properly. Pride and admiration swells in his heart, and he can't help but run his fingers gently through her flaxen tresses once more before resting them on her lips.  

“Let me be your muse,” Roy declares with a triumphant grin, pressing a hand to his heart with a melodramatic flourish that earns an amused eye roll from his fiancée. “For parting is such sweet sorrow, and -“

“Shut up.” She pulls him by his tie to kiss him roughly, before flashing a wicked grin and kicking him out of the door. “Get going, you lovesick, histrionic fool.”

Riza throws his belongings out and slams the door as he stares at the wood longingly with an endearing pout.

~x~

June 8th

Dear Riza,

How doth your literary endeavours come along? I hope all is well with thee. Whenever I close my eyes, I see you Like a midsummer’s night dream, exquisite And when I open my eyes to sunlight I cannot wait to see you once again.

All my love, Roy.

~x~

June 12th

Roy,

Stop trying to imitate Shakespeare and force all your sentences into iambic pentameters. It makes me shudder - in disgust, not delight, lest you misconstrue what I’m saying.

Anyway, my literary endeavours are coming along fine. I’ve been spending my time reading some of the books you got me for my birthday, and for someone who writes so incorrigibly you sure do have impeccable taste. All is well on my end. What about you? How are you adjusting to the academy?

Thanks for the pressed flowers that you sent over, by the way. They’re surprisingly lovely, though I’m sure all credit goes to Vanessa’s guidance.

I also enclosed a scarf that I personally knitted for you in case it gets cold at night. Because you have an uncanny tendency to misplace your things, I embroidered a few water droplets in blue at the bottom for clearer identification (if you lose it I’m never making you anything ever again, this took me days to complete).

Hopefully, they serve as a reminder to you that you’re useless in the rain as well, so that you’ll refrain from doing anything reckless or stupid in my absence.

All my love, Riza.

~x~

Roy tears the package open with all the enthusiasm of a child opening his presents on Christmas morning the instant it lands in his hands. His eyes light up appreciatively at the lovely scarf, laughing at the tiny water droplets at the bottom that she’d added as a personal touch.

When he reads her letter and realises its intended meaning, though, an indignant frown makes its way to his handsome features.

Nevertheless, he dons it on immediately, relishing in the warm comfort and how it smelt like her, like flowers blooming in spring (even if his fiancée didn’t appreciate his poetic attempts, he very much liked to believe he was capable of using a simile properly).

June 16th

Dear Riza,

Thank you for the lovely gift, although your harsh words wound me terribly. Nevertheless, I understand that underneath your acerbic tongue lies a tender heart full of love, and I am a lucky man to be the sole recipient of it. I’m glad you liked the flowers. One day I’ll buy you a carful of them, I promise.

Things are going fine here. I’m adjusting well to the ridiculous sleep schedule (you’re the only person I know who willingly wakes up at seven in the morning daily), and with the rigorous physical training we have to endure I believe you’ll have a glorious set of washboard abs to admire the next time you see me.

I must say, though, the food here is pretty bad. Spinach quiche is pretty much the only edible thing, but this man - I think his name was Huggles or something. Sorry, Hughes - had the audacity to take the last piece of quiche right under my nose.

(Per your commands, though, I refrained from trying anything stupid.)

What’s even worse is the racial prejudice. The other day I saw an Ishvalan getting bullied by a trio of ugly men, but they left before I realised what was really happening… So I helped him out after that. I can’t bear it, to this day - they picked on him just because of his skin colour, for goodness sake! It was completely unwarranted.  

It’s only been a week but I already miss you terribly. Can’t wait till I see you again.

All my love, which extends from one end of Amestris to Xing, Roy.

~x~

June 21st

Dear Roy,

Sure, keep deluding yourself however you like if it makes you happy. You’re not the only recipient, by the way - I made a cute little scarf for Hayate, too, who has replaced your ‘snuggling spot’ in my bed, as you like to call it. Between the both of you I sometimes can’t tell who smells worse.

Also, don’t be ridiculous - what would I even do with a carful of flowers?

I’m glad to hear that things are fine on your end. Waking up at seven is a wonderful thing, especially when you get to see the sunrise, no? I look forward to seeing those abs, though with your drinking habits I’m sure you’ll probably end up with a beer belly in the foreseeable future. Don’t drink too much.

I’m sorry to hear about the quiche. I’ll make you one when you’re back. If it makes you feel better, though, I’ve sent some cookies I made the other day to you as well. Express delivery, in case they go bad.

Also, even if you haven’t already punched the Hughes guy I can already envision you slamming your tray down on the table, turning around to scowl at him like a petulant child and competing with him in just about everything you do.

All I will say is this: relax, it’s just a bloody quiche.

Good to know that you did that! The Ishvalans most certainly don’t deserve such treatment. No one does, of course, but it’s frustrating that certain ethnicities still continue to be singled out and ostracised in Amestris, despite the state’s proclamation that it’s a cosmopolitan society accepting of different cultures and whatnot… Until then, we have to stand with them, stand up for what’s right, and -- oh, I don’t mean to ramble. Just know that I’m proud of you, Roy. Keep at it.  

If it does make you feel better I suppose a tiny part of me does miss you too. Just the slightest.

All my love, Riza (not interested in your silly competitions) Hawkeye.

~x~

Roy blanched at the bag of cookies she’d sent him and the thought of Riza’s quiche. Cooking had never been her strongest suit, and while she was talented in many areas somehow all of that seemed to go away every time she entered a kitchen.

Nevertheless, it was Riza who’d painstakingly made them, and because he appreciates his fiancée’s efforts he vows to eat every single one of them even in her absence.

He bites down on a cookie apprehensively, and is pleasantly surprised to discover that it’s edible. It bears emphasising that this is an incredible feat for Riza Hawkeye - considering how she’d managed to almost burn the entire kitchen down when she tried to make a simple pasta dish for his birthday.

(Fortunately, they’d managed to extinguish it, but afterwards Roy mentally designated himself as head chef for the rest of their lives.)

Deeply touched by the gesture, he wraps one of his shirts to send back as a gift. The thought of her dressed in his apparel has him grinning like the lovesick, histrionic fool that Riza said he was.

June 26th 

Dear Riza,

Don’t say that, I definitely smell better than Hayate. And I know for a fact that you love me, although maybe not as much as I love you -- my love for you knows no territorial boundaries.

You could curate your own gardens with a carful of flowers, I suppose. And we could… Well, smell the flowers and procrastinate together?

It is - the sunlight reminds me of you, and I appreciate that. A lot. I also haven’t been drinking, so don’t worry - these glorious abs are definitely en route to you.

Thank you for the cookies - they were delicious, and I look forward to your quiche when I return. Baby steps, alright? I hope the kitchen will still be intact when I come home.

… It’s sometimes creepy how well you know me… But I think you’ll be pleased to at least know that I became friends with Hughes, after we confronted said trio.

We also made a new friend today - Heathcliff! He’s the Ishvalan I told you about in my last letter. He told us he joined the military because he wanted to change and empower the people’s perceptions of Ishval and its culture from a point of leadership. I think that’s an admirable dream - one that I’d like to assist in, too. He’s been a great friend, and I can’t stand to see him be the recipient of so many pejorative remarks. It’s completely unjustified, and you’re absolutely right on that point.

I take that as an admission that you miss me ‘most ardently’ - have you been writing poems about me in my absence?  

On that note, you’ll be pleased to know that I have a break on the 8th of July for a couple of days. Want to do something fun? I know you’ve been dying to check out that shooting range, and I’ve been training in the academy for my victory.

All my love, kisses and glorious abs, Roy

P.S. I’ve also enclosed a token of my own affection herein for you - hopefully it reminds you of me whenever you wear it.

~x~

Riza stared confusedly at the oddly-shaped lump that surfaced after she opened the package. After reading his letter she was expecting one of his shirts, maybe one of his button-downs that would’ve been perfect as an oversized sleeping top on her, but she certainly wasn’t expecting his…

Boxers.

His boxers, of all things. She holds it up to scrutinise it in its full glory, and it’s peppered with little puppies - his favorite pair.

To say Riza is surprised is an understatement. She’s not quite sure why he’d sent her his boxers or how she’s supposed to even wear it, but she chucks it aside in the laundry for him to retrieve it when he returns.

July the 8th. The date's circled in bold, bright red on her calendar.  

She’d never admit this out loud to any living person, not even her best friend Rebecca. The only person who’d heard her let out an almost-giggle (almost, because Riza Hawkeye did not do giggles) in excitement was Hayate. Because God, did she miss him terribly, and true to his predictions he’d been her muse for quite a number of her recent poetic endeavours.

July 3rd

Dear Roy,

Whatever, you insane idiot. I miss you and I love you too. That is all.

For the record, the kitchen is still intact, and will continue to be so. My cooking skills aren’t that bad.  

That’s great to hear. You’re an honorable and intelligent (this is questionable) man, Roy, and I would definitely like to see that kind of change happening. I hope Heathcliff is well, too - send him my regards.

… I refuse to lower myself to drawing smiley faces on my letters, but you’ll see one on July the 8th in person.

And yes, it would be nice to check out that shooting range, though let’s be real - we both know you can’t defeat me no matter how hard you try. I do live up to my namesake, after all.

All my love, Riza

P.S I don’t know if it was intentional, but I never knew you had a thing for me wearing your boxers. Unfortunately, they are way too loose for me and I won’t be wearing them any time soon. Your underwear and I eagerly await your return.

~x~

The 8th of July finally comes around. Everyone in the academy is astonished at just how fast Roy Mustang is capable of running. He might’ve been the golden boy, and he generally outran most, if not all, of them during their training sessions, but now he looked like his pants were on fire as he made a dash for the gate and boarded the first train in a sweaty mess.

Roy continues running like a madman after alighting the train, desperate to reach their home as soon as possible to explain his predicament. He certainly hadn’t intended to send his underwear over, and was sure that one of the other men must have done so as a practical joke on him.

(Fortunately for the culprit, Roy didn’t manage to identify who he was, but there would certainly be hell to pay when he did so.)

As if on cue, Riza opens the door with a beatific smile adorning her features. “I can hear you panting all the way from the other end of Amestris, Roy.”

He chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment. “Well, I’m excited to see you, for starters. And, uh…”

“You want your underwear back?”

“Yes, of course I do.” He pants, struggling to catch his breath while trying to formulate a coherent explanation. “Look, I swear it wasn’t deliberate - I intended to send you one of my shirts, and I definitely don’t have a thing for you wearing my boxers. I don’t know which idiot in the academy substituted my shirt for my underwear to sabotage -” She lets out a laugh. It's loud, unrestrained. Roy thinks it’s the most beautiful sound he’s heard in a month. “You really are hopeless, Roy. It’s fine. Defeat me at the shooting range, and you can have it back tonight.”

~x~

In the end, his favorite pair of boxers sits at the bottom of the laundry for the rest of the day, because Riza Hawkeye is an indomitable force of nature at the shooting range.

She does, however, have a poem written for him, and he’s so enraptured by it that he forgets all about the underwear fiasco. “I’m back home, ma chérie,” he whispers as he runs his fingers down the groove of her spine, as if he’s tracing constellations on the canvas of her back while they lay together on satin, hearts thrumming in harmony. “I’d like to keep holding you close, too -” he recites, but he’s quickly interrupted by her.

“You sound best when you don’t speak, Roy,” and with that Riza silences him with a fiery kiss that rouses an overwhelming conflagration in him.

One that can only be put out by her.

Roy grins delightfully into the kiss, all too willing to oblige. Her lips are an inviting chamber of unbridled affection and unsatisfied desire, and he finds himself exploring her eagerly, fingers tracing her sharp cheekbones in reverent adoration.

Riza responds in kind, trailing a hand down his shirt and notes, somewhat gleefully, that he has indeed returned with said glorious abs. She makes a move to untuck his shirt, humming to herself in amusement as she feels his bare stomach quiver beneath her curious palm.

He’s quick to make a comeback, though. Unwilling to be teased by her Roy draws her deeper into the kiss - she’s utterly incredible, he thinks, as he cards his fingers through her flaxen tresses - and he tastes traces of eggs and pastries and -

- and spinach?

“You made spinach quiche?” Roy asks curiously, breaking away from the kiss for the briefest of moments.

“What on earth,” she huffs. “Way to ruin the moment, Roy.” A scarlet blush makes its way to her cheeks - equal parts breathlessness from the vigour with which he kisses her, and embarrassment at being found out.

He laughs, and quotes yet another line teasingly. “Didn’t you say you’ll even listen to my silly moonshine?”

Riza scowls. “I do regret writing that now. Perhaps I will -”

“No, no, please continue writing more,” Roy pleads in earnest, and before she can make a decision he’ll live to regret he kisses her again with such an ardent love, such a fervent passion that it completely derails her train of thought.

The quiche rests in the oven, burnt and forgotten.

~x~ 

adieu, mon chéri. may you fare well. in my heart, you will always dwell. (won’t you please come home soon, or will it only be after june?)

you write to me, letters (hidden within are flowers) to abate my need for you. i knit scarves in a room candlelit;

holding a heavy weight within from empty spaces on satin. i’d like to hold you close again -- hurry, love, won’t you run to the train?

i’ll let you place your weight on mine oh, i’ll even listen to your silly moonshine (come home to me, darling my soul is aching in longing)

~x~ 

*moonshine: foolish talk or ideas.

#royaiweek20 #royai #royai fic #royai au #poetry #royai fanfic #rhyme #I tried LOL #my first time writing in first person oops :"D

[onthepageoftears]

Kill Your Darlings Ch. 8 (Jaskier x Assassin!Reader) || Witcher

A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry this is late, I had a lot of schoolwork to do this week :/ Also, I’m almost at 1k followers! Thank you all for following and reading and everything I really appreciate y’all 💜💜💜

maybe i’ll do a little imagine giveaway or something??? lemme know what you think ;)

Your comments and feedback are always encouraged and mean a lot to me!

Summary: There’s more to people than the sins they have committed.

Warnings: mentions of killing/kidnapping, intense staring, I dont think there’s anything else lol

Word Count: 2,339

Please Don’t Plagiarize My Work!

The sun had reached the top of the sky and was already on its way down by the time you came across the village. You counted approximately eleven times that Jaskier had asked Geralt to get on his horse — Roach — but to no avail. Now, the three of you were on foot with Geralt guiding Roach in front of you and through the village.

To say you were more relaxed was a bit of an overstatement.

Getting out of the city allowed your shoulders to lessen their tension, and you didn’t even mind that your hood was a bit further back than usual. But whenever you went into these villages, you were alone. You could walk around with barely a worry, the people around you not sparing you a glance. But now, with a witcher and a flashy bard, all eyes were on you.

By the time you made it to the small, smelly tavern, your ears were somewhat used to the whispers.

Geralt walked right up to the counter, where an older man was wiping down the surface with what looked like an already dirty cloth. The tavern had a few people littered around it, but it was still quite early.

“Got any rooms?” You peeked through the space between Geralt and Jaskier to peer at the man. He was frowning already — not a good sign.

“Barely. And definitely not…” He passed his eyes over all of you. “Three.”

“No, we only need one.”

That changed the man’s face. His eyebrows shot up, then quickly back down, a confused expression soon wafted away with a shrug.

“Fine by me. How much coin you got?”

This time, Jaskier answered. “How much do you need?”

“You bunch look like trouble.” He tilted his chin up. “So…double.”

“Double—“

“We’ll take it.” You shoved your way to the front, grabbing a bit of Jaskier’s arm in a pinch. He winced, turning to you with a hurt expression, but reached into his coin pouch nonetheless.

After he paid the tavern owner, he went to put his coin purse away, but you tightened your grip. “Actually, we were going to get some food as well.”

“We were?”

You ignored him and spoke through a synthetic smile. “Been traveling for quite a while. Food could do us some good.”

Despite his bitter tone, the man seemed to lower his guard at your change in tactics. “Could do us all some good, I reckon.”

“What’ve you got?” Geralt asked.

“Again, not much. But if you’re paying, we’ve got enough.”

You all turned to Jaskier, who still held his relatively hefty coin pouch. He looked back at you, and at the sight of your quirked eyebrow, he groaned.

“Fine, fine.” Again, he slammed the coin on the table, muttering as he put it away. “We’ll have that brought to our room, thank you.”

You flinched just as the man let out a cold laugh. “To your room.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his face back to a scowl. “What am I, your servant? Does this look like those fancy places you pay to shine your bloody shoes as you step into a warm bath?”

You stepped forward again, this time in front of Jaskier. The man’s scowl turned to you, barely lessening his glare.

“Sir, excuse my…partner. He isn’t right in the head after our trip here. Probably the lack of food—“ You leaned forward and placed a hand to the side of your mouth to block Jaskier’s view, “Which lead to a lack of manners.” When the man let out a dry laugh, you stepped back. “We’ll be fine at a table.”

“Sure you will.” And with that, the man shook his head and walked into the back room.

How these two ever survived on the road was a mystery to you. You assumed they had experience in small villages like this, especially because they traveled together often. How those trips went, you didn’t want to know. This was already toeing the line of being a disaster, and it had just begun.

Geralt took a seat at the counter, barely looking at the two of you. “I’ll wait here for the food.”

Fair enough. You practically dragged Jaskier with you to an empty table, not that they were hard to find. It was a weird time between the usual lunch and dinner rush hours, so not many people were accompanying you at the tavern. Either way, the village was quite small and you doubted it would be crowded in the first place.

You sat down across from Jaskier, keeping an eye on the main door. Even though the coast seemed clear now, you didn’t want to take any chances. But of course, Jaskier was there to distract you.

He was staring at you again, but this time with a small smile. It was infuriating.

You couldn’t help the sharpness of your voice, “What.”

“You know, maybe after all of this assassin stuff, you should be an actress.”

You couldn’t hold back a snort. But in an instant, your smile faltered. Rauf said something similar to you the night you got this assignment. The night where all you wanted to do was kill the man in front of you. And now…well, you were far from that.

You settled on a shrug.

Surely Jaskier knew something was on your mind; by now, he was used to the way you tensed up whenever you actually felt comfortable, how whenever the slightest amount of genuine emotion peeked out you immediately shut it down. So, naturally, he decided to push you further.

“Why do you kill, anyway?”

Your eyes snapped back to him. You supposed a question like this was coming, as it usually did. But something about him asking it was surprising. Like maybe…he was better than that.

You shook your head at the thought. Better than what? Every other person who didn’t understand the life you lead? It wasn’t uncommon, and it shouldn’t have disappointed you in the slightest.

But it did. 

“Why do you ask?”

“Well,” he placed his palms flat on the table. “I know you said you kill people who are…monsters. But…why?”

You reached for the knife on your wrist, dragging a finger along its sheath. “I was taught every person has a monster inside of them, waiting to snap. Some people never do. Others...kill their wives and sell their children. Or other variants.”

“Yes, I understand that.” You looked back up at him, where he was staring at you intently. “But why.”

His eyes were focused on you, and only you. It made you straighten your posture, roll back your shoulders. You knew why. Of course you knew why. And your first instinct was to just tell him. What’s a sad back story if it doesn’t get told? But your second instinct, the one Rauf’s voice controlled, was telling you to keep your mouth shut.

This time, you listened. “I don’t know.”

“Hm,” Jaskier sat back in his chair, continuing to look you over with his infuriatingly casual curiosity. “How strange.”

“What?”

“From what I understand, when you look at people, you see…sin. Monsters. But I see…stories.” His eyes shifted just past your head, focusing on something behind you. He jutted his chin out. “Him. What do you see when you look at him?”

You sighed, but twisted in your seat to look behind you. You assumed he was talking about the man in the back of the tavern, sitting alone. The man’s eyes were stuck to his glass, which held barely any liquid. He had what you assumed was the rest of his coin laid out on the table — definitely not enough to pay for more alcohol.

You turned back to Jaskier. ”I see a sad old man.”

“Right, but—” He looked past you again, this time taking in the old man’s features himself. Then, he turned back to you. “Look at his hands. Those are a poet’s hands — worn from hours of writing of longing and heartbreak. I would know.”

You snorted, but decided to let him continue.

“He was a poet, a good one at that. One who was just gaining popularity from the masses. He was striving— until he lost his muse. A terrible accident, I suppose. Perhaps in a shipwreck—“

You snorted again. “Or a bandit attack.”

He practically jumped up in his seat. “Now you’re getting it!” You couldn’t help the twitch of a smile as he leaned forward. “Maybe in his life he stole some things — a quill for his poetry, a ring for his love — but that was just one small part of his life.”

You considered the bard. His eyes were sparkling once again, and he smiled back at you with sincerity.

“Surely you don’t think every crime is inexcusable.”

“Of course not. But sometimes the…otherwise seen as, monstrous things we do…are just one chapter in our books.”

Just then, a plate of food was slammed on the table between you two — Geralt settled in the spot next to Jaskier, barely realizing the conversation he just interrupted.

But seemingly, so did Jaskier. His attention was now on the food in front of him. “That’s what 50 coin got us?”

Geralt nodded. “Looks like it.”

Jaskier only mumbled his curses, resorting to eating the food even though he was vexed as he did so. It didn’t take long for the three of you to finish it all, though you had soon found that your appetite was gone. Perhaps it was what Julian had said to you — though, you would hate to admit it, he often surprised you; where you expected him to be like everyone else, he changed his tune and left you…virtually speechless. You didn’t know if you hated it or enjoyed it, but either way, it made you uncomfortable.

You were all ready to retire to the room, but none of you verbalized it. At that point, you were just sitting there and staring at each other, almost daring the others to get up first. In your defense, you just didn’t want to have to spend another day holed up in a room, though you knew you had no other choice.

That was before the man came into the tavern.

He was distraught, to say the least. His eyes were sunken in, the bags under them showing he hadn’t gotten sleep in…maybe days. He was holding a small stack of parchments with a shaky hand, the desperation seeping off of him like the stench of alcohol.

It was a mistake to look at him long enough that he caught your eye. You turned away, knowing it was probably too late.

“Excuse me.” He was standing at the edge of your table, his features more prominent now that he was up close. He was looking at you with his pleading eyes, and you couldn’t help but look away.

Jaskier waved him off. “We don’t have any spare coin, good sir.”

“No, I…that’s not what I need.” You looked back up in time to see he was looking at Geralt. “You have two swords. Are you…a witcher?”

“Why yes, yes he is!” Jaskier perked up; his bright smile was unsettling for once in this atmosphere — it was the direct opposite of whatever this man was feeling.

“Oh, thank the gods. I need your assistance.”

“Sorry, can’t help you.”

You frowned. Geralt turning down a job didn’t seem normal. To be fair, you barely knew him, but still. You guessed he declined because of Jaskier’s situation, but then again, this man was clearly in a hardship.

Your own voice surprised yourself. “What’s the problem?”

The man turned to you again, relief filling his features. He reached into his pile and pulled out a single parchment, placing it on the table in front of you.

“It’s my daughter. She’s missing.”

Your eyes narrowed at the sketch in front of you. It was the same one you saw at Novigrad on the notice board. The young girl made of charcoal looked back at you with a sad expression.

You had to tear your eyes away. “I saw this poster in Novigrad. Are you from the city?”

The man shook his head. “No. I live in a small cabin just outside of the village, near the river. I’m a fisherman. My brother lives closer to the city — I had him hang up some posters there.”

He wasn’t from the city, meaning he was practically harmless. Well, you didn’t know of his past, but at least you knew he probably wasn’t an assassin.

You shifted in your seat. “How long has she been missing?”

“Around three days.” He must have noticed the tension around your table; his voice was at the brink of begging for help. “Please, I’ve tried everything. I...I don’t have much, but I can pay you.”

You bit your lip. It took everything within you to not jump on this assignment. If it had been three days, the young girl was either being held captive…or she was dead. But her father was desperate, like any good father would be. Even finding out what happened to her would be better than letting him suffer at the end of each day, not knowing why his daughter was gone.

“I think we can help you.” Your head shot up at the sound of Jaskier’s voice. Jaskier. Of the three of you, he was not the one you expected to want to help someone else. But when you shifted your gaze to him, he was already looking at you. He winked, then turned to Geralt. “Right, Geralt?”

The witcher grunted and grabbed the parchment that was laid in front of you. You and Jaskier shared a glance before turning back to him, waiting to see his response.

He looked up at the father, whose hands were holding the rest of his parchments with a nervous grip. “Where was the last place you saw her?”

———————————————————————————————————

Let me know your thoughts! :)

#the witcher #the witcher imagine #jaskier #jaskier x reader #jaskier imagine #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia imagine #jaskier x you #self insert imagine #self insert #reader insert #imagine #fic #writing #series #reader series #joey batey #henry cavill #my writing #kill your darlings #kill your darlings series #imagine series

[spirit-of-the-void]

Ebony and Ivory (V x Reader Fanfic) Chapter 40

Author’s notes: Howdy. So this is the ending of Ebony and Ivory, and to be honest I spent a long time working on it. Things have been a bit wild and confusing, especially with how divided people seem on the story ending. But...writing this long ass fanfic for you guys has been a privilege, even through depression and health issues.

The only thing I’m unsure of is if I should write the Vergil ending--because I want to reserve all my vergil energy for the Echo Chamber fic. I’ll let you guys decide--let me know if you still want the alternate ending, cause if so I’ll do my best. Either way, I’ll still be writing Echo Chamber.

Chapter 40

Epilogue

(Several Months later)

You never wanted to get up from your bed.

This was bliss in its truest form, was it not? Waking to warmth, face tucked against the neck of your lover and limbs tangled with the bed sheets. It was another beautiful, sunny day in Fortuna as usual, the sound of waves rolling against the shore and V’s slow breathing the only melody for your ears. Warm, so warm. This had to be heaven--there was doubt that anything else could feel so perfect. You let out a gentle sigh, mind feeling foggy with sleep and body delightedly comfortable as you stretched out along your poet’s form, toes pressing against his bare calves. It was so strange, you had gotten used to V feeling cool and frail for the entire time you traveled to the Qliphoth tree; feeling his warmth and solidity was a gift you would never take for granted again, not after witnessing him crumble his way up to becoming Vergil again.

V was doing better than he ever had, you and Kyrie made sure of that. The motherly woman had been worried upon seeing V’s ribs and rail-thin form, and seemingly made it her sworn duty to get the poet healthy. He learned pretty quick that arguing with her was not the best idea, not once she got rolling. No skipping meals, taking vitamins, listening to you both hounding him and not uttering so much as a peep of complaint. You both only backed off after his bones stopped showing through his skin, letting him decide on his diet after that. Not much had changed--V preferred eating light over big meals, which was understandable with such a new body. Months later and he was looking more lean and healthy, still a lanky man but less frail and with a bit more muscle. That cane was less as a tool to walk with, and more of a conductor's baton he used in battle.

Well-fed and well-rested. As he should be.

You had spoken of what happened in the Qliphoth tree, and to be honest you had forgiven him for everything that transpired before words of apology had left those lovely lips. Understanding could be found--there was  desperation, a need to return to who he was before. All that was gone now, V finally his own person with a full soul on top of it all. The only way to go was up, which you were more than doing. The new time together only strengthened how much you loved him, deepening that bond of trust and acceptance again after the lies and mistakes fractured it. Piece by piece, bit by bit...things were becoming as perfect as they could be, and in the end that was all you wanted. 

The things you once took for granted were now so precious, weren’t they? The feeling of V kissing your fingers, the way his hair felt under your hands. Those jade eyes, his sly smile...having them back felt like a dream, one you never wanted to wake from. It was the little moments of simple, domestic life that seemed so enchanting after he came back, moments you thought would never be had with him. Sharing a cup of coffee on the beach while the sun was still rising, watching him read poetry to the children, helping teach him how to cook with the aid of Kyrie and Nico. He was pretty hopeless in front of a stove before those teachings, but learned very quickly. If you weren’t mistaken, he found a joy for it too--he would sneak peeks at cooking novels and shows on several occasions, and offered to help with dinner often.

Something about it was...very cute.

As for Vergil, he returned back to Devil May Cry with Dante and the women. You were shocked, the spiky-haired male put up no fuss when his brother instructed him to do so, and had apparently put in a lot of effort to make it a functioning business. Not only that, but he had been making a determined effort to be a part of Nero’s life now that everything was said and done. His father and uncle now visited once a week, keeping the kids entertained and staying for dinner to talk and socialize. Kyrie loved it, Nero was undecided, and Nico still hated Vergil’s guts. Dinners were filled with hostile stares from the mechanic, which Vergil easily ignored. Hearing him ask Nero questions about his life, seeing them spar on the beach and Vergil actually trying to teach him things? Odd. But...maybe those trials left their mark, so the Outsider must have done something right.

Speaking of the God, you were back to talking with him. A shrine now rested in an alcove on a nearby cliff, glowing at night with the purple light of lanterns and humming with the Void’s energy. Corvo, as always, managed to talk sense into your father figure--He was there when you spoke last, promising the keep the God behaving while you got your life together. The Outsider wasn’t going to argue it, that much was sure. You thanked him for bringing V back, and managed to repair some of the trust that was lost, bit by bit as you did with V. The shrine was now visited once a week, offers left on its alter and gone the next morning. Food, books, sometimes things you crafted yourself. The Outsider seemed to enjoy food the most--you doubted he got to eat much of anything in a place like that.

Regardless. 

The kids warmed up to V well, easily sensing his uncertainty and all around awkwardness when it came to living normally. They liked being able to teach him things--like how to clean pots properly, how to make s’mores when a bonfire was lit in the backyard. Little things that V didn’t seem to think about or know, either because Vergil didn’t know them or because some things were lost when the two were separated. Being reborn had to be hard, you were always patient with him when a new problem rose up. V didn’t seem to mind either, it made the kids feel super important, like they could sense the poet’s vulnerability. Plus what could be better than having another person in the house to talk and play with? Julio in particular seemed to like the poetry, and asked the goth about it a lot.

Speaking of the kids, you knew that they would be going into town with Kyrie in the morning to practice for their performance in the spring festival. It was starting to get warmer outside bit by bit after winter came and went, but the day would be comfortably warm for the kids as they made props at Madame Elenor’s shop. You could hear them downstairs already, chattering excitedly about the prospect of seeing the other kids in Fortuna, practicing their lines and getting to paint trees and scenery to be moved into the theater at the square. 

Now that you thought about it...almost a year had passed, hadn’t it? Since you were brought to this world.

So much has happened.

So many terrible, wonderful things.

Only this time around, everything is perfect.

You let out a contented sigh, snuggling closer against V’s wiry form and feeling him shift and mumble lightly in his sleep. It was April now, and you planned to go through May and June in peace and delight. Just having these past few months has been so wild, celebrating Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New year’s Eve...all the things you were once certain V would never have, but got to have in kind. It was shaping up to be an amazing year, and you were ready for each and every one after that to come. 

That was the thought you drifted in and out of sleep on, knowing full well that you didn’t have to meet up with Kyrie and the others until noon. Nero would be out discussing the next mission with Nico, Dante, and Vergil as well until returning to go out with the rest of you. A day out to lunch was in order, his uncle and father declining the invitation despite how insistently Nero had offered it. Something about working some family things out had been their excuse--you were fairly certain they intended to visit their mother’s grave. Some things were far more important, you could easily understand that. Besides, being around Vergil felt...weird sometimes. Like staring at a painting that once held color, and seeing only black and white.

You tried to shake the thought, realizing for the first time in months you and V had the house to yourselves, peace and quiet reigning supreme once the kids were heading down the street. You loved your new family, you really did, but most mornings were rife with Nico’s invention shenanigans, or the kids finding their energy after breakfast and play-fighting with Nero. To finally be able to lie in bed with V, only the warm breeze drifting through the windows and the sun on your body...it was so nice, and needed. Maybe that was why Kyrie decided she would take the kids there herself, insisting you sleep in after “working so hard with Nero and the others”. Sweet woman, you adored her for that.

Especially when you felt V finally begin to stir, his muscles stretching and a soft groan leaving those beautiful lips. You decided to keep your eyes closed, wanting to savor the moments of relaxation for a little while longer and act like sleep kept you in its gentle grasp. You weren’t disappointed--V’s fingers stroked through your hair, nails tracing feather-light patterns on your scalp before trailing down your neck. If you were a cat, you would have purred at a feeling like that. As it was, you shivered softly in delight as you shifted even closer, one hand gracing his bare chest and over the faded tattoos that rested there.

After everything was said and done, you both shared a connection with the familiars. They generally spent most of their time in V considering he had been lacking in power for those first few months. But being born from the Void had left him with some byproducts, and he was learning how to use them at his own pace and tolerance level. The poet had been astounded at how much it burned to use the abilities of the Void, learning pretty early on that you dealt with it all the time--he didn’t like that, but reluctantly didn’t push things on it further.

The tattoos only extended over his arms and chest now, like sleeves that drifted over his collarbones. It was there that you traced your fingers, feeling his chest rise with a slow breath as your fingers danced a line from there to his stomach, resting there to feel the muscles bunch and relax. He was so sensitive, ticklish--a delightful thing, one learned pretty quickly after shenanigans had broken out on a particular evening. Cute. There were so many things about him now that were absolutely charming.

He let out a low hum, grasping your fingers lightly between his own and lifting them to his face. Those soft lips brushed your knuckles, tender and loving as you kept your eyes closed in an attempt to feign off waking a bit more.

“The sun descending in the west, the evening star does shine,” V murmured against your skin, his other arm wrapping around your waist to tug you closer as he continued, “The birds are silent in their nest, and I must seek for mine.”

You couldn’t help it--a smile broke over your lips, eyelids fluttering open to stare at his face in amusement. He always took your breath away,  a vision of beauty and perfection. His hair was black again with Nightmare’s presence, and the tattoos were dark on one side from housing...was that Griffon this time? You paused, feeling Shadow rouse briefly in your thoughts before plunging back again, giving you both the privacy you so craved. The demons weren’t oblivious, they knew you’d have the house to yourselves come morning.

Regardless, you let out a contented sigh, resting your chin on his chest and staring up at him with adoring eyes as you mumbled sleepily, “Do you intent to wake me every morning to William Blake?”

He grinned at that, tucking a stray hair behind your ear as he replied, “Perhaps. Does it displease you, my little Sparrow?” He kissed the top of your hair, voice rumbling over you as he added, “Would you prefer I wake you to…. other delights?”

Judging by his low, husky tone you knew exactly what these other delights could be. The man was insatiable now that he had this new body and freewill--not that you were complaining. 

“A beast has awakened in my tender poet,” You mumbled, feigning an exaggerated swoon and tucking your face against his neck again, “One that intends to eat me alive, always hungering for my supple flesh….!”

That earned you a low chuckle, V turning and nipping lightly at the skin behind your ear as he growled, “And you call me the dramatic one--you could put writers to shame when you speak in such ways,” Both of his arms wrapped around your waist, breath brushing your ear and making you shiver as he breathed, “Those who restrain desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.”

Leave it to him to find a poetry quote for everything. But he was right in an odd way--there was no restraining a desire like the one shared between you and the poet. It was a charged energy in the air, one that sent a bolt of arousal right to your core and left you aching in the best way. A soft sound of want left you as he pressed up against your back, his hardness very apparent through the thin fabric of your panties and body  deliciously warm as it cradled yours. Feeling a bit bold, you wiggled against him, smiling when he sucked in a sharp breath and put a very firm hand on your hips to still the movement. There was definitely no room for restraint when you were playing games like that.

He flipped you over in the next instant, your back pressed to the bed and both hands pinned by his as he stared down at you with heady, jade eyes. Your heart picked up its pace immediately at the sight of him, feeling almost dizzy at his beauty. Hair tousled from sleep, eyes hooded and staring at you with the most delicious hunger...Christ, he was so achingly lovely, wasn’t he? Especially with the sun making patterns on him like that, the curtains drifting lightly overhead and stroking his bare shoulders like a lover’s caress. Your face flushed despite how many times you had seen this same view, flustered all over again as he brushed a thumb over those parted lips and released one of your arms.

Oh dear. You could come undone at this rate.

“How I enjoy seeing that,” V whispered softly, shivering when you nipped at his fingers in their exploration, “The way you gaze at me, sparrow...it makes me ache in the best way.”

You smiled, wiggling lightly underneath him and enjoying how desire grew in his expression in response, “I can’t help it...I feel like you get prettier and prettier every day.” 

It wasn’t an understatement, either. Each time you awoke to his loving arms it was like seeing him all over again, overtaken by his lovely face and soft lips. Could you possibly love the man more? You had thought not, but each morning was proving you otherwise. 

V clicked his tongue at your response, seeming doubtful as he kissed a line from your neck down to your chest. He plucked at the straps on the camisole covering the parts of you he desired, pulling them down agonizingly slow until your breasts were bare to the glowing sunlight. You let out a slow exhale, feeling him slide those loving hands up from your stomach to the pert mounds aching for his touch and shivering when he gave each one attention in kind. The idle swirl of his thumb over a nipple, his eyes staring at you with the most unbelievable fascination and desire as he dipped his head to taste as well…

 Christ, you could have come just at that--his tongue was so warm, swirling over the pink tip of your breast and sucking gently until a light mewl of want left your lips. You buried your hands in his silken, ebony locks, eyes closing and head tilting back as you savored the tantalizing sensation of his mouth on your sensitive flesh. He was such a good lover, always loving, always willing to learn and try new things. The past few months had allowed him to come into his desires and sexual preferences bit by bit whenever you both could find the privacy, and that was always enjoyable. He was discovering a preference for being a bit more dominant in bed, which earned zero complaints from your end as well. The idea of V pinning you down and fucking you senseless was definitely an appealing one.

But moments like these, filled with gentle touches and soft exploration...they reminded you so much of that first time, but better. More familiar, more charged than ever before. 

Especially when he finally leaned back, hooking his fingers over the lace of your panties and slowly tugging them down and off. You obediently lifted your legs for him, eyes opening to watch as he tossed the scrap of fabric unceremoniously to a corner of the room. The action almost made you giggle, a smile tugging at your lips at the way he dramatically flung them away. He returned his attention back a moment lady, eyes drinking in the sight of your bare legs and dripping desire waiting for the pleasure you knew would come.

“Pretty and pink,” He murmured, stroking his hands up your thighs and squeezing as he coaxed them apart, “Just for me.”

You let out a low hum in response, shivering when he bent your knees and pressed both thighs back a bit more. Fully exposed to his eyes, glistening in the drifting sunlight and just as he described. The anticipation was killing you--this slow pace was delicious torture, and every second was like heaven and hell in one. But if the past few months had taught you anything, it was that good things came to those who waited.

“What do you have planned for me, slick?” You whispered, biting your lip as he pressed a kiss from your knee then down to your inner thigh. Part of you knew, and the need growing inside was making your toes curl in excitement.

V smirked, raising his eyes from your body as a playful look slipped across his face. He slid one finger idly down your wet folds, smirk growing as your breath hitched and you actively strained to keep your hips pressed against the mattress. Infuriating man, he knew exactly what effect he had over you, and exploited it in kind.

“I’m simply playing my part, Sparrow,” He replied in a husky tone, swirling a finger over your sensitive clit and down to your entrance in one tantalizing movement, “Hungering for your supple flesh...a beast with the intentions of eating you alive. Who will save this fairest of damsels from me? Surely no one is around to hear your screams for help.”

You giggled at V’s low, ominous growl, squeaking when he pressed his fingers against that sensitive spot and jolting you in place. Very sensitive, very needy.

“Bold of you to assume I’ll scream for help…” You breathed, voice trailing off in a soft whimper as he continued those slow rotations of his fingers. Each touch made you ache, throbbing and wanting to reach that peak only he could bring. But V was purposely drawing it out, finding amusement in your response and pausing for a moment in his actions.

The dark-haired male grinned, eyes meeting yours like a predator ready to devour his prey as he let out a low purr of, “Oh, you’ll be screaming alright.”

Please--My heart will stop if you keeps saying things like that.

But you didn’t get to say that out loud. V dipped his head down in the next moment, spreading your glistening folds with his fingers as he stroked a tongue over your aching flesh. Your hips jolted on their own, a soft whimper leaving you as he started devouring you just as promised. Slowly, carefully, taking his sweet time and savoring at his own pace. It took every ounce of control to keep your thighs in place, trembling lightly with the strain of not moving. Restraint? What was that again? Your thighs were strong, you didn’t want to accidentally crush him between them with how fantastic he was making you feel. Stroke after stroke of his tongue, warm and wet as he teased your clit and swirled over your aching entrance. 

Too much, not enough. You arched into his touch, soft moans leaving your lips and fingers gripping the bed sheets. What a wicked man you were in love with, bringing you slowly to the edge of pleasure with his tongue and not swayed by your soft pleas for more, for faster movements and more pressure. So close, fuck I’m already so close. He knew it too, a pleased hum leaving his throat and sending delicious vibrations over your clit as he sucked it between his lips.

“V...V…” You whimpered, fingers slipping into his silken locks to tug lightly as he continued to pleasure you right on the edge of that peak, “I need…please…”

The poet’s eyes practically rolled back in his head when you pulled his hair, knowing full well how much he loved it. That encouragement was just what V needed, his jade eyes meeting yours briefly before he tugged you closer, fingers gripping your thighs hard as he stroked his tongue over your clit, swirling and sucking with enough pressure to wring a cry from your lips. You were prone and gasping as he had his wicked way, hands grasping the poet’s head and thighs shaking as that peak grew and grew with his actions. Unrelenting, you were coming undone again. It was a good thing no one was home, because you couldn’t be quiet no matter how hard you tried. At least an attempt was made, but that wasn’t what V wanted. The ruthless man loved nothing more than to hear you wail with satisfaction, body writhing as he made you come on his tongue and fingers.

Which is exactly what he did.

Your head tilted back as you finally crested, something close to a sob of relief and pleasure bursting from your lungs and thighs shaking as he held them in place, “V…!”  It felt good, so good your toes curled and hips arched into his touch. He was doing a number on your heart, that was for sure--it was pounding in your chest, especially when V continued to tease and stroke his tongue over your flesh, not having his fill until you were whimpering and writhing from too much stimulation. Only then did he pull back, jade eyes staring at your spent form with satisfaction and amusement. He licked his glistening lips, wiping them with those elegant fingers and staring at the traces of your arousal left behind. That expression almost looked smug.

The poet’s gaze traveled over your form, taking in your chest as it rose and fell with each breath, face flushed as you slung an arm over your eyes. What a way to start your morning, listening to the waves crash onto the sand outside and feeling the most unbelievable pleasure from the man you loved...what a gift, one you would cherish every day until the end of time. To have him here after months of feeling like you wouldn’t, reminded again and again that this was reality...it made the bad times seem so far away, like a dream long forgotten in the realm of waking.

V seemed to understand, even when you didn’t say it. He leaned over your body in the next moment, pulling your arm away so his lips could find purchase. You sighed in delight, kissing back and wrapping both arms around his neck as you shared a moment of peace and tenderness.

“Still with me, love?” V murmured, a grunt leaving him when you wrapped both legs around his waist, thighs squeezing lightly, “Ah...gentle now, darling...I’m not done with you yet.”

He must certainly wasn’t. You kissed a line from his cheek to that sharp jawline, biting down lightly where neck met shoulders. V shuddered at your touch, gasping when you stroked a leg over his hard length, fully erect after taking so much time eating you out. Someone was certainly eager, weren’t they? You doubted he wanted to wait any longer, especially not with you grinding on him like that.

“I’m all yours,” You murmured, stroking a hand through his hair and giving it a light tug. He groaned immediately, head resting on your shoulders and breath coming faster, “Do you like that?”

V gripped your hip with one hand, bracing his weight on the other as he murmured, “I do...quite a bit.” 

Such a far cry from the bashful way he admitted it the first time around--now honest with desire and wants, needy as he leaned into each and every touch. You had learned so much about what he liked, what parts of that lovely body were the most sensitive. His fingers, shoulders, neck, hair, spine...all the best spots to kiss and touch, scraping your nails over the shoulder blades of his back and sucking the skin on his neck. That was going to leave a hickey, there was no doubt. But it would be yours to see, a secret. 

“S...sparrow...Y/N…” V groaned, grinding his length over your slick heat and making you both pause at the sensation of it, “Are you...can I…?”

“Please.”

It was all the affirmation he required, V rising from you to position his hips right where he needed them to be. You eagerly tilted your legs back again, spread and wanting for his cock. An invitation, one he would never ignore. What did you look like in his eyes, right at that moment? Hair still messed up from sleep, breasts bare and body in a position that was clearly meant for him and him alone. All yours, always. The poet almost looked ...entranced by the sight, bowing his head over you as the tip of his hard length pressed to your entrance, slick with the arousal left from your previous orgasm and finding no resistance. A breath passed between you both as he slipped inside, groan breaking past his lips while you took him inch by inch. Wet enough that it was an easy slide, body trembling eagerly as he filled you up in the best way.

This felt so right, like it always did. Two puzzle pieces meeting together, like your souls were meant for each other. 

A low groan escaped his parted lips, body pausing for a moment to feel your wet heat. You stared at his face in a mixture of desire and wonderment, loving how pleasure influenced his expression and made his hand grip your wrist ever so tighter. Even after all these months, your poet was so careful with you--waiting so there was time to adjust, your body relaxing around his cock and aching to feel him pound into you like before. You squeezed your legs around his waist for a moment, hips rising off the bed to grind encouragingly against his length. Such actions only elicited a gasp from you both, V’s head tilting back to show the smooth expanse of his throat and the slight bob of his adam’s apple upon swallowing. Such a pretty boy, struggling for control. You liked seeming him unrestrained every once in a while, but when he was trying to stay on his best behavior…

“So bashful,” You murmured, biting your lip when he tilted his jade eyes down to meet yours, “What happened to not restraining desire? Prove me wrong, Shakespeare.”

V let out a low, breathless chuckle at your challenge, leaning do so his nose lightly brushed yours. Breaths mingling in the air between, both bodies trembling with the need to seek pleasure in one another. His hips pressing on yours freed a whimper in your chest, resisting the urge to grind your clit against his skin. 

“Ask me nicely, Sparrow,” He breathed, nipping softly at your lips while he continued to rub his body lightly against yours. Just enough friction to not be enough. Your breath was hitching in response, toes pressing into his lower back to urge on what you knew he wanted to, but purposely denied, “And I’ll indulge us both. Honesty would do us both good, wouldn’t you agree?”

You flushed at his coy, strained smile, those jade eyes firm and far more unyielding as you whimpered, “You are the worst, you know that right--ahhh...”

Your words slipped into a soft moan when he retreated a bit, thrusting in once more before pausing his hips. Damn it. You knew what he wanted--V always loved making you say things that made you blush. He grinned, as if sensing your thoughts and enjoying them in kind. Mischief played a part in the desire now--this was payback for every time you cock-teased him in the past few months, there was no doubt about that. 

“Mmmm…” V hummed, lifting one of your hands and nibbling on each finger in order as he replied softly, “Perhaps I am, but acknowledging that isn’t getting you any closer to having me...is it?”

So smug, so cocky.

Your resolve was far weaker than his patience, tempered by neediness and desire. Especially when he was grinding on you like that, pausing right when pleasure started to build and leaving you aching. His elegant fingers decided to fondle your breasts, teasing the stiff peaks until you were practically squirming. Right how he wanted you.

Face flushed, one hand raised to cover his jade eyes as he chuckled lightly in victory, your lips parted to utter softly and desperately, “Pl...please...fuck me...V...Please…?”

He let out a pleased purr, pulling your hand off to see just how flustered you were and grinning in delight. A kiss to your warm cheek followed, V cupping your jaw with gentle fingers as he whispered, “So precious...you can take me making love to you every night yet cannot utter those simple words without embarrassment?”

Something about it felt a lot different than acting on instinct--begging always made you feel bashful, especially when he wanted it. 

“Hush,” You muttered, pressing both hands to V’s cheeks like it would somehow convey your growing sense of need, “No more teasing, just--”

Your words were cut off in a sharp gasp when V finally yielded to your demands, hip snapping back before plunging in with one fluid movement. Blessedly--you could have sobbed in relief when the motion continued. Right there, just like that. He seemed to be done with the shenanigans too, drawing your arms around his neck with one hand and bracing with the other. Unrelenting now, lips capturing yours in a frenzied kiss while his cock plunged in and out of your aching sheath. It was definitely good that you both were home alone, because the lewd sounds you were making would definitely be heard by others. As it stood, anyone who walked down the beach could run the chance of hearing, but you didn’t care.

You bit down on V’s shoulder, kissing the mark a moment later and trailing those same kisses up to his neck. Something about V awash in pleasure and lust was poetic in its own right. Gorgeous, breathtaking. He was releasing sounds of pleasure, gasps and groans that vibrated deliciously against your eardrums.  No longer bashful like that first time, noises released without hiding and face pressing to your shoulder. His cock throbbed inside, growing closer and closer to filling you with his cum with each frenzied grind of V’s hips. You wanted it, needed it, craved it. Ever part of you now strained for that second release, wanting to make him feel good too.

“Y/N…” V rasped, a heady moan leaving his lips as both hands entered his hair for a firm yank, “Just like that...I’m so close, dearest Sparrow…”

You let out a soft whimper, squeezing tighter around him and keeping that firm hold on his silken locks, “Come for me...Give me all of it, sweetheart.”

Your own orgasm was fast approaching, cresting when V tilted your hips a bit further back in his thrusts and stroked those beautiful fingers over your clit. Fuck--A sharp cry left your lips, hands gripping the poet’s hair hard as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. After the first orgasm, this one made your legs quake with the level of stimulation and muscles clench inside. Almost too much, right on the cusp of how much rapture you could stand. It spiraled V into his own pleasure, slender hips stuttering and a breathy groan brushing by your ear as his hot load spilled in spurts. Your eyes practically rolled back in your head, body arching up to take all he had to offer and chest rising and falling in gasps. 

A gentle breeze drifted through the window as V slumped over, careful not to put all his weight on your resting body. It seemed so serene for a moment, your eyes drifting open to see the white curtains still swaying over you both, V’s shoulders rising and falling with his slowing breaths. Peaceful...tender, just as it should have been. Everything felt so unbelievably perfect, your body wonderfully spent and enjoying the fading throb of pleasure as you stroked a hand through V’s silken hair. He was your everything, every hope and desire and happiness wrapped into one bundle of a man. In that heartbeat of time, you felt so incredibly blessed, like a thousand years of lost happiness were nothing compared to what you got to share with him. All the loss, all the pain...they were a flickering, dying candle compared to the flame he kindled within.

Happy...you were so happy tears threatened to spring to your eyes.

You released a contented sigh, holding V in a tender embrace as you both caught your breath. Hours could have passed without caring, but...it took only a few minutes to gather everything back. There were still things that needed to be done, after all. Your poet was the first to raise his head, jade eyes meeting your gaze with an expression that took your breath away--One of absolute love and adoration, V staring at you like the entire world rested in your vision. A pleased rumbled left his chest, black hair swaying slightly as he leaned down to kiss your lips like you were air after years of suffocating. Such a kiss said a lot, more than any words could. 

“Thank you,” He murmured against your mouth, peppering kisses from there to your jaw as he continued softly, “For loving me despite...everything.”

You hummed lightly at that, pressing both hands to his cheeks so he could meet an adoring gaze of your own. He was always saying things of such a nature, as if he had something to prove or loving him was somehow difficult.

“You make it easy,” Another kiss to his lips, this one short and quick, “I would love you no matter what, V. You know that right?”

Even if you betrayed me again.

Even if things fall to pieces.

You are the reason I breathe.

V wrapped both arms around you, pressing his forehead to yours as the words hung in the air for a few seconds. What was that expression he wore on his face? Something between thankfulness and...regret. Was he thinking of what happened in the Qliphoth tree again, about the moments he lied to you and became Vergil again? It had never clicked before, but...if V had been awake and present, he saw every reaction you had, every tear and heartache. It would explain why he couldn’t let go of his guilt, or why he felt the need to thank you every day for staying with him.it was so hard to move past all of that, but...you did have four months to work things out with friends and family while Vergil spent it all in hell.

Regardless...you knew these things could be worked on with time, and V was more than worth the effort.

So you smiled, pressing a light kiss to V’s nose before pulling back and reaching for the phone resting on your window sill. V took the hint pretty easily, letting out a quiet yawn as he pulled away and stretched his long arms over his head. You tried not to stare, really you did--but christ, he was so lovely. His muscles bunching and relaxing, skin of his shoulders marked with your kisses and bites... We have things to do today, no staying in bed. The movement slipped his length from your body, causing a light shiver and sigh in response while you say up as well. Making love in the morning was nice, but you would both need a shower after throwing the sheets in the washer. A small price to pay, one that you were willing to deal with. 

V took up the task of cleaning you up at the very least, leaving the bed briefly to get a washcloth from the bathroom cabinet. It gave ample opportunity to stare at his cute little butt as he departed, which was an absolute delight. He smirked at you on the way down, not oblivious to your wandering eyes in the slightest. Some forethought made him grab sweatpants from the banister before heading toward the door, which was probably for the best--on the off chance someone came home early, seeing him naked would not be ideal.

Upon a brief glance at your phone, you saw it was ten thirty in the morning, giving plenty of time to shower and get ready for lunch at noon. There would be no viable excuse for being late, and it would be rude to the children on top of all of that. You never wanted to upset or disappoint them after all the terrible things that happened all those months ago, so it was the bare minimum you could do. A yawn left your own lips, flopping back on the bed and counting each peaceful second as it passed. Some time out in the city would be lovely, wouldn’t it? The smiling faces of your friends, delicious meal at a local cafe or restaurant...perfect. Everything felt like heaven.

It was on that thought that V returned, cleaning you up and helping gather the sheets to throw in the washer. You smiled when your gazes met, gathering clothes to wear out and heading for the stairs.

“I’m going to shower,” You announced to him, feeling his eyes on your ass as well while pulling on a light robe for modesty, “We should hurry up and get ready to meet Kyrie.”

V let out a low hum of agreement, footfalls following close behind as you entered the hallway, “Maybe we should bathe together, my sparrow?” He leaned over your shoulder, pressing a light kiss to your ear as he whispered, “I believe it will be beneficial to us both.”

Of course he would think that. You giggled lightly, turning around to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Depends on how quickly you get those clothes in the washer, slim,” You breathed, pinching his cheek with gentle fingers, “And only if you promise to be on your best behavior.”

V’s returning smirk was downright evil, jade eyes meeting yours as he stroked his fingers over you chin.

“Oh darling...you and I both know I am a gentleman before anything else.”

(Nero POV)

Nero had never been so glad to get out of a meeting early.

He and Nico were already driving back through the streets of Fortuna, heading for  Madame Elenor’s considering they were able to head home earlier than expected. Honestly, why had they bothered coming by in the first place? The maps could have been sent via photo or email, but Dante and Vergil didn’t seem to have a god damn brain cell between them. His uncle in particular had a cell phone and an ancient computer, but only used the phone to play a really shitty version of tetris. As for his father...well. Spending so long in hell and other places had left him a bit out of tune with technology.

Regardless, they had gotten the needed information on the coming mission and swung back to catch the earliest ferry home. Dante and Vergil had been arguing about flowers of all things as Nero left, which Nico had agreed was incredibly strange. Neither of the two had any idea why the older men had flaked on what would be a friendly lunch in Fortuna, but whatever it was had them in...a bit of a mood. Nero wanted no part of it, and had practically dragged Nico out the door once the bare minimum amount of information had been met. Location? Check. Client? Check. Demon types they would be facing? You bet your ass that was another check on the list. And from there he would leave the planning to Dante and Vergil before they actually set out. 

For now, he would stop by the shop and see how the kids were doing in their crafting efforts. Then the whole group could walk to whatever restaurant they decided on, maybe settle the day off with some time swimming on the beach or a bonfire. After the past week of work and demon hunting, some relaxation wouldn’t hurt anybody--hell, even Nico seemed excited at the prospect of having some free time to sunbathe, claiming she needed to work on her tan and rest her weary fingers. Nero wanted nothing more than to have some time with his wife, seeing her beautiful hair glow in the sun and a bathing suit…

He flustered himself a bit. She was so lovely it made him crazy.

“Jeez, it’s so obvious when you’re thinking about Kyrie,” Nico’s loud complaint made him jolt, looking over from the passenger side of the van to see her shutting off the engine and smirking mischievously, “You always get the goofiest, dopey smile on your face.”

He tried to scoff and play it off as nonchalantly as possible, but it was hard when his cheeks and ears were still tinged pink. Plus he doubted there was getting past Nico’s eagle eyes no matter how hard he tried.

“Lay off, Nico,” He huffed, scratching the back of his head and ignoring her chortles as he hopped out of the van, “So I love my wife--sue me.”

“You sure fuckin’ do, psycho,” Nico snickered, whapping him a little too hard on the back. Meanwhile, her other hand pocketed the keys to her van in those usual shorts she wore, “Just make sure to put on sunscreen today--Kyrie ain’t gonna fuck a tomato and I can’t see your sorry ass blush when you’re burnt like a marshmallow.”

She was certainly relentless in the insults today. Nero tried not to get more flustered, instead rolling his eyes in response to her taunts and pulling open the door to the Madame’s shop. The front windows were lined with costumes and small set pieces, a little bell jingling above them to sound of their arrival. It would seem Eleanor closed her shop early to make time for the kids, a “closed” sign hanging in plain view. But the door had been left unlocked for them, so Nero and Nico started making their way past the lines of costumes to the back area where they knew the kids would be hard at work.

“Madame…! How does it look?”

“Kyrie, I can’t find the pink paint!”

“I have the paint, sweetie--you’re painting trees right now, you need green.”

The children’s excited voices clamored within earshot, making Nero smile and press through the doorway. They were met with a medium sized room with sewing materials, an open archway leading to an open courtyard lined with cut out prop pieces being painted by the group of eager kids. The ones from their orphanage were here, mingling with some kids Nero only vaguely recognized from seeing them occasionally around the city. It was nice--seeing the young ones they cared about spending some time with others their age was a nice change of pace. Nero was also surprised to see you and V here earlier than them--this was one of the few days no one would be home all morning without interruption, so the fact that you were already present was unexpected. You were cross-legged on the floor, helping Emma with her brushstrokes and smiling cheerfully.

Even more surprising was V, hoisting a child up on his shoulders so they could reach the very top of a tree with green paint. He wore an apron over his black button up shirt and grey slacks, but it didn’t save his face from being smeared with some color. The poet didn’t seem to mind, nodding along to whatever the boy was saying and calmly replying to his questions with a small smile. As for Kyrie, she was on her knees beside Julio and Carlo, tracing a template for them to paint on and showing them the proper way to mix colors for what they needed. And boy if Nero wasn’t so smitten, seeing her hair pulled into a messy bun, hands stained with the colors of a rainbow and eyes filled with love and adoration for the kids.

God damn he was so lucky.

Nico rolled her eyes at the dopey look on his face, brushing past him just as Madame Elenor stood from her corner with the other kids, walking over with a limp in her step and wiping paint on the apron she also wore. The children from the orphanage waved and yelled in excitement when they saw Nero and the mechanic, but were so focused on their tasks that they didn’t get up. Which was for the best--they were covered in paint all over their little hands, and he would rather not clean purple and green out of his good clothes. Instead, the white haired boy smiled at his wife, turning away from her gaze to greet the woman helping the kids with this project.

“Nero, so glad you could join us,” The Elderly woman greeted him with a warm smile, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth as she grasped his hands, “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

The Madame had always been an incredibly kind woman. Getting up there in years, old age starting to slow her down a bit but not stopping the creativity and hard work. Nero could respect that.

He smiled lightly in response, wincing a bit at the sight of paint now on his fingers once she pulled away. Figures, “Thanks for helpin’ out with the kiddos, they’re having a good time,” Laughter punctuated his words, making the two look up and see Julio and Carlo giggling as they smeared paint on their faces. Kyrie chasing after with a handkerchief, of course, “The play too. Can’t remember the last time the theater set up anything worth doing.”

The elderly woman snorted, rolling her eyes as she settled on a nearby workbench to rest her weary legs, “Certainly. Making costumes for period dramas grew very tiresome--it’s a lot more energetic to work with the younglings.”

That was definitely an understatement. The devil hunter doubted the old woman had this much excitement in a while. But she seemed pleased about all of the activities going on, pale blue eyes tired but happy as she watched the kids make quick work of another prop, setting it up to dry in the wind and sun. Kyrie helped steady a little girl’s brushstrokes, the light making her hair glow a beautiful shade of auburn as she asked you a question. And that was a nice change of pace too--seeing you in such high spirits, smile no longer tampered by grief or pain and glowing bright as well. You seemed to be in your element among the kids, patient and kind enough to answer all their questions and help when needed. Very similar to his wife in a lot of ways--she had been a very good teacher, after all.

Nero let out a low sigh, leaning against the doorway and folding his arms as he watched the peaceful scene continue. Madame Elenor followed his stare, an amused grin tilting her lips as he kept a watchful gaze on his wife and family. The adoration and devotion was very apparent.

“I’m glad to see you’re finally settling down,” The woman commented, drawing Nero’s attention away briefly and meeting his gaze, “You were such a rebellious teenager--Kyrie is very good for you, such a kind and peaceful woman...her mother was the same way.”

She was one of the few people that didn’t tell Nero that Kyrie was too good for him, something he appreciated. As for her mother...he remembered her kindness too, and it was not lost on him.

So he let out a slow breath, smiling ruefully and scratching the back of his head, “I’m a lucky guy, there’s no mistake there...I don’t know what I would do without her.” She really was something special, carrying so much love and kindness in her body he sometimes wondered if there was any room for hate or animosity. Even when things upset her, she bounced back so fast he often wondered if she hid things away as to not burden others. But there was always communication, always talking with him and explaining how she felt about certain things. 

There was always trust, and he needed that more than anything.

Elenor let out a pleased hum at his response, nodding a few times and pushing her glasses up a bit. Those pale blue eyes scanned the courtyard, watching as you and V started helping pull a tarp over one of the dried prop pieces, kids standing all around to aid. Nero wasn’t watching her expression then, more focused on making sure none of the kids were doing anything to hurt themselves or spilling any paint on their clothes. The children from the orphanage still had to go out to lunch after this, but the other kids would be picked up by parents and family members. So focused as he was, he didn’t notice the curious look on the Madame’s face, the searching one as she kept her eyes on you. Observing as you laughed, picking up one of the kids and pressing a kiss to their cheek.

So that’s why it surprised him when the elderly woman spoke again, her voice low and thoughtful as she murmured, “Your other friend is like her mother too.”

That certainly made Nero blink. He turned, staring at the Madame in confusion and seeing a faraway look in her eyes, one of remembrance and wistfulness. What the hell was she talking about? There was no way she could have known your mother, right?

“What do you mean…?” Nero asked slowly, brow furrowed as the Madame turned to meet his perplexed gaze. 

She pursed her lips, head tilted in your direction as another prop was covered slowly and carefully, “I never forget a face, you know that,” The elder locked her eyes on you again, frowning now as she watched the children interact and clamor in excitement, “Even one I’ve seen a long time ago--I can remember the faces of Kyrie’s parents perfectly, and I remember another face too. A woman used to come into my shop years ago, a year before you were even at the orphanage I think...she looked just like Y/N, spitting image.”

...What?

Nero stared in blank shock, brain not sure what to do with the information and halting like the screeching of tires. Someone who was the spitting image of you in this city, before he was even born? But...how was that possible? Surely not, there was no way you would have a parent in Fortuna, that was very clear after all the information they learned about your past. Even while not knowing anything about your family, you were firm in the fact that it was a different dimension entirely. Wisps of memories, small feelings and Foresight told the truth in your statements--not to mention the fact that the Outsider changed your appearance after your first death to distance you from the life you lead. A fresh start, an entirely new you--even your name had been picked by him. From what you could gather, your parents lived in a small town anyway, not a city. So...how?

How could someone be here that looked just like you? Maybe the elder had finally gone senile, maybe it was just a simple mistake? But...practically everyone in Fortuna knew of her memory. Hell, the old woman could recall days from his childhood that blurred even for Kyrie and himself. Faces, names, events...Old age never soured her mind, not for a second. Conviction was in her tone, eyes firm and certain as she stared at you, like seeing a memory from long...long ago.

But...that couldn’t be right.

This didn’t make sense.

You said you’d never been to Fortuna before, this dimension before.

So...why?

Nero’s tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth, heartbeat starting to pick up while his head tried to piece things together, bit by bit. You were prone to having your memory erased, right? So...maybe you had been to this place before, without even realizing it? It was possible, especially with how unpredictable the Outsider was. But...didn’t the God only erase your memories with trauma? And what could he have sent you to do in Fortuna at the time? The Order of the Sword hadn’t been affected, and no big events had gone on until they were taken down. Not unless there was an event you did manage to prevent, one he didn’t know about.

 The devil hunter couldn’t find it in himself to reply, even as the Madame continued on wistfully in her story. And as the words continued to flow, his trepidation grew in spades, like icy fingers tapping their way along his spine.

“Timid little thing, she came in a few times to help me with odd jobs in return for coin and food,” The Madame sighed, closing her tired eyes and pausing briefly as she remembered the past, “She started coming by less and less, spending time with a tall, cloaked sword-wielding man walking the streets. An outsider like herself, I think. And then...well, I stopped seeing her at all. I got worried for a little while that something had happened to her after rumors circled the town but…”

The Madame shrugged, smile returning as she watched you hug Kyrie around the waist and giggle about whatever joke was said, “Her daughter is alive and well, a very kind person. If she turned out this way, I have no doubt that her mother ended up safe as well--I imagine the cloaked man she was with must have got her off the island before the Order fell...I just wished she would stop by and say hello before then.” 

A...cloaked man?

Rumors?

The woman slowly rose to her feet, wincing when her bones creaked and ached in protest, “I’ll have to ask your friend about her parents another day, when things aren’t quite so busy. It’s strange...she shares the same name as her mother too, which is a bit...odd. But she’s far too young to be the same woman.”

She didn’t notice Nero’s frozen expression, especially not when a couple kids ran up to her and loudly asked for help with a prop. Walking away before any more questions could be asked, things seeming to pass in slow motion for a brief second. He wasn’t able to move, watching numbly as she was pulled away by tiny hands, chuckling lightly at their enthusiasm. Things seemed so normal in comparison to the new truth laid at his feet--the kids didn’t notice Nero leaning against the doorway, a hand on his mouth and posture frozen in place. Nor did you, V, or Kyrie. All so focused on the task at hand, while he was left wondering just what the fuck was going on.

The elderly woman’s words had...struck a heavy chord of unease, one that gripped him in its tight vise and refused to let go no matter how hard Nero tried. 

His mind was working overtime, trying to figure out just what the hell was going on with so little information in front of him. Same name, same face...that had to be you, right? What the hell happened to you in Fortuna all those years ago, if he was to believe what Elenor claimed to be true? If you could travel from dimension to dimension, what was stopping the chance of going to a certain place twice? It was completely probable that Fortuna could have been one of your mission places, but...maybe you had failed? Something traumatic must have happened, and you had each memory erased. The Order of the Sword could have been a big target, but…

But.

The timing of it...was far too uncomfortable for Nero’s liking.

A lot of these things were.

Nero’s brain was connecting things he absolutely should not be trying to connect--but it wouldn’t stop, it refused to. Not with this new information, not with things he had felt on the edge of his consciousness for a long...long time.

He had heard rumors too...hadn’t he? When trying to figure out the identity of his parents as a teenager, asking anyone who would listen if they could remember anyone dropping a baby off at the orphanage. Claims ranging from it maybe being a teenage mother who made a mistake, him being a cursed twin left by a frightened family. Ect, ect. But...those all came up empty. And besides, he had demonic blood in his veins, so anything stating he came from normal humans was implausible anyway. No, he only took to heart things that could actually depict something other than human.

And a couple tales came to mind. Not ones he heard while searching out his parents, but rather things heard in passing. Demon attacks were a common thing in the city until the Order fell, but people who actually held their own against the creatures outside of said Order were...rare. Nero remembered tales of an inhuman man in a cloak who once traveled the city streets for a short time, witnesses seeing him take out demons with speed and precision no mere mortal could have. As a teenager, it had all seemed so silly--why should he think that this man had to be his father, especially with nothing to go on? This apparent stranger came and went in a matter of a couple months, leaving no trace behind.

In retrospect...that did sound like Vergil, a lot like Vergil. Tall, cloaked, deadly and precise. Wielding a sword, obviously. But...Nero hadn’t put much thought into the stranger’s companion this late in his life, not when he was still trying to grasp the fact that he had a father in the first fucking place.

Less was known about her--a lady in red, according to a few passing voices that could barely recall the tales. After all, why did such things matter years later? Those people were gone, but some fleeting memories remained. Coming and going from Fortuna was incredibly rare, outsiders stuck out like a sore thumb and were generally met with wariness and fear back then. Some rumors claimed she was human, but a few more...a few more mentioned powers too, didn’t they? He had waved those away--he was mostly human, right? Mostly human meant only partial demon, the woman had to be human.

Had to be.

Right?

But…

The timeline...the timeline. It fit, didn’t it? This woman who looked like you was in Fortuna before he was in the Orphanage, a year before. Around the time Vergil was in Fortuna, a tall, cloaked man with a sword. There was no fucking way that could be anyone else, right? You already stated your age was a question mark after traveling for the Outsider for so long, and visiting to the same dimension twice without remembering it was...plausible. If something trauma based had happened to you in Fortuna...it would explain why you disappeared without warning, especially when he considered the fact that you had not been with his father when all the conflict between him and Dante had occurred. At least...that’s what he assumed.

Vergil would have remembered your face, though, wouldn’t he? But...his father claimed to have lost memories after a particularly bad run in with Mundus, avoiding the topic like the plague and growing agitated whenever Nero brought it up. So the younger Sparda learned to stop asking about it, not wanting to fuck things up when the once-surly male was clearly trying his best. Although that was what he claimed, Nero had always felt there might have been more knowldge to find, especially with the mentioned trials.

Thinking back on it...Nero’s foreboding grew in spades, leaps, and bounds.

You had eventually spoken of what happened in the Void, Vergil forced to go through three trials in punishment for his actions. The first was reliving the trauma of his mother’s death, the second seeing what happened with Mundus and becoming Nelo Angelo. And the third...well, your memory went blank at the third, fairly certain that the Outsider took your memory of it, but not knowing why. It was of little consequence at the time--you were just happy to have V back, and didn’t put any thought into it.

Nero had asked his father in passing about it, and V too since they seemed to share memories. Both clammed up at the third trial, Vergil stating curtly that it was a part of his past he’d rather not repeat aloud or bring into light, and V...well, V replied that Vergil’s memories weren’t his to share, nor were his traumas or mistakes. And it ended with that, Nero shrugging it off just as easily now that things had seemingly grown so calm.

But now...less calm. There was a reason your memory of the third trial had been removed, especially if that reason was…

That’s not possible.

 Nero turned, stalking back into the shop before anyone could notice the growing look of panic and confusion on his face. Both hands ran through his hair, heart pounding in his ears as he walked out to the van and leaned against its metal form, trying to talk out of his own reasoning and just carrying the disbelief and fear in circles. Not many people were on this street so early in the day, more than likely on the square or on the beach so there would be no one to see him trying to collect himself.

Vergil wasn’t the type to screw around with multiple women, that was obvious. But he was the type to reluctantly start traveling with one, maybe get too close. If something bad happened, if you had died...there would be no memory, no trace, no knowing him. Maybe no knowledge of having a...

There is no fucking way.

Nero felt his blood run cold, brain scrambling with this knowledge and sending off several warning bells that made him feel sick to his stomach. There was no way, right? This was stupid, foolish, idiotic--his head was just doing things it shouldn’t connecting dots that weren’t there.

As hard as he tried to tell himself that...the seed of doubt had been planted, and it was flourishing. He couldn’t even form the proper words or coherent thoughts, unable to even comprehend it. His friend, his best friend...the same one he had laughed with at home, messing up your hair, calling each other “jackass” at any given moment, flinging food at the dinner table. The one who he watched fall apart in the Qliphoth, who he had carried home and helped build back up for so long. There was no way that you could be his...no. That wasn’t possible, and as much as he wanted to ask…

He couldn’t, could he?

Memories of trauma were taken for a reason. According to you, the Outsider only took things that were too overwhelming for you to handle. Things that could break you, weights to heavy to bare. If he asked you about it, made you remember something on accident…That wasn’t a risk that could be taken. But there were other ways to find out, right? Maybe that would be best, a simple DNA test without your knowledge could easily show him that this theory was foolish and contrived, take the burden off his shoulders and allow things to continue in peace as they were.

But...what if it only proved the truth? Would he be able to keep treating you like a friend as before, would he even be able to look at you the same way?

He couldn’t live with this ignorance...somehow, not knowing seemed worse.

I need to know. I need to be sure.

Even if it changes things...I spent so long not knowing.

Now that the thought is there...I need to do something or else it’ll get worse.

And even if he did find out it was true, what did he have to change? His mind was starting to calm, looking for reason and stability anywhere he could find it. You were his best friend, incredibly kind and caring to everyone around--even in the Qliphoth, making sure people were eating, encouraging him when it seemed like no one else would. If the truth came to light that after all this time, after all the wondering, hate, and resentment that maybe he wasn’t an unwanted child...It was startling, it went against everything he taught himself. If you had died, if you didn’t remember anything...it was very possible that he had been loved, right? You definitely weren’t the type to just throw away your flesh and blood, there was so much love in your heart, like Kyrie. But...it made sense if things happened outside of your control, a tragedy. 

If he found out that...you were his mother, after all this time...then wouldn’t that be a relief? To know his mother was just a timid, lost girl under the guidance of a distrustful God, one who went through something terrible and wasn’t able to keep him--compared to all the ideas of him being abandoned for being partially demon, of his mother not wanting him, this was a blessing in comparison. And he could hold his tongue, bottle it all in even if he knew the truth. Because at the end of the day, you had always been family, his friend...All he wanted was the truth, and if he could get it then that would be enough.

I was wrapped in a cloth when Kyrie’s mother found me on the doorstep, dry despite the rain. The cloth was stained in blood, like whoever gave birth had me and dropped me off not long after.

Nero made up his mind, resolve snapping in place like steel chords inside and binding every decision in place. By the time Kyrie emerged with the kids an hour later, he had a casual smile on his face again, all the traces of panic and confusion tampered down even when you emerged with an arm locked around V. Smiling, happy, greeting him with a nudge of your elbow and a teasing comment about Vergil and Dante giving him a hard time. No one would notice anything was amiss with him, at least...that’s what he hoped.

“...Nero?”

The white-haired boy paused, lagging behind the group a bit as they started walking toward the square. You and Nico holding the kids hands, Kyrie pulling Nero’s arm with her gentle fingers and staring at him in worry.

But all he could muster was a small smile, leaning down to kiss the top of her head while pulling her along toward the others.

“Later, I promise.”

Kyrie’s eyes missed nothing, but this wasn’t something he could talk with her about, not yet at least. He needed to be certain, things needed to be proven and solid first. If the white-haired boy discovered that his theories were wrong and just his brain foolishly searching for what wasn’t there...well, he would tell his wife and have a little laugh, and maybe wonder about what happened to you in Fortuna all those years ago. She only nodded at his words, still seeming concerned but lacing her fingers with his as they caught up to the group just as they were deciding on the restaurant. You briefly looked at him, as if sensing his off mood yourself, but...knew not to say anything.

If it was the truth...Nero would tell Kyrie, warn her not to bring it up to you. And then he would ask Vergil about it, proof in hand and get the story from his mouth. Because there was no doubt that he and V both knew something that they weren’t telling.

Nero would be able to keep his cool through lunch, through everything. Arguing with Nico, talking with the kids, watching you laugh with Kyrie and the others while one hand grasped V’s tightly. There was truth to be had, but at the end of the day you would always be his family and friend above all other things. And that came first, your well-being always came first.

Some things were more important.

If he discovered you were this woman in red, his mother...then he would get the story from Vergil and be done with it. Just being able to know both parents was something Nero thought he’d never have, and to know his mother was someone kind and sweet in comparison to Vergil? Well...he could live with that, could go on being your friend without changing a damn thing if it meant saving you from trauma. Life would go on as always, but he would just have one less mystery hanging over his head.

There was definitely a truth to be had. But at the end of the day...family was family. And he was willing to do whatever it would take to defend it.

“Hey Nero?”

The boy looked up as he walked alongside his wife and the children, seeing you looking at him with mischief in your expression. The afternoon light making your hair glow, one arm locked with V’s as he chuckled at whatever you had cooking up.

Nero swallowed down the hesitation and uncertainty, replying easily enough, “Yeah?”

You grinned, jabbing him in the side once with a hint of challenge in your tone, one he easily caught onto, “When we get back, we should spar on the beach. You, me, and some good old-fashioned water guns.”

What was that in your expression? A hint of concern, worry for him that you were trying to mask with playfulness. She’s worried, and trying to cheer me up--Nero clicked that in place right away, knowing damn well that sparring was one of his ways to blow off steam. Of course you caught onto his unease as well, just as observant as Kyrie. He felt his wife squeeze his hand too, punctuating the offer with support of her own.

And it was in that moment, Nero realizing how very blessed he was. To have people who cared and loved him that much, to have a chance of discovering his mother was something like you, someone already close to him. It made him smirk a bit, picking up Carlo from where he walked with the other kids and letting the boy hug him around the neck.

“You’re on,” He replied with a low smirk, eyeing V at your side and adding cockily, “Bet I could take you and Shakespeare on at once.”

V rose a simple brow at that, lips quirking up in a smile as he replied with a low chuckle, “You can certainly try.”

The kids all chattered in excitement, wanting in on the battle and eager at the prospect of playing with super soakers. Nico seemed to want in on it too, pinching one of Nero’s cheeks and claiming she would ally herself with him in this so called “battle”. Nero was willing to bet there would be treachery afoot, but Kyrie would always be there to back him up in the long run.

They all would. And when the truth eventually came...that would always remain the same.

~The End~

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[freedomartspress]

Three Poems — Tongo Eisen Martin

Kick Drum Only

All street life to a certain extent starts fair

Sometimes with a spiritual memory even

Predawn soul-clap/ your father dying even

Maybe I’ve pushed the city too far

My sensitivities to landfill districting and minstrel whistles/

White supremacist graffiti on westbound rail guards 

-all overcome and reauthored

The garbage is growing voices

Condensed Marxism 

modal gangsterism for a warrior-depressive

Underpass in my pocket

because I am a deity

or decent bid on the Panther name 

revolutionary violence that chose its own protagonists 

or muted stage of genius

A merciful Marxism        

Disquieted home life 

Or metaphor for relaxing next to a person 

Who is relaxing next to a gun

I stare at my father for a few seconds 

Then return to my upbringing

Return to the souls of Ohio Black folks

Revolution is damn near pagan at this point

You know what the clown wants? The respect of the ant. 

Wants a pen cap full of bullets

Wants to see their ancestors in broad daylight

I am not tired of these rooms; just tired of the world that give them a relativity 

My only change of clothes prosecuted

The government has finally learned how to write poems

shoot-outs that briefly align…

that make up a parable

white bodies are paid well, I posit

do white men actually even have leaders?

all white people are white men

white men will only ever be metaphors

all I do is practice, Lord

A rat pictures a river

Can almost taste the racial divide

Can almost roll a family member’s head into a city hall legislative chamber

Knows who in this good book will fly

I have decided not to talk out of anger ever again, Lord

Met my wife at the same time I met new audience members for our pain

We passed each other cigarettes and watched cops win

A city gone uniquely linear

Harlem of the West due a true universe 

 “I will always remember you in fancy clothes,” my wife said 

so here I sit… twisting in silk ideation

  My rifle made of tar

My targets made of an honest language

This San Francisco poetry is how God knows that it is me whining 

Writing among the lesser-respected wolves

Lesser-observed militarization

Dixie-less prison bookkeeping/I mean the California gray-coats are coming 

lynch mob gossip and bourgeois debt collection

I mean, it’s tempting to change professions mid-poem

in a Chicago briefing, a white sergeant saying, “blank slate for all of us after this Black organizer is dead.”

standard academics toasting two-buck wine at the tank parade

bay of nothing, Lord

  nuclear cobblestones, gunline athleticism  

and the last of the inherited asthma

children given white dolls to play with and fear

facial expressions borrowed from rich people’s shoe strings

I can hear hate

And teach hate

And call tools by people names

And name people dead to themselves

no one getting naturalized except federal agents soon 

carving the equator into throats soon

I’m sorry to make you relive all of this, Lord

pre-dawn monarchy 

friends putting up politician posters then snorting the remainder of the paste

minstrel scripts shoveled into the walls by their elders

my children sharpening quarters on the city’s edge

For these audiences

I project myself into a ghost like state

For these gangsters, I do the same

every now and then, we take a nervous look east

Sleep becomes Christ

Sleep starts growing a racial identity

do you ever spiral, Lord?

has the gang-age betrayed us?

be patient with my poems, Lord

So much pain

there is a point to crime… 

There has to be if race traitors come with it

 Lord, is that my revolver in your hand?

Better presidents than these have yawned at cages

Have called us holy slaves

Filled the school libraries with cop documentaries

Baby, I don’t have money for food

I have no present moment at all

/

I Do Not Know the Spelling of Money

I go to the railroad tracks

And follow them to the station of my enemies

A cobalt-toothed man pitches pennies at my mugshot negative

All over the united states, there are

Toddlers in the rock

I see why everyone out here got in the big cosmic basket

And why blood agreements mean a lot

And why I get shot back at

I understand the psycho-spiritual refusal to write white history or take the glass freeway

White skin tattooed on my right forearm 

Ricochet sewage near where I collapsed 

into a rat-infested manhood

My new existence as living graffiti 

In the kitchen with

a lot of gun cylinders to hack up

House of God in part

No cops in part

My body brings down the Christmas 

The new bullets pray over blankets made from old bullets

Pray over the 28th hour’s next beauty mark

Extrajudicial confederate statue restoration 

the waist band before the next protest poster 

By the way,

Time is not an illusion, your honor

I will return in a few whirlwinds

I will save your desk for last

You are witty, your honor

You’re moving money again, your honor

It is only raining one thing: non-white cops

And prison guard shadows 

Reminding me of

Spoiled milk floating on an oil spill

A neighborhood making a lot of fuss over its demise

A new lake for a Black Panther Party

Malcom X’s ballroom jacket slung over my son’s shoulders

Pharmacy doors mid-slide

         The figment of village

                     a noon noose to a new white preacher

Wiretaps in the discount kitchen tile

-All in an abstract painting of a president

Bought slavers some time, didn’t it?

The tantric screeches of military bolts and Election-Tuesday cars

A cold-blooded study in leg irons

Leg irons in tornado shelters

Leg irons inside your body

  Proof that some white people have actually fondled nooses

That sundown couples 

made their vows of love over   

opaque peach plastic

and bolt action audiences     

Man, the Medgar Evers-second is definitely my favorite law of science

Fondled news clippings and primitive Methodists 

My arm changes imperialisms 

Simple policing vs. Structural frenzies

Elementary school script vs. Even whiter white spectrums

Artless bleeding and

the challenge of watching civilians think

     “terrible rituals they have around the corner. They let their elders beg for public mercy…beg for settler polity”

“I am going to go ahead and sharpen these kids’ heads into arrows myself and see how much gravy spills out of family crests.”

Modern fans of war

    What with their t-shirt poems

    And t-shirt guilt

And me, having on the cheapest pair of shoes on the bus, 

I have no choice but to read the city walls for signs of my life

                                                                                     /

The Chicago Prairie Fire

First, I must apologize to the souls of the house

I am wearing the cheek bones of the mask only

Pill bottle, my name is yours

Name tagged on the side of a factory of wrists

Teeth of the mask now

Back of the head of the mask now 

        New phase of anti-anthropomorphism fending for real faces

Stuck with one of those cultures that believes I chose this family

I am not creative

Just the silliest of the revolutionaries

My blood drying on 

   my only jacket

just as God got playful

the police state’s psychic middlemen

Evangelizing for the creation of an un-masses 

An un-Medgar

Blood of a lamb less racialized

or awesome prison sentence

Good God

Elder-abuse hired for the low

dog eat genius

Right angle made between a point

On a Louisiana plantation

And 5-year old’s rubber ball 

3 feet high and falling

like a deportee plane 

to complete my interpretation 

(of garden variety genocide) 

I am small talk

about loving your enemies

A little more realistically

About paper tigers 

And also gold…

I need my left hand back 

I broke my neck on the piano keys

Found paradise in a fistfight

Maybe I should check into the Cuba line

Watching the universe’s last metronomes

some call Black Jacobins

Just wait…

These religions will start resigning in a decade or two

Some colorfully 

Some transactional-ly

In a cotton gothic society

Class betrayal gone glassless/ I mean ironically/ my window started fogging over too 

Wondering which Haiti will get me through this winter

Which poem houses souls

Which socialist breakthroughs

Breakthroughs like ten steps back

Then finally stillness

Stillness

Then stillness among families

a John Brown biography takes a bow

I’m up next to introduce Prosser to Monk

I remember childhood

Remember the word “Childhood” being a beginning 

Scribbling on an amazing grace 

I rented this body from some circumference of slavery

Remember being kicked out of the Midwest

Strange fruit theater

Lithium and circuses

Likeminded stomachs 

The ruling class blessing their blank checks with levy foam…

                            with opioid tea 

Sentient dollar bills yelling to each other pocket to pocket

Cello stands in the precinct for accompanying counterrevolutionaries 

My mother raised me with a simple pain

A poet loses his mind, you know, like the room has weather

Or first-girlfriend gravity

Police-knock gravity 

Mind-game gravity

Or revolution languishing behind 

The sugar in my good friend’s mind

“The difference between me and you

Is that the madness

Wants me forever”

A pair of apartments

Defining both my family

And political composure

Books behind my back

Bail money paved into the streets

Playing:

Euphoria

Euphoria

Cliché

Bracing for the medicine’s recoil

Sharing a dirty deli sandwich with my friends

Black Jacobins

Underground topography

Or grandmother’s hands

Psychology of the mask now

Teeth of the mask again

—

Originally from San Francisco, Tongo Eisen-Martin is a movement worker and educator who has organized against mass incarceration and extra-judicial killing of Black people throughout the United States. His latest curriculum on extrajudicial killing of Black people, We Charge Genocide Again, has been used as an educational and organizing tool throughout the country. His book of poems, Someone’s Dead Already was nominated for a California Book Award.

[hellomissmabel]

For Infinity (I)

MASTERLIST

Pairings: Tony x Muse!reader

Warnings: None.

Word count: 3k

Summary: When Hades kidnapped Persephone and took her with him to the Underworld, the Goddess Demeter cursed the muses because they were unable to stop Hades. She casted them out to Earth where they would die slowly, as muses can’t live on Earth for longer than a few days at a time. But Zeus showed his daughters mercy and granted them a powerful amulet. It allows them to remain on Earth, unharmed, as a human, for one whole year. But if they wish to continue their life on Earth, they will have to find their soulmate within the next year. If they don’t, they’ll die.

A/N: My prompt was “Life taken, life given”. Someone also requested a shy reader, so here ya go :) Written for @shurios aka @shamptain-shmerica

Series masterlist can be found here

Muses:

Pepper: Religious hymns

Peggy: Epic poetry

Sif: History

Wanda: Tragedy

Shuri: Comedy

Y/N: Music and melancholic poetry

Natasha: Love poetry

Sharon: Dance

Gamora: Astronomy, can also foretell the future by the position of the stars

You were on your way from another disappointing casting call. Nobody wants to hire an ancient deity with no academic degree or prior job experience, even if you’re the Muse of Epic Poetry. Walking into Starbucks, you greet your sister Wanda and ask her to make you ‘diabetes in a coffee cup’. She laughs happily at you yet obliges and makes you the sweetest drink she can think of. While you wait, you take a seat at your usual spot until your sister brings over your order and sits down opposite of you.

“I’m on my break,” she says with a sweet smile, your sister in a very good mood. “How was the audition?”

You grumble and whine, taking a large sip from your coffee and getting whip cream on your bottom lip, licking it off with a small smile at the sugary taste. “Terrible. The director said that I lack... likability.” Exhaling softly, you tell you sister that the man said you were incredibly talented on stage, but off stage had the personality of a celery. “I’m simply too shy and they can’t sell shy.”

Wanda rolls her eyes. “Don’t listen to him. That’s just ridiculous! Not everything has to be sellable. Don’t forget you’re a Muse! You can do this, sis. Remember when Ares tried to woo you? You told that creep no and punched his nose! Then you told Peggy what her boyfriend was up to and she punched him again, gave him a shiner!”

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?” You roll your eyes at Wanda, reminding her that was Mount Olympus and that Earth is something completely different. “People came to us for help, from writers to poets to painters. This is Earth and I’m a nobody here… I’m no longer the Muse of Music and Melancholic Poetry.”

“No, Y/N, don’t say that. You still have some of your powers and I’m sure you’ll become an amazing human,” Wanda replies in a soft and soothing voice. “You could start working at a book shop or a library or something… you don’t necessarily have to find a job in the entertainment sector just because you’re a muse. There are loads of options!”

“Well, at least I’m looking for a job! Unlike you who settled for the first job you could find,” you snap at the brunette. Her eyes lose that giddiness and you instantly regret you words.

Reaching out to touch her hand, she gives you another sad look before her lips break into a playful grin. “It’s okay, Y/N. It’s just – I’m the muse of Tragedy. It ain’t easy to find a job in Tragedy. Hence the job at Starbucks.”

“I know, I know,” you exhale shakily, feeling sorry for your sister. “I just really wanna do something with music. I thought musical was going to be it…”

“You’re not the only one struggling,” Wanda replies encouragingly, reminding you that all nine muses are having a hard time adjusting. “It’s only been three months since we came here. We still have nine left. One month for each of us to find our soulmate, right?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you chuckle lovingly, appreciating Wanda’s attempt at making you feel better. “I’m going to see Nat, Sharon, Peggy and Pepper this evening for dinner. Gamora, Shuri and Sif might be there too but they haven’t confirmed yet. But I’d really appreciate it if you could make it,” you offer with a sheepish smile.

“It’s my birthday tomorrow. It’s not every day you get to celebrate that you’ll actually be one year older, for real!”

She shakes her head no and looks at the clock to check if she still has some time left of her break. “I can’t. I’m so sorry, I totally forgot to tell you but I have a date. We can still go out for dinner tomorrow though, when it’s your birthday.”

Your eyes widen at this extremely good news. So that’s why she’s in such a good mood! The more dates you and your sisters go on, the higher the chance of meeting your soulmate. And when you do meet your soulmate, you can stay on Earth and you can live out your life in peace. “That’s great! Let me know how it goes, okay?”

Wanda nods and then gets up to resume her place behind the counter, pecking your hair with a happy hum. “Thanks, Y/N. I hope you get a date soon.”

When she’s out of earshot and has her back turned to you, you let your head drop in your hands. “Fuuuuuuuuuuck,” you sigh in frustration.

In those three months you’ve already been on earth, you’ve been living off the money your sisters make because you’re unable to find a job yourself. You watch how your family, your sisters go on countless dates, some even twice a day if you’re Natasha and some keep it lowkey like the youngest of the bunch, Shuri, who is only sixteen and basically dates boys who are afraid of kissing girls still.

Mindlessly playing around with the stone on the long necklace around your neck, a red stone and a gold necklace, you notice someone’s got their eyes on you from behind. Turning around, you spot a man with sunglasses on and a cap, averting his eyes as soon as he notices you’re looking right back at him. It makes you feel incredibly unease, so you get up and decide to leave the coffee shop, bidding goodbye to your sister. But on your way out you bump into a stranger.

“Oh, sorry sweetheart. Didn’t watch out,” he apologises quickly, in a sultry tone accompanying an equally seductive voice. He’s got incredibly deep brown eyes, with a tad of gold around the irises. “Hey, you dropped something.” He reaches down to pick up your keys, chuckling when he notices the little iron man keychain dangling on it.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” he coos and when you meet his eyes, you see a sparkle of mischief. “A fan of Iron Man, hm?”

You shrug a little, not aware that the actual Iron Man is standing right in front of you. “My sister Gamora gave it to me. She thought I might like it and says this guy is supposed to be really damn smart as well. I like the colours though, red and gold. It’s a nice combo.”

Tony chuckles in obvious amusement as it’s clear to him you definitely have no clue. So he decided to play along and hands you back your keys. “Is that so? Well, I hope he doesn’t disappoint when you get the chance to meet him.”

“Yeah, not that I ever will,” you reply dryly, the melancholy of your existence as a Muse seeping through. “He’s filthy rich and a superhero. Superheroes don’t hang out with people like me.”

Your comment hits him a little, like a stab to the heart, and he picks up on the dejected tenor that makes your voice tremble with a violent sadness. But your eyes continue to shine in hope, even though your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes when you thank him again and resume your path home, leaving quite the impression on Tony.

Dinner with your sisters is always quite something. Either they’re trying to set you up with a guy that’s definitely not your type, or they’re complaining about their love life – or lack thereof – themselves. Nevertheless, you always end up just picking at your food, all your appetite gone. What a great way to end the day before your first human birthday.

“Y/N, what’s going on with your necklace?,” your sister Gamora notices when she sees how the amulet is shining brightly. She has a feeling it has something to do with the man you might’ve met earlier, but she keeps her lips sealed as she is not one to meddle.

You look down at the stone and eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I have no idea. It’s been shining like this ever since I left the Starbucks where Wanda works. But now you mention it, it’s never been this colour red before.”

Pepper holds the stone between her fingertips but releases it quickly. “Hot! It’s so hot!”

“Really? I don’t feel a thing,” you comment in a passive voice. “If you hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have noticed.”

“It must mean something!,” Sharon chimes in, excited by the prospect of discovering more about the amulets. “Maybe it’s a sign you’ve met your soulmate?”

All muses start to quibble and discuss amongst themselves whether or not you’ve met your soulmate. As they’re in the middle of hypothesising and dreaming about what your soulmate might look like, you accidentally push over your glass of wine, the red liquid staining your light blue dress.

“Shit!!!!,” you exclaim loudly until the muse of history, Sif, shushes you as all eyes in the restaurant are now trained on you. “It’s my birthday tomorrow, so can’t you please, for once, shut the fuck up?!”

Storming off and out of the restaurant, you start to walk back those two blocks to the apartment you’re sharing with Gamora and Wanda. You and your sisters live in groups of three, all in different parts of New York. You’ve decided to settle down in Brooklyn, as you’ve always taken a liking to Brooklyn even from Mount Olympus.

Just as you round the corner to your street, your shoulder brushes someone’s arm and you apologise half-heartedly. Again your keys slip out of your pocket and, as if by some divine intervention, the man beats you to it and picks them up.

“You again,” you mumble in surprise at seeing the same dark-haired man you bumped into earlier today. “We met at the Starbucks this afternoon.”

“Well, well,” he smirks while toying with the Iron Man figurine on your keys, recognition dawning on him too. “I remember you.”

You accept the keys and pocket them happily, feeling a light buzz when your skin briefly touches his hand. “My name is Y/N.”

“Tony,” he introduces himself, extending a hand for you to shake. “Tony Stark.”

You drop your hand midway, your mouth falling open and stuttering and stammering while your entire face blushes a tomato red. “Tony Stark?” Swallowing thickly, you take in his chocolatey eyes and lively face. “Iron Man?,” you squeak quietly while referring to your key chain.

“The one and only,” he confirms with a cheeky chuckle. “So either you’re some crazy fan that’s following me around,” You bat your eyelashes and looks a little lost in your attempt to not look like a stalker. “Or this really is coincidence.”

“What’s Tony Stark doing in Brooklyn?,” you ask bluntly, feeling incredibly embarrassed after.

Ploughing through your mind to find at least something that isn’t awkward to say, you just start laughing nervously. The tension of surviving on Earth as a mortal and your introverted nature make a terrible combo for approaching any man, let alone a self-confident man such as Tony Stark.

“Relax, darling, I’m not stalking you either. I was just visiting a friend who happens to live in Brooklyn as well,” he hums with a warm smile. “Want some company? I can give you a ride home if you like.”

“Oh, no, thanks, I live like…” you point in the direction of the house you share with three of your sisters, “…over there. See? Really close.”

“Alright then,” he chuckles at your bashful smile when you turn back to lock eyes with him. “Maybe I’ll see you again?”

“Maybe” you reply a little shaky, shyness radiating off you in thick waves.

“Yeah, maybe,” he grins proudly with a nod. “I wouldn’t be opposed to that, you know.”

Taken aback by his forwardness and the flirty look he’s giving you, you cast your eyes down to the ground to hide the blush his charm brings forth. But then you catch a glimpse of his expensive watch and curse internally, the clock almost striking midnight. “I gotta go. Euhm… It was really nice meeting you… Again.”

You don’t even give Tony the chance to say goodbye as well, turning around and running towards your apartment. With skilful fingers you unlock the door and head upstairs, right on time before a white dove lands on your window sill. “Hi there, little one. You got a message from Dad?”

The dove has a little roll of parchment tied to its foot, and you carefully untie it, petting the dove and sending it back to Mount Olympus. While you’re reading the message, so concentrated you’re unaware someone is sneaking up on you, your eyes start to fill with tears at the beautiful little note.

“Hi, Y/N!”

Shrieking loudly in anguish, you jump around and strike whoever is standing behind you. Your fist hits his right eye and he clasps it in pain. “Ow! Y/N! It’s me! Hermes!”

“Hermes!,” you blow out angrily, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Surprise!”, he giggles with bashful smile, “Zeus sent me to accompany you on this special day!”

Rolling your eyes at the God, you tell him to follow you to the kitchen where you open the fridge and pick a cup of ice cream for each of you. “Yeah, yeah, alright. Here,” you offer him chocolate fudge ice cream while you dig your spoon into some cookies ‘n cream, “Try some. For human food, this is really fucking delicious.”

The God is a little sceptic at first but when he sees your entire expression light up, he decides he doesn’t wanna miss out on anything during these fleeting moments on Earth. His face looks like it’s going to split in two at the amount of happiness radiating from him.

“Good, right?” He nods ardently and you slide the note to him. “Dad wrote this. A birthday note.”

Hermes whistles softly as he reads the scribbled words on the tiny piece of paper. “Old man is getting emotional.” With a soft smile, Hermes reaches for your hand and squeezes it gently. “Happy birthday, Y/N.”

“So…,” he chuckles while eating another spoonful of chocolate ice cream. “Why aren’t you with your sisters?”

“I ran out of the restaurant because they were arguing again. This time about the amulet. It was lighting up and glowing and it felt really hot,” you explain to him while showing the necklace to him. “Like now….”

You gaze at the red stone in confusion, almost pulsing like a heartbeat in the palm of your hand, the curves of the stone soft to the touch. “I promise it wasn’t like this in the restaurant.”

“It’s almost as if…” Hermes marvels at the ruby but doesn’t touch it as it looks like it’s alive. “…it’s an actual heart.”

It’s as if something is on the tip of Hermes’ tongue, but he is obviously refraining himself from speaking plainly. “Hermes…,” you draw out his name in a chastising tone, “What is it? You think the amulet will remain red? Is red my colour now?”

Cradling his head to the side as he further studies the gem. “Did Zeus explain to you how the stones work?”

“Yeah, they’re supposed to change colour and help us find our soulmate,” you recall from the conversation at the restaurant.

“Well,” Hermes coughs uncomfortably, eyeing the lock of the door as someone put a key in it. Looks like your sisters have made their way home as well. “I’m not supposed to tell you this but – There’s a catch.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t go looking for your soulmate. I would look for the next best thing. These stones, they are supposed to protect and guide you. But they’re also a tracking device. You know how cruel Demeter can be… So please, Y/N, tell your sisters to watch out with the stones.”

Peggy’s voice fills the hallway as she calls out your name. “What does that mean? Hermes, what will happen to the stones? What does red mean?”

Mumbling under his breath, Hermes’ answer is one that you did not see coming, and leaves you incredibly confused. “I – I can’t tell you… But please, Y/N, keep the stone under control and most of all, keep it far away from your soulmate. Every stone has a curse, remember that.”

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#for infinity #tony stark #tony x reader #tony x muse!reader #haiaswritingchallenge #greek!au #modern!au #modern!greek!au #greek!modern!au

[inloveandwords]

I read a total of 14 books between June 14 & June 27 and there were so many great ones!

All of the books I mention in this video can be found and purchased on my storefront here.

  Quiet Girl in a noisy world by Debbie Tung

4 stars

This is a graphic novel that is basically a series of scenarios that will be very relatable to true introverts. I am much more of an extroverted introvert, so there were some things that I didn’t fully relate to, but I totally understood. The illustrations were adorable and I read this book within an hour. I think this book would make a great gift for your introvert friends who don’t get enough love in this noisy world.

Can I Come Over by Whitney G

4 Stars

I saw that a friend of mine on bookstagram was reading a couple of Whitney G novels and this was one of them. It definitely inspired me to pick it up since it was my birthday and her novels tend to be short and sweet – like a little treat on a day of relaxation.

This book had so many great romance tropes happening in it. First of all, the heroine, not unlike Whitney G, is a successful author of short, self-published, steamy romance novels. She joins this sort of pen pal ish service that is supposed to be strictly platonic and starts talking to this guy. At first he’s a douche, but then they work things out. Turns out he is her dad’s good friend. So there is a forbidden and age gap scenario.

I have to be honest, I didn’t love this at first. I really didn’t like the way the hero was talking to our heroine at all and I worried he wouldn’t redeem himself.

He did and I ended up really enjoying this. Whitney G does what few authors can when it comes to steamy novellas: she builds chemistry quickly and crafts a believable romance in otherwise outlandish settings. Her and Katee Robert are my two very favorite short, steamy, romance writers for that reason.

When a Scot Ties the Knot by Tessa Dare

5 Stars

I finally did it! I read a Tessa Dare novel and everyone was right. I freaking loved it.

This book is about a woman who is incredibly introverted and to avoid having to do the typical coming out in society thing, she makes up a pretend boyfriend. A Scottish soldier who, it turns out, actually exists.

He has been receiving her letters and learns all about her from them, so when he shows up unexpectedly at the house she inherited because of her fake engagement to him, she’s obviously surprised.

For those who don’t normally like historical romances, I think Tessa Dare is the perfect place to ease your way into the genre. Her heroines aren’t annoyingly innocent and naive. Her books feel modern even though they are not.

This had so many elements of a great romance: fake dating, a little bit of enemies-to-lovers, and an adorable meetcute.

I can’t wait to read more Tessa Dare!

The Black Flamingo by Dean Atta

5 Stars

This is a coming-of-age memoir about a mixed-race gay teen who eventually finds himself when he discovers drag, written in verse. Obviously I can’t personally speak for the rep in this novel, but I can tell you that it was beautifully written.

I’m a big fan of modern poetry and though I connected a little more with the poetry in The Poet X a little more, I still really liked this one. While I loved the audiobook, I have seen a few pages of the book and I wish I had it as I was reading as well.

I feel like this book is so important for young people to read, to help them see outside of their boxes – or to help them find themselves on page. To help them not feel so alone.

Cherry Magic

4 stars

My very first official manga was gifted to me by my sweet friend, @genkireader, for my birthday. There was definitely a learning curve when it came to reading this. I was messaging her on Instagram with questions like, “Wait, this book is backwards, where do I start? Do I read right to left or left to right?” It was surprisingly more difficult than I expected, but I REALLY enjoyed this book. So much so that I ended up buying a few more of her favorites.

This book was quirky and cute. It’s about a guy who has developed the power to read people’s mind through touch and he thinks it is because he’s a 30yo virgin. He ends up reading the mind of a charasmatic, good-looking guy in his office and discovers that he is attracted to him. So many adorable moments ensue, a ton of over-thinking and awkwardness, but also super sweet, swoony moments, too. I feel like this will speak to any of us who overthink every little thing when we are falling for someone. Especially when it is unexpected.

Thank you, De’Siree for this gift, it was like you gifted me a piece of yourself because I know how much you love these stories. Lovelovelovelovelove.

Rafe by Rebekah Weatherspoon

3 Stars

This is a cute romance between a buff, tattooed nanny who begins working for a savant young surgeon and mother of two girls.

This book was fine, though I didn’t see anything special about it. Maybe I gave in a little to the hype surrounding it and that was the issue, but mostly the romance was just ok. I felt like it was a little rushed, I wished there was more pining and more of a forbidden aspect to this, but it seemed like they both gave in pretty quickly.

Loving Mr. Daniels by Brittany C Cherry

5 stars

This was a super angsty, emotional story about a girl and a guy who are both dealing with terrible tragedy and find solace in each other. The first night they meet is filled with unbelievable chemistry, it’s almost too good to be true.

And it turns out to be. Because it turns out he is her high school teacher.

The heroine was held back in school because of a medical condition, so she is 19 years old and a senior. He is a young teacher, in his early twenties, so the age gap isn’t really a thing, but it doesn’t make it any less forbidden.

When they realize the situation, it’s heartbreaking because of how intense their first meeting was. A series of super angsty things happen and it’s all very intense, but in the best epic love kind of way.

I was rooting for this couple the entire time, but not only that, I loved the heroine’s relationship with her step siblings even with all that drama.

All American Boys by Jason Reynolds

5 Stars

This is a super relevant fictional story that is somewhat reminiscent of The Hating Game.

This is about a boy in the ROTC in high school who is falsely accused of stealing by a racist, hateful police officer who ends up beating him until he is unconscious which stirs protests in his town that is sick of this constantly happening.

Sound familiar?

What’s interesting about this story is how it follows the perspective both of the victim and a white boy that goes to his school who is linked to the police officer.

I was completely invested in this story, while also cautious. I was super curious about how this book would end. Would it be far too optimistic or would it be realistic?

When I finally came to the end, I very much appreciated it. It was hopeful without being naive. It left questions that we still need answers to, but it didn’t feel too unresolved that it leaves you unsettled. I almost took it as… let’s let current events tell us how this story is going to end.

The Prince and the Dressmaker by Jen Wang

5 Stars

I read this sweet, heartwarming graphic novel with my girls. They adored it from the very first night we read it before bed.

This story is about a prince who likes to wear dresses and hires, in secret, a dressmaker to make him custom dresses.

I didn’t tell them what it was about, I wanted them to discover it on their own and ask questions as they came up.

Books are an essential parenting tool for me.

The girls begged me every night to keep going. They loved the characters in this book and they were excited to see what was going to happen.

This entire book, but especially the ending was so adorable. I absolutely loved it and can’t wait to read more from this author. Especially if I can share the experience with my girls.

Addicted series books 1 & 1.5 by Krista and Becca Ritchie

5 stars and 4 stars

A lot of my friends have read and loved this series, between that and the premise, I’ve been super excited to read it.

This is about a woman who is a sex addict and her best friend she’s in a fake relationship with who is an alcoholic.

This is a super angsty, dark, gritty series so far with such a strong romance. These are extremely troubled characters who are using their relationship and each other to hide their addictions.

I found this book, ironically enough, addicting to read and I can’t wait to read on in the series.

The second book did seem to drag on a bit, I feel like it could’ve been half as long as it was, but I know it was necessary.

Take a Hint Dani Brown by Talia Hibbert

5 Stars

I am absolutely LOVING these Brown sisters books! Chloe’s book was fantastic, but I think this one might be my favorite so far.⁣

⁣

Dani is a smart, independent savvy woman who is not interested in a long term relationship. Zaf is basically the complete opposite.⁣

⁣

The two of them have not had much more than a nice rapport – he’s the security guard at the school she teaches at, until Dani gets trapped in an elevator and Zaf rescues her. This wouldn’t be a big deal if the entire rescue didn’t get caught on film and go viral.⁣

⁣

The “going viral” thing seems to be really popular lately and it’s not normally something I would gravitate towed. Honestly, I tend to prefer if romance novels just pretend that social media didn’t exist. I think it’s tricky including anything involving technology in contemporary romance novels only because things change so rapidly, it’s easy to become outdated.⁣

⁣

However, I didn’t care what this book was about, I knew I was going to read it and fully expected to love it … and I was right.⁣

⁣

As always, Talia’s steamy scenes are SO on point, but more than anything, she writes sweet heroes SO well. I adored Zaf with everything I am. I can’t handle how much I love his side job and that despite being a big guy, he’s a big softie. ⁣

⁣

And, of course, I adored Dani. I love how badass and confident and independent she is, even if it does complicate her relationships.⁣

Becoming by Michelle Obama

5 Stars

I borrowed this on a whim from my library. I’ve been reading a few nonfiction books lately and have enjoyed all that I’ve picked up.⁣

⁣

I have to admit, though, I loved this one the most.⁣

⁣

I didn’t realize Michelle’s father had MS. As soon as she mentioned his symptoms, my stomach dropped and I just KNEW it. It’s always hard for me to read about people who have Multiple Sclerosis, especially nonfiction because I’m always wondering if that will be me and when.⁣⁣

⁣

As a romance reader, I adored Michelle and Obama’s romance. I officially ship them SO hard. Watching their relationship unfold was so satisfying and adorable.⁣

⁣

I’m not a big crier while reading, but I got choked up so many times. When she talked about visiting the VA, when she talked about Sandy Hook… it wasn’t overly dramatic, but it was enough to have me covering my mouth with my hand trying not to cry.⁣

⁣

I’ve always admired this woman, but even more now than I did before learning more about her. ⁣

  Recent Reads: June 14-27 I read a total of 14 books between June 14 & June 27 and there were so many great ones!

#recent reads

[sincerlyyme-blog]

Someone (Jared Kleinman x Reader)

TW: a lil bit of smut, angst, offensive humor, and swearing

Words: 2,428

Requested: yes! 

Disclaimer: THIS IS HARDLY EDITED AND IT JUMPS AROUND A LOT IM SORRY BUT ENJOY <3

           Biology was a subject made by the devil. Learning about cells and other useless things was never the first thing on your mind. You wanted to be a writer, a poet, anything that didn’t relate to science. Sitting in your biology class made time go by at the pace of molasses. The class consisted of you, barely listening, scratching down lines of poems in the back of your notebook.

           There was only one kid in your class who liked the work. Jared fucking Kleinman. The kid was a dork. You could practically see the imprints of his computer screen monitor in his glasses. All he ever did was answer questions without trying. When he would complete his work, he bothered the rest of his friends with dark memes that he either made or found on the internet; you could never tell which one it was.

           It was end of May or early June, the time of year where teachers were handing out final assignments. The only thing you hated more than this class was the people in it. When you sat in your seat, you never looked up from your hands. You sneakily avoided all group work, by having the optional choice of doing it solo. It was this faithful afternoon that your teacher, Mrs.Price, broke that lonely streak.

           She introduced the project with examples of previous work. The project was to look up sicknesses and how they affected the human body. A research paper and visual component were what made up of the project. Mrs.Price announced that it was a group project; rather pairs of twos. You sat up in your seat, getting ready to face the music that was playing against your favour. Glancing around the room, you played a game of platonic Tinder: who you wouldn’t mind being your partner, and who you would despise. Everyone in the class seemed pretty chill. They were either druggies or the popular kids who had too much of a social life to put in a lot of effort. The only person that you wouldn’t want to be paired up with would be-

           “Jared Kleinman. Your partnered with Y/N L/N.”

           Jared’s eyes darted up from his rubix cube and straight into your eyes. You groaned, laying your head back on your desk.

           You didn’t know if you were annoyed by Jared, or scared of his witty intelligence. All that you knew is that you did not want to do this. Especially with mr-know-it-all.

           Jared made his way over to the table, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “So, I was thinking that we could do thoriac squeeze for our project?” he spoke in a nasally tone.

           You glanced up at the clock, marking down the five minutes you had left in this class. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” you huffed.

           “Okay, so uh, come to my house some time tomorrow?” he mumbled, scratching his address and phone number on a piece of paper.

           The bell rang.

-

           Tomorrow came sooner than you had hoped. Saturday’s were your days off. But today you had to spend it with Kleinman. His house was a ten minute walk from yours. Sure, it wasn’t too close, but it was a nice walk in the warm weather. The spring air cleansed your lungs, and your skin bathed in the sunlight.

           Jared lived in a nice house, one that you would see on TV. It was dark blue with white picket fences, leading up to the front door. On the sides of the house, yellow flowers were planted. There was a swing on the front porch and another walkway to, what you assumed was, a backyard.

           Walking up the steps to the front door, you rang the doorbell. Whilst waiting for an answer, you took a look at the doormat underneath your feet. The doormat read, ‘Jew Makin’ Me Crazy’. You cringed in the slightest, continuing to stare at the article in disbelief.

           The door swung open, revealing a small woman dressed in a blue pantsuit.

           “Jared, your friend is here!” she yelled up towards the stair case. She opened the door even wider and stepped aside.

           “Come on in, dear. It’s so nice to meet you!” she gave you a toothy grin.

           “Honey, have you seen my- oh hello,” a older, balding man entered the room, removing some garden gloves off his hand. “Jared invited you over?” he asked with wide eyes.

           This is entire experience was already so surreal, that you just nodded silently.

           Jared padded his way downstairs. “Oh hey, you, uh, met my parents. Y/N, this is my mom and dad.��� He introduced awkwardly.

           You and Jared decided to start your project on his back porch. He had wanted to do it in the dining room, but you insisted otherwise, wanting to enjoy the nice weather.

           Collectively, you two had finished the thesis and plan of development for your paper. You had started brain storming for your visual aspect until he interrupted you.

           “So, what’s wrong with you?” he asked nonchantly.

           “Excuse me?” you raised an eyebrow.

           “Oh come, on, you know,” he sat up to look at you. “The whole bitch faced act to try and have a hard shell. So what is it? Daddy issues? Rebellious boyfriend?”

           “I don’t have a boyfriend,” you reverted your attention back to the paper sitting in front of you.

           “Then what’s with this whole mysterious act? You know, you can’t hide behind that for forever,” he spoke, without breaking his glance.

           You whipped your head towards his direction, “What the hell is wrong with you? Don’t you know how incredibly rude that is?”

           “Now we’re getting somewhere!” he clapped his hands with a grin.

           “You’re actually the rudest, most insensitive person I know,” you grumbled, marking down on the piece of paper roughly.

           “I can live with that,” he spoke clearly. His eyes traveled down to the belongings that laid beside your leg. “What’s this?” he mumbled, picking up a small leather bound notebook.

           You jumped after him, grasping the notebook in one of your hands, only to fail when he snatched it back.            “Give that back,” you spoke lowly.

           “Why? What is it? Your diary?” he began to open a page.

           You slapped it out of his hands, tears brimming in your eyes. Scrambling, you picked it back up, shoving it in your backpack and zipping it closed.

           “Don’t touch my fucking stuff,” you spat, beginning to collect your things to leave.

             Jared climbed onto his feet, resting a hand on your shoulder.

           “Hey, wait, I-I was just kidding around… I didn’t mean to make you upset,” he spoke softly.

           You spun around, pushing his hand off of your shoulder. “Well, congratulations, I guess you really are a try-hard.”

           Jared caught your arm in his hand once more, pulling you closer. “Listen, I’m fucking sorry, okay? I just- I didn’t know how to talk to you. You don’t have to accept my apology. Just… Just help me with the rest of his project and you never have to talk to me again. Deal?”

           You looked up into his eyes, searching for any sort of ridicule. You couldn’t find any. Only endearment.

             -

             “It’s not my diary,” you spoke softly, looking up at Jared. You two had been working silently on your project for the last two hours.

           “What the hell is it, then?” he looked at you, above the lenses of his glasses.

           “I write poetry in it,” you mumbled softly, refusing to share eye contact. “Some of it is really dark. I just didn’t want you to think that I was a freak.”

           “What? Why? Is it about killing babies or something?”

           That made you giggle, shaking your head.

           “Is it about making a sandwich entirely out of the remains of the Titanic survivors?” he spoke once again.

           You laughed a little more this time, shaking your head. You raised your head, finally holding his stare. He was smiling too.

           “Is it about you wanting to have sex with the Queen’s corgis?”

           “Jared!” you scolded in between laughs. “That is too far!”

           The two of your continued to giggle until you had slowly moved closer together, looking at each other.

           “So what is in it that’s so secret?” he practically whispered.

           “I get really depressed sometimes,” you mumbled softly, looking down at your hands.

           Jared nodded, looking at you. He took in everything you said. You continued to tell him everything. After a certain event in your life, everything just seemed to go downhill. You told him that you always felt alone. You told him that you never got close to people, because you always pushed yourself away. You told him that you were scared of living in a state of mind that was so terrible.

           The two of you had moved from the floor of his porch to the hammock in his backyard. You both lied there, together, staring up at the sky. You had your head rested on his chest. He continued to ask about how you were feeling and how all of these things came to be. Jared had never dabbled in this area of emotion. He was curious how it worked. And even more curious as to how he could make it better.

           You and Jared had finished your project. But you and him became closer than ever. He always checked up on you, making sure that you went to bed in a good state of mind. Whenever you were having an off-day, he became oddly protective of you. Almost as if he was carrying your grief on his shoulders.

           On the really bad nights, you would walk to his house. He would be up, of course, playing video games in his room. You would knock on his window and climb in. You would snuggle with him in bed, or lie in the hammock in his backyard – falling asleep to the sound of his heart beating and the crickets chirping from fences away.

             One night, you and Jared were at your house: playing a game of Mario Cart and two in the morning. Bags of candy and empty milkshake cups were spread around you. It was the 50th tournament that you guys had played that night. You groaned loudly as Jared sped across the finish line.

           “I fucking hate you,” you mumbled, throwing your controller down.

           He looked over at you with a wicked grin, “Nooo, you love me. If you hated me, why would you stick around me for this long?”

           Your cheeks grew a blush, and you nodded, agreeing to his statement. “Yeah, you’re right. I guess you’re okay.” You shoved his shoulder playfully.

           When looking at Jared, you saw something that you had never seen before. His skin was glowing, his hair was disheveled, and the collar of his shirt was crinkled. You stared at his hands, wanting to hold them in your own.  Looking back up at him, you didn’t see the annoying kid from your biology class. You saw Jared Kleinman: the guy who listened to you weep for hours. You saw the most amazing man in your life. And you loved him.

           Jared saw your stare. He looked into your eyes, with a soft smile.

           “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

           “Nothing,” your eyes flickered between his gaze and his lips.

           Jared didn’t move a muscle. He looked at your lips, taking in the sight. They were the prettiest shade of pink, and all he wanted in that moment was to touch them with his own.

           Your hand moved up to his neck cautiously, slowly hooking your fingers to the bottom of his head. He leaned into your touch. Nodding his lips forward, they hovered – wanting to initiate something beyond words.

           You took the plunge, connecting your lips. His hands quickly grabbed onto your waist, pulling you closer to him. He tasted like the strawberry candies that you two had consumed earlier. He deepened the kiss, moaning against your lips.

             Jared was beautiful, caring, and kind. And he showed this to you in private. He thought the world of you. If anyone were to treat you like royalty, it would be him.

           Your hands grabbed onto his collar, edging for him to take the graphic tshirt off. He was reluctant at first, shaking his head.

           “I’m not ripped, or anything. You might be disappointed,” he laughed breathily against your lips.

           You giggled shaking your head, continuing to remove the article of clothing. “No… You’re beautiful, Jared.”

           Connecting your lips again, you climbed into his lap. His hands went directly down to your bum, giving it a soft squeeze. You let out a soft gasp, causing Jared to chuckle obnoxiously. You kissed down his neck. His eyes rolled back, and he tilted his head to the side. You left bruises down his neck, slowly laying him down on the carpeted floor. You kissed down his body. You watched as he stared at you with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

           “Jesus, you really know what you’re doing,” he breathed out.

           You laughed softly, climbing back up. You took off your shirt then pressed a sweet kiss to his lips. His hands fondled you, continuing to love you with every touch and graze. After a few moments of experimenting, Jared continued to undress you. His eyes wandered over every new inch of skin.

           When you were fully bare, Jared took a step back, admiring everything. His eyes followed every dip of your hip. His hands tracing down your neck, to your nipples, to your knees. You shuddered under his touch.

           You pulled him closer to your naked form by the loops of his belt. You popped open his shorts, pulling them down along with his boxers. His member slapped his stomach, and you looked up at him with wide eyes.

           “I’ve never done this before,” you whispered.

           “Neither have I,” he spoke back, softly.

           “I really want this.”

           “I do too.”

           Jared lost his virginity to you. He had heard from his friends what an orgasm with a girl was like, but no simile could ever compare. It was like experiencing a thousand mini deaths. He shook in your embrace, losing his breath. When he was at his brimming point, his vocabulary narrowed down to only your name. He had heard from his elders what pure beauty was, but never could imagine what it was, until he saw you reached your peak. He always heard what love felt like, but didn’t feel it until his lips had touched yours.

             Jared didn’t believe in anything. Except for you.

#dearevanhansen #dear evan hansen x reader #dear Evan Hansen imagine #jared kleinman #jared kleinman x reader #Jared kleinman imagine #connor murphy #connor murphy x reader #connor murphy imagine #evan hansen #evan hansen x reader #evan hansen imagine #zoe murphy #Zoe Murphy imagine #Zoe Murphy x reader #jared kleinman smut #dear evan hansen smut

[sumquiasum]

D, I, J, X

Thank you!!

Edit: It has been brought to my attention that this says “X” and not “K”. Well, five questions for the price of four.

Ask me book related questions from A-Z!

D: What book do you hate that most others love?

I wouldn’t say most others love it because I know quite a few people who don’t but I really didn’t like SJM’s A Throne of Glass. It’s one of the first books I stopped reading because of the terrible writing style.

I: Do you have a favorite poet?

For now, it’s Emily Dickinson! My favourite Dickinson poem is “If I can stop one heart from breaking” because I’d love to look at life that way.

I say “for now” because I am a fickle person as I read more poetry, this is pretty much bound to change.

J: Favorite woman writer?

Jean Rhys! I’m actually writing my bachelor thesis on women in her books (or loneliness - haven’t quite decided yet)

K: Favorite male writer?

If you expected me to say Oscar Wilde you’re out of luck because I gotta say Rick Riordan. For a long time, I refused to read Percy Jackson (mostly because a first person narrator can be incredibly jarring in German) but once I did, I devoured the original Percy Jackson books, Heroes of Olympus, and Magnus Chase within a few weeks. He’s doing a lot of good with his books and I wish my English had been good enough to read them in middle school.

X: What book has your favourite cover art?

I spent almost an hour writing a long-winded answer to this question but tumblr fucking ate it so now you’ll have to make do with a list of links.

Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, The Tennant of Wildfell Hall

Jane Eyre, Pride and Predjudice, Sense and Sensibility (in German, I don’t own these but they were to pretty not to be included)

The Bronte Sisters - Three Novels (I also don’t own this but when I first saw this I almost cried)

The Picture of Dorian Gray 

The Picture of Dorian Gray (which I don’t own)

The Song of Achilles

I’d be amiss not to include Wie schreibe ich meine Briefe? (How do I write my letters?) which is not only one of the prettiest books I own but also one of the oldest: It’s from the 1890s!

#ask meme #books and you #i had difficulties with the last question cause #it's been a while since i've read something by a male writer that i actually enjoyed. #furthermore my instinct is to say 'wilde' but also rn his antisemitism and misogyny keep me from proclaiming him as my favourite writer #ya feel. #Anonymous #anyway these were fun!! #mayhaps you'll recognise that cover because it also happens to be my icon

[mateotorrezjr]

the poet x → elizabeth acevedo

once again, not feeling up to giving a star rating to the poetry.

a lot of the content and the messages and themes i really appreciated and i really vibed with. xiomara felt like a teenage person i have known in the past and i really appreciated that aspect of the novel. on the other hand there were moments that i didn’t think particularly worked for me? it was really hard for me to sympathize with xio in terms of the central conflict of the story. i feel like the premise is stated as though her religious mother isn’t supportive of xio’s poetry, which i feel isn’t the case? at all?

for me the central conflict was xiomara becoming this young woman that wasn’t as religious as her mother wanted her to be, was dealing with slut shaming from the creepy misogynists outside her home but also from her own mother. then when you could argue things come to the head about the poetry even then it wasn’t so much about the poetry itself but the content and xio not having this space to express these things she’s going through and her mother continuing to see her daughter as “fast”. in addition the content you had xio out here running around lying about where she was and what she was doing, and i think that even if she was at the after school poetry club at school in a safe place, any parent would be upset if you were lying about your whereabouts? honestly the dynamic between xiomara and her mother was easily my favorite part of the book and it was some of the most relatable content from both sides i’ve come across in ya.

my complaints with the book, which are few, are admittedly nit picky and i’ll try to address them vaguely at first and then get into spoilery territory. i think that the queer rep in the book was really poor and kind of rubbed me the wrong way. i also was not a fan of her brother constantly being referred to as “twin”. it felt high key dehumanizing and awkward given that literally no one else in the book was referred to as anything other than their name. [ cody being white boy doesn’t count because that shit was culturally accurate. ]

at first i was nervous that xavier being gay was just going to be queerbait, and then i was really happy when he was given a boyfriend. queer poc stories are so few that i’m always happy to see more, even as a side character. as the narrative progressed though i was upset, not only because cody and xavier broke up or that i had to keep hearing about xavier being referred to as twin, but just i felt letdown? what it really boils down to is i didn’t like that as a black queer man xavier was portrayed passively. he was the perfect child who was smart and never did anything wrong to contrast xiomara as the “wild child”. which in terms of sibling dynamics is fine and great, but i feel like with black men specifically there’s this idea of black gay men being passive that i felt this book perpetuated in a way. again, xavier is a side character, i’m not arguing that his depiction is in anyway problematic or should deter people from consuming this story. my issues with him are deep rooted and personal and i don’t think that acevedo is a terrible author for how they were written. like i said, my issues with this book are very nit picky.

#book review #the poet x

[kkukkung]

Random opinion about Wonho: he's an adorable big-hearted sweetheart that worries about the MX members

that’s not an opinion that’s a fact!!

more asks under the cut 

everyone in monsta x is a princess. wonho? princess protein

i can’t believe he rly defeated btob minhyuk’s natural sports muscles with protein........... i lov my centaur thigh man

For a whole 5 seconds I thought Minhyuk was Himchan

omg.. i guess they do have similar facial bone structure? also the smokey eyes n large gap btwn nose + lips

hi what is your favorite wonhyuk moment where minhyuk is paying attention to wonho and wonho doesnt notice/reciprocate thank u

sdjfg i can’t think of one off the top of my head but i KNOW there are moments.... they’re rare bc generally wonho is good @ responding to minhyuk’s fanservice and they’re very comfy being a lil bit Gay... e.g. minhyuk on idol battle likes going to kihyun first w his... grossness and being rejected immediately and then targeting wonho instead who Accepts It even though he pretends to be troubled?? not to make this abt how cute wonhyuk is but they seem to have an unspoken rule abt... like... doing fanservice w each other idk they just!! love doing fanservice together!! and it’s very comfortable even when it’s deeply questionable to us!!!!! also if anyone has any... minhyuk getting ignored by wonho moments @ me bc 👀👀👀👀👀 hmmm

hey! do you read any mx fic? do you have any fic recs?

(old ask sry this is all out of order jshfg) tbh i read... quite a bit of fic (as in...... i camp on the mx ao3 tag........) but... i haven’t read anything that rly rly appealed to me the way some fics from other fandoms have?? i can definitely give you some more relevant recs if you give me some more... criteria like pairing/au/rating etc.! but generally i enjoy topazios’ writing style, it feels very natural, all their fics are kiho! and i like the mood of this (showhyuk) and this (nc17 showho) by inkquell who i think writes jooheon very well! like... i’m deeply dissatisfied w some of the jooheon characterisation in this fandom jdfhjkg but i think they do a rly good job and all their fics are solid!

what about 10 (or 5 or however many) facts about you & anime/literature? :D

ur so sweet honestly this is so sweet of u here we go

so im rly............ the most pretentious pseudo-intellectual in the world fdjgk but tbh i read more fanfic than i read literary classics and whatnot yikes

my favourite manga is oyasumi punpun and i rly love helter skelter + naoki urasawa’s monster!

last book i read was a collection of short stories by lu xun + i’m trying to read more international lit and slowly get good enough at chinese to read chinese classics :’>

... idk im like... one of those fedora-tipping reddit dudes who think 90s anime is superior........ the original evangelion anime > the rebuild series

arthur rimbaud is like a... symbol??? to me?? like he’s a terrible person but his writing and life philosophy is... very symbolic 2 me

end of evangelion rly changed my life and my notion of happiness

in the last year of high school we studied adrienne rich’s poetry and i fell in love w her writing style + poetic integrity is the sexiest thing ever

there r anime posters all over my room im rly a nerd wtf

fave writers: virginia woolf, oscar wilde, james joyce but only when he’s not being Difficult, camus + nabokov, poets: adrienne rich, sylvia plath, e.e cummings, t.s eliot, robert lowell, audre lorde, shakesy, percy shelley... i like poetry more than prose??

would eat dirt for kaneki ken’s happiness

#ask #compilation #Anonymous

[sagechan]

òuó

i. i’ve never been good at writing poetry but i thought what better way to thank you than use a form of writing that i’ve only used for sad tales and overflowing emotions

ii. so hi there i’m rev i think your way of writing is magic it moves like music like a special kind of dance the kind that needs no music because it’s already there steeped into words that swoop effortlessly enough to show how much care has been put into making them that way

iii. i think you’re the kind of person the sun would want to befriend you’ve got the kind of magic that heals the kind the feels like the sound of bubbling brooks and moonbeams you see the sun is a star and the moon is a satellite and while they’re both amazing i think you’re something else something your own a galaxy

iv. thank you for writing thank you for being i’m glad you exist

v. did you know that the moon sits perched on people’s windowsills sometimes she’s curious you see there’s always so much going on and she can read our dreams sometimes she reaches out to press cool hands against our own and marvels

vi. did you know that the sun is an excellent singer it’s hard to stop singing when your voice is loud and pretty and you know that somewhere down on a bright blue planet there are people who will tilt their heads and hear your song so the sun sings a lot and hopes the song reaches farther than it did the day before

vii. did you know that magic is a person smaller and quieter than you’d think they’re made of sharp smiles and secrets sometimes they feel too small for the weight on their shoulders too weak to carry so many hopes but the sun sings them a song and the moons holds their hand and slowly they breathe together

viii. did you know that the stars are terrible gossips oh, you wouldn’t believe the things they know the news they’ve heard they never give it up easy though and they don’t like eavesdroppers ask magic, they laugh ask magic how it felt to taste the fire of a thousand glittering stars magic will tell you nothing because honestly stars are more terrifying than they seem

ix. once upon a time there was poet whose words words were like jewels hard and pretty and cutting just like their eyes it wasn’t a warrior who challenged the sky but the bards are too afraid to sing their name violence for violence is easy when it’s fighting but with words it takes a different sort of form and names are a sort of power you don’t want to meet this poet whose words made the sky tremble whose anger made the earth shake a monster, they whisper and a monster they are

x. i hope you hear the sun’s song and the moon holds your hand the stars will whisper about you i think they always whisper about the greats magic has visited you once you’ve got power in your fingertips this has been a poem for a cool friend called Sage.

#submission #poetry #poem #not my writing #I AM BREATHLESS #I AM WOUNDED DEEP AND FAR #THIS IS INCREDIBLE #THANK YOU SO MUCH?????? #THIS WAS SO BEAUTIFUL YOU ARE!!!!!! SUCH A GOOD WRITER!!!! #I AM SO MOVED AND HAPPY AND GRATEFUL #WOWOWOWOWOW #I LOVE YOUR LINE BREAKS I LOVE YOUR METAPHORS I LOVE YOUR IMAGERY #I LOVE I LOVE I LOVE THANK YOU SO MUCH??????? #a poem for me aaaaaaa I'm crying oh my gosh