#bittersweet words of a has been poet

[bittersweettragic]

I’m often asked why I write so much, why I don’t go out more, why I run my pens dry from ink, why every page in my notebooks are full of poetry, why I don’t take a break, why my hands are always sore from holding my pencil the wrong way, why I don’t hang out with friends.

People ask me a lot of questions, but the main one is, “why do you spend so much time writing?” ,and to answer the question;

I write about the girl I’ve loved for years.

For her, I have nothing but time.

#writers #writers on tumblr #poets on tumblr #writers and poets #poetry #poetic #short writing #short poem #sapphic yearning #unrequited love #bittersweet words of a has been poet #bittersweettragic

[nouvxllev]

Hi loved your recent Jenna fic

I have a request where reader confesses their feelings to Jenna after a long friendship (you can figure out how long and that friendship if you want) and Jenna doesn’t really react and unfortunately something or someone interrupts them that forces them to push that topic aside or something then Jenna like shuts down because she goes over reader’s confession over and over because how did she not see it that what she felt towards reader was exactly the same thing which leads her to think over having a relationship with reader and how it’ll work or how it won’t work I’m rambling at this point so you can just take over from here if you want

Just something along those lines idk if that made sense you can ignore this if it doesn’t ha😅

so this is love?

Pairing: Jenna Ortega x Gn!Reader

Summary: request!! ^^

Words: 4.7k (damn i expected it was gonna be more than 5k)

Warnings: a long fucking love confession!!! you'd think to yourself how did they even say that in one breath, jenna being the oblivious little shit, r and j.o is horrendously inlove w eachother its fuckng insane, kind of bittersweet kind of just sweet, several 7 husbands of evelyn hugo references, im yapping too much about love here

a/n: first of all, thank you so so much!! and hope you'll like this one anon, thank you for the idea!

masterlist.

"Y/n, I'm thinking about changing this scene. Just a slight bit, nothing too over the top. What'd you think?"

"Yeah? Oh, yeah. Definitely."

"But it's such a late change—fuck, I should've told Tim a little earlier. You think he's gonna get frustrated? Then again, he's a sweet guy, I don't think he will."

"Jenna. Jenna, I like you. So fucking much. It's spontaneous, a little on the weird side that I'm telling you this now in your Wednesday Addams get up with a script on your hands asking me if your idea is good or not, even if it is—everything you do is amazing—but I'm in love with you for little over a year now and it's tearing me apart so please just reject me so I can move on."

"Yeah, yeah I like the idea too but—what?"

"I like you. Jenna."

. . .

Here's the thing:

You give a poet paper, they will embellish it with their words. People will mourn over their unfortunately late mortal soul enclosed with a tomb that carries their quill and ink.

You give a painter a blank canvas with nothing but their own mind, they will create a sensation, a masterpiece, a tour de force. People will gaze upon it in awe, so valuable they will waste a fortune.

You give a musician a silent room, an auditorium with nothing but a few instruments and tarnished worksheets. They will make out of it, they will fill the room with melodies that no one would hear, yet the very vibrations would resonate with the walls.

But if someone gives out their heart to you, they will pour it all over you. They will reprogram their own organ so that it beats solely for you. They will rip it out of their chest in bleeding agony and give it to you with no price more than their own faith.

You are given no options other than cherish it, treasure it, be thankful someone admires you as such they will do anything and everything for a piece of your attention, maybe even reciprocation.

You are also given the option to trample on it, break it, shatter it into minuscule pieces that have no intention in restoring to it's formal use. Let it be nothing but a bullet to their own decision, to their own emotion, to their own choice to love you.

Jenna was given those options. None other from her friend since the day she became an actress at a young age, a childhood friend even. What now?

. . .

"...What?"

The brunette responded, murmured even, like she was out of breath. The corner of her lips forced themselves to tug into an awkward smile.

What else are you going to respond with if you're stuck in a situation where your friend of a decade, nearly how long Jenna has been in this fucking industry, tells you that they're in love with you?

You shook your head, noticing how Jenna's gaze flicker to your fidgeting hands. "I like you, Jenna. Like, like you. I love you—no, that's crossing the line. But I just... like you, Jenna. Don't you get it?"

Jenna blinked. So much for being in character. She scoffed, albeit playful, running her fingers through Wednesday's fringe, "Yeah. I like you too. We are friends. Best of friends."

You shook your head once more, slowly taking a step forward towards Jenna like you were cautious. "No, Jenna, I—" you sighed, "I like you. Romantically. Like I'm willing to be in a relationship with you like way."

Oh.

Jenna swallowed the ever growing lump in her throat, feeling her eyebrows crease yet a smile was still present on her face. Her lips parted, threatening to say anything that just comes to her mind at this point. "You… you're serious?" Her voice wavered.

"Very. Dead serious." You nodded, gulping in your own words like you were trying to swallow them whole.

"I don't want our friendship to die out because of this, I wished I should've stopped my mouth from rambling all this to you so spontaneously but I—I should've done it more romantically than this setting. I've been in love with you my whole life, I've loved you for as long as I can remember even if I lose my memories. I'm not a romantic soul, I'm more far from it, and I'll never find the words even if I'm given a lifetime to describe how much I love you. I'm… I'm not saying all of this so you could reciprocate what I feel, it's just that I'll be lying to myself everytime I breath if I don't tell you this. You're my colleague, my co-star, my friend, my childhood, my everything ever since we met on that set of that god-awful ad that I cannot for the life of me watch again. I noticed that I talk to you almost everyday, how I adapted to your weird fucking horror movies that I absolutely somehow love, how I—I bought a stupid vinyl because you liked the artist, how I started listening to your music taste, how I started writing poems, how you always manage to sneak up in my conversations with others. You don't have to even be there, and yet, you linger in my words. I would surrender everything I worked for just for you, I would do anything, sacrifice my time and all. You've been all of those and more, and it's shocking that I'm only saying this now, after five years of loving you, half of the time we've known each other."

Jenna was silent, her lips parting as if to speak, but her mind held her back. But her heart did everything to speak, yet it never came.

She was lost, unsure, afraid. She didn't understand, and she fears that you know she doesn't. She never will unless time so happens to be on her side. Breathing was the only option, and breathing out was her only relief that she was alive.

She looked at you, and you looked at her back. No words exchanged. Your hands are now fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, pulling the loose strings apart as you catch your breath.

Jenna could grab your hand, apologize, and reject you. She could throw everything you both had built and walk away, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces of your shattered heart.

Maybe that both of you will go to separate paths after filming was over. Maybe you'd tear away the contract that stated that in all your shows, Jenna should be there.

But the thought pained her.

It's painful, it's torture, it's agony, it's suffering to live in that universe where you weren't the one Jenna calls when it's a rainy day. The universe where Jenna stays awake, mellowing in her own woe, not knowing who to turn to, who to call at the dead of night. The universe where every poem on her phone, on her paper, on her notes, on every surface she had the ability to write on, wasn't meant for you.

Do you refer to that as love?

"Y/n, I... I just need some—"

"Y/n! There you are."

Shit.

Tim cut Jenna off, approaching the both of them, but more primarily you.

"Y/n, makeup team, and Jenna, your scene."

It all took Tim nothing but to speak seven words for the both of them to pry their eyes off eachother and remind themselves it was a professional setting. With professional actors and professional feelings. Nothing personal, is what Tim would say.

Jenna was an actor. You were an actor, her co-star.

That just so happens to be in love with her.

You nodded as you looked right at Tim, your gaze leaving Jenna for the first time.

Jenna was desperate to hold your hand, take a firm grip of your wrist and to tell you to 'stay' or 'don't go' like what they do at cheesy romance movies where the guy gets the girl.

But it wasn't. Jenna would've loved you if it were a movie.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The question still arises on set. Dressed up as Wednesday, cameras rolling, her mind wandering nowhere near the scene but your trailer.

What do you do when a friend confesses their love to you?

A friend who's been a familiar presence in Jenna's life, a friend who's been there since Jenna learned her heart yearned for others, how it beats for other people.

Someone through every moment of self-doubt, they saved her when she couldn't save herself. Through struggles that Jenna considered could be something to gash her mending heart, but they would offer a piece of theres in exchange for happiness in her.

A friend she loves.

It's a simple. You fold your heart in half, maybe even in fourths, then tuck it away in the deepest depths of your pocket. You might stamp it, decorate it, perhaps even address it to none other than your soulmate.

What do you do if you don’t know your soulmate?

You look for them. Jenna never looked for love outside of her family or friends; her heart was content with the familiar comfort of their love. Those were the types of love she knew. She had never felt the need to pursue romance.

Probably because everyone sees some others as they want them to be in their own head. They fall in love with the idea of them, the person they want them to be. An idealized version only they see fit to their desires, a false projection.

Most people would call her beautiful or pretty. She would pass the street and people would look at her, stare at her, look at her up and down, maybe even subtly lick their lips. They look up at her like she’s a force they cannot compete with, like she wasn’t human. Not amongst them. They will compliment her base on her appearance, and in rare cases, on how talented she is.

But someone would call her glorious, like Greece, and grandeur like Rome. Someone would call her lovely, not in a way everyone calls her, but someone would look up at her with eyes that feel like they’re borrowing, harnessing even, the energy of a thousand suns to even look at her. Like she was a garden. But yet, they would also look at her like she was an old friend. An old soul, the soul that could melt yours but still be so comforting.

And it was you.

Most people would look at her and smile. Say hi, wave a greeting, a handshake if it was really needed.

But you look at her as if you were seeing something more, as if Jenna had never seen a person more in awe that you when you look at her. Like how the sun would be nothing without her, how you'll spend your whole life loving her and nothing more, how you look at her and she feels though as if she has never been admired in her whole life. If she was someone intolerable, someone unbearable, suffering to a degree you'd rather die, and you would. But only if it were in her arms.

Most people would describe her as someone talented, art, hot, stunning, sexy. Like she was nothing but a piece of imagination to someone, like her good traits were the only characteristics that made her Jenna Ortega.

But you would turn all of those down. You would say, no, in the face of the interviewer. You would say that she was the renaissance reincarnated as a single human, that was beauty in everything imperfect, she was the art that would put the Sistine Chapel to shame, the sculpture that would have Michelangelo resurrecting from the dead only to lie back of how undoubtedly perfect and impossible to replicate the pure astonishing beauty that was her.

You were an old friend of Jenna, the two of you were ever since Jenna played young Jane in Jane the virgin at twelve years old and you had approached her as an extra to be her somewhat, co-star-in-the-future-friend.

And now, she's only imagining what would've happened if you hadn't been the big ball of sunshine that you always were up until now.

There were times that you would make her laugh, putting up a half-assed comedy show whenever she's in a bad mood, but then you'll give her space if she doesn't budge. Times where you would hold her close in your arms whenever she's on the verge of tears, and times where you hold her close to you whenever she achieved something.

There were times she wasn't proud of herself, how self-doubt creeped into her mind and slowly started to deteriorate her soul, yet you were there. You called her brilliant, a genius, someone show-stopping people from all around the world would be shocked how amazing she was and a few other words that she kept close to her heart.

There were times where Jenna calls you, telling you how filming was all too stressful and she needs a break. Then you're with her the next day, surprisingly becoming an extra or maybe a new side character to her films.

You were always saying how you would protect her at the age of twelve, and she'd always respond with "how?" with a laugh, then you'd respond with a simple shrug saying, "I'd love you."

Jenna didn't understand it at first and yet you understood her in such a short amount of time. How you knew why she always has her headphones on, how you wrote down and knew at the top of a hat what she likes and what she hates, how your laugh sounded at her most darkest of jokes, how you would bring back snacks whenever you're on a run, how you would always say 'i love you' in times where she's breaking down.

And up until now, she never understood why you would protect her with your love.

Jenna was your friend but you treated her like she was your everything.

And up until now, she realized that she loved you back.

And up until now, she realized how could she even dare to live without giving you the same love as you did to her?

People tell you that relationships are easy, that they're lovely, that they tell you that love is the only thing that keeps the both of them going.

But they don't tell you the rest.

They don't tell the pain you want to go through all for your significant other. The nights you want them to be in your arms but you've gone through yet another foolish argument that created a hole in your heart that seem to never mend, but it will.

It made sense that Jenna never wanted to be in a relationship, it was scary. The answer to a question as such was always going to be no. How there was always someone going to be hurt or inflict hurt.

But it never made sense that Jenna would experience pain with no presence of mercy to be with you.

Everyone talks about falling out of love, but that's bullshit. If you fall out of love, then there must be a reason you should've never fell from them in the first place. It's something Jenna never understood why falling out of love was never a thing if love prospered and it was for all eternity.

But the thought of being in a relationship with you, and having to watch you fall out of love with her is terrifying.

The two of you would work because the both of you are long friends, childhood friends. Yet, it won't. Because the two of you were friends. What would happen if Jenna let you in the most deepest parts of her heart? What would happen if you did? Would you get turned off? Would she get turned off? She wouldn't. You wouldn't

If no one had stopped Jenna in the midst of her performance as Wednesday, she wouldn't notice she was messing up her lines. She wouldn't have noticed that she was crying.

But she did notice that one familiar scent you always carried around you; that one perfume mixed with the shampoo you used everyday. Jenna was around you her whole life and she never got tired of it. It could be the smell of her home, like that one familiar scent at your childhood home.

It wasn't long before she felt a pair of two hands grabbing her shoulders, tugging her gently, and it wasn't long before she felt herself walking with them.

The voices were drowned out, muffled, she can hear someone saying to "let her take a break until she's feeling better. Emma, your scene."

"Jenna?"

"Jenna, please, talk to me, why are you crying?"

"Shit—Jenna? Jenna, it's alright, I'm—Well, I shouldn't probably be here."

She knew that voice. How could she forget them?

It wasn't fair that Jenna's heart skipped a beat once she heard your pitch, like you were worried or concerned. She recognized it all too well that it brought a sense of comfort in her soul.

"Y/n?" She whispered, noticing how you brought her into your trailer and sat her down. "Shit. Fuck, I'm supposed to be on set. Y/n, why am I—"

"Jenna. Jenna, hey, look at me," you grabbed her hands, your touch a bit too warm as you held hers tightly, but it never failed to give her peace. "I'm sorry, I know I'm not the one who should be doing this since you know, the whole shit that happened an hour ago."

Jenna looked down at your hands, your thumb slowly caressing the back of her palm, a silent permission. A permission she would always grant with open arms. Or maybe hands in this case.

You nodded, fixing yourself up on the couch as you look at Jenna. "We're gonna take deep breaths, alright? I'll be here, don't worry." You squeezed her hand in reassurance.

"No, y/n, I—I need to tell you something, please—"

"Jenna." You sighed, noticing how it wasn't out of annoyance but out of concern. "Your voice is cracking, you're stuttering, you're in a higher pitch than you are normally. And more importantly, you have tears in your eyes." You would sooner or later interlock your fingers with Jenna's offering another reassuring squeeze. "I'll protect you. You're safe with me, don't worry, please, Jenna."

Oh.

. . .

You know, people think sex is intimacy, the highest form of intimacy there is. 

But they're wrong.

It’s being able to realize something heartbreaking, something that cuts you deep in your soul to the point where no amount of bandages will help. But somehow, someway, someone so special could heal it with their words.

It’s where you can be vulnerable with someone, be happy, be sad, be angry, be every emotion you’re afraid surrendering to. They will wrap their arms around you and whisper to you that they’re there for you. You’re safe with them.

It’s when you realize that heaven couldn’t be real if it isn’t with them. 

It's when you realize that everyone got it wrong in perceiving them, noticing how you're the only one who truly understands them.

It’s when you realize every living and late poet was wrong in their writings, in their words, in their books. Love wasn’t an emotion, it wasn’t a choice. It was someone. Someone special.

It’s when you realize if ever you’ve completely turned the whole world against you, the time where you’ve devastated everyone in turn for your own selfish needs. Yet you will find yourself standing in front of them. Realizing you’ve spared them from your wrath.

You expect them to hurt you. To break you, to do everything within and over their power to make you experience the same pain you’ve inflicted.

Yet they will show no betrayal.

They will simply show understanding, awe even. Love. They will catch if you if you fall from the top you’ve tore and exhausted yourself. They will sing to you if you feel every melody has nothing. They will do everything, they will accept you, not only because of you, but because of what you carry, what you’re pretending not to be.

Love was never easy, Jenna knew that. You don’t listen to Pat Benatar or The Cascades to not know what true love does to someone; It will shatter you, then mend your now fragile heart like its nothing. It will let you experience grief, then peace. It will let you feel nothing, then everything. It’s not simple, never is. It’s complicated, it’s fucked up. It’s terrifying. So fucking terrifying. 

But if Jenna was going to experience everything she’s thinking of right now; Agonizing heartache that feels like mercy isn’t even an option, and peace she had never felt before, it was going to be with you.

. . .

"Jenna? Jenna are you—"

She had never really truly felt luxury in a while until she let her trembling hands reach up to cup your cheeks, stealing one glance away from your eyes before closing her own and softly pressing her lips against yours. 

What do you say to a friend you realized you’ve fallen in love with now?

Maybe you’d kiss them, like what Jenna is doing now. Let yourself bring peace in your world that is full of unjust morals—let them be a light, be something that felt half as right as loving the taste of their lips on yours.

Maybe you'd let them into your world. Remind them of how they're the only ones in this life were worth devoting your entire life to, how being in their presence was an experience of a life time.

Maybe you'd let them care about your entire being. Let yourself be vulnerable, be free within their arms. Let them tell you that they're going no where but to where you're headed, that peace only belongs to a place where you're present.

Maybe you’d tell them how you like the way they look at their belongings like it was their favorite part of the day? Tell them how they make you feel that everything is possible, how you knew that you’ll be living as much as they would be smiling.

Or maybe, Jenna would say this,

"Y/n," she broke off the kiss, her hands returning to her lap and intertwining with yours. "I'm sorry. I couldn't give a proper reaction to your confession earlier. It was so stupid of me I—"

You laughed. Fuck, your laugh was beautiful.

"Don't worry, Jenna. You don't really feel the same way as I do, and that's fine. I just—I just hope it won't ruin our friendship, you know?"

Jenna scoffed, eyebrows creasing, "No, y/n, give me time to talk, please." She laughed, then took a deep breath.

"I love you, y/n. I never really realized that, I mistook them for something lesser. Mostly because love wasn’t the right term to describe it. Love is simple, fast, overused, something tossed around so carelessly that it couldn't be something I'd say to you; you don’t deserve such a weak word that has no meaning but tarnished from other people. It’s not complex, like how you’re represented in my soul, how you grown ivy around my heart as if I’m trapped in your unbearable love, yet why do I accept such an idea that is only a metaphor that I wish it were true? It's clear that no one knows me greater than you have. It happens more often than not that people will see right through me, only to find a barricade of walls that reflects repressed emotions that keep them from entering. But you tell a different story, different words that people don’t use to tear at my heart. You whisper something so precious that I wish to hear again but I shouldn't before I fall. You unravel my soul with a gentleness that defies everything, that makes me wonder where pure tenderness comes from if it isn't from you. I've known you for long enough to know what the sound of your voice is in, whether your anxious or joyful, how your voice is the sole reason why I sleep without your arms wrapped around my body. I want nothing but to hold you in my arms, to lie beside you in nothing but eternal slumber then rise again if you are ever disturbed. I want to fear nothing, to be afraid of nothing, to have death be a mere word unless your name is next towards it. My name is always associated with me being an actress, a talented one, someone who would no longer be a name hidden in the dust but someone who would rise to the top. A glamorous world is what they would tell me, everything I would want is granted. But why aren't you there in the vision they see? The lover that I yearn for, a home that would finally bring me peace, the home that I wouldn't escape from with bare melodies that lay emotions that I couldn't voice. I just—Fuck, I love you, y/n. Through a decade we've been together, it's only now that I realize that life without you is simply a life worth killing myself to. Death shouldn't be an option when you're around me, it should be something we'll defy, an afterlife that would fail in making us part ways from eachother. I love you. Really. I'm sorry, I just didn't know what to say or do, but I love you. I've realized that."

The silence was unbearable, only now did she realize she blurted out a confession only those who're dead can say in a sentence without stuttering.

"No, no Jenna…" You pushed her hands away from yours, the action stinging her own hands as you stepped back, putting unfamiliar distance between the two of you.

"Y/n, what?" She scoffed, her voice betraying her of a flat tone, "What do you mean, I thought—" Jenna immediately reached out for your arm, her words were faltering, her fingers now trembling as they threatened to brush against your skin.

She was expecting to get yelled at to leave, to never show her face to yours ever again. But as she looked into your eyes, she was met with tears that dared to glisten your gaze. "Are you… are you crying?"

You chuckled, "You know… You know I can't compete with that confession, Jenna. It's unfair to those who don't have a habit of staying up late and writing poems." You brought your hands up to your eyes and wiping away the tears that fell on your cheek, only to be replaced by warm ones.

Jenna cupped your face, her thumb caressing the gentle touch and warmth of your skin, feeling how you leaned into her touch almost immediately. "Oh, you're awful. You had me worrying that I said something wrong or you changed your mind."

"Oh, no, never." You laughed it away, shrugging the tears that continue to stain your face. Then, without a word, you reached up to cradle her own face in your hands, letting her place them down on your lap and close the remaining distance of the two of you that were seated far too apart from eachother.

"I never really thought that you'd say yes. Or say something too poetic." You whispered to her, daring yourself to not drown in her pool of brown eyes that threatened to kill you if you looked too closely.

"I never really thought that I would truly love someone, and look at that turned out."

"Like what?"

"Like I never wanted to love someone more than I loved everything." She tilted her head, leaning forward and closing the distance between your lips and hers. A soft but gentle press to your own, yet it was fervent.

She pulled away, only so slightly that your lips never touched eachother again before they fall into the same predicament as addiction. But close that she could feel your heartbeat, your warm breath against hers, everything that made you you.

"So, this is love?" She whispered.

"Dangerously attractive in a form of a human?" You smirked, winking even, before Jenna rolled her eyes.

She scoffed, "I was going to take you out to dinner, but you are awful at charming someone."

"Take me out to dinner and I'll never make that statement again."

"Deal. I'd splurge a shit ton of money for you not to repeat it ever again."

"You pain me. I love you."

"I love you too."

And then she kissed you, holding you tight as if reminding you're more than just a friend.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a/n: i'm in a desperate need of a girlfriend. also in the span of my 1 week break ive written only 2 stories. its such a low number damn 😭😭😭 (+ then he kissed by by the crystals reference at the end!)

#jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega #jenna marie ortega #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x femreader #jenna ortega x female reader

[toubledrouble]

More pjo/hoo headcanons

Apollo kids exclusively work out with musics as a cabin, but they always argue about the playlist that should be chosen. Will uses councillor privilege to force them to pick country.

The Athena cabin has a projector for sure

Also, they have youtube premium because of lofi music

Apollo kids have been banned from using guns in training with others (they recreated the ten duel commandments from Hamilton and actually ended up shooting without missing the target. Now, they can only shoot on regular targets, not living ones)

Hephaestus and Athena kids are a living proof of the "an architect's dream is an engineer's nightmare" thing

There is definitely an Athena kid out there that hates math with a burning passion. Their mom isn't very happy about that.

Despite their rivalry, many Apollo kids have Ares cabin bffs - after all, they spend lots of time in the infirmary

Ares kids usually have a great relationship with their father - he is surprisingly encouraging and supportive

Will can definitely ride a horse and you can't convince me otherwise

Also. His mom has a yellow pickup truck with tons of stickers and a guitar on the backseat

Sally refused to use the subway ever since Percy was born (you know how the underground always smells like monsters and that's why Grover didn't notice the chimera? That was exactly why)

Percy used to cry in the seafood section of stores, especially if it had anything living there

Athena kids can achieve Eminem speed during debate, I will not elaborate any further

Oh also. They're not straight As kids, or at least not all of them, especially the older ones. I mean, the school system vs learning disorders? There's no way they're winning that fight entirely. They probably have the subjects they like and ace, and then the subject that are just there, and since they're not failing, they don't really care (yes this is about me getting a C from physics again, I hate physics)

Annabeth loves the "further is for physical distance, farther for metaphorical and father for emotional" tumblr post

Hera's cabin has a family portrait of the olympians, it's quite a bittersweet sight

Let Demeter kids have a scythe as their weapon of choice pls

Athena kids make so many lame nerd puns. Occasionally, a Hephaestus kid or a secret nerd will laugh.

Athena kids are definitely the type to fight the teacher about their grade. They will gather evidence that their answer is technically correct and either impress or annoy the teacher so much they will actually change their grade

All Athena kids have a resting bitch face (just like Hermes kids have a face that says they're troublemakers)

Hermes kids are naturally skilled at orientation on a map and in terrain

Hephaestus and Hermes cabin have once held a lock-picking competition (based on speed but also the amount of damage caused)

Every single person in the Athena cabin has seen both Dead Poets Society and School of Rock (and loved it)

For an absolutely nonexistent reason I think the Aphrodite cabin has some pro tip for washing blood out of clothes and stuff

Very stereotypical of me but in the Ares cabin, the strongest is the leader and their word is law, if you disagree, you gotta participate in a one on one fight of choice (it doesn't matter that much if you win, at least you still prove your bravery and the courage to stand up for what you believe in). Meanwhile, the Athena cabin votes on everything. And yes, they are proud of it. And yes, they have senate level debates where everyone uses whatever dirt they have on the others to win (because they probably know too much gossip without even really intending to) sometimes. Only sometimes.

Also. They have ostrakism which is basically a thing where you break a pot/vase/something, each person gets a piece and carves on the name of someone who is endangering democracy in their option. The person with the most votes gets chased out I think. Athena kids have changed up that part, they simply ban that person from voting for 6 months.

Athena kids with learning disorders. That's all I want to say.

Mentioning my previous 'Athena cabin has a Pallas cat' headcanon

Also Athena kids are the people who will point out historical stuff behind the names of places or companies (example: my country has a shopping centre called palladium, i instill the lore of the original palladium on anyone unfortunate enough to be there with me)

Apollo kids personalise their instruments - stickers, paint, carved initials, cool straps and other accessories, you name it!

They also have a whole row of those instrument hangers, yk what i mean?

#athena kids #children of athena #athena cabin #apollo cabin #apollo kids #pjo hcs #pjo hc #pjo headcanon #pjo hoo toa #pjo

[little-diable]

When one heart breaks the other follows - Tommy Shelby

I had this idea for a while, and I am super happy with the way this turned out. A massive thank you to @zablife for writing the letters for this fic, thank you for adding your personal touch to this story. I adore you. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Tommy has been at war for months, the only thing the reader can cling to are the letters he kept writing. Until the day where he no longer writes to her, where she no longer knows if he's alive or not. All until one last letter finds its way to her.

Warnings: 18+, descriptions of smut, angst, crying and lots of pain, but a happy ending, mentions of the war

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x fem!reader (3k words)

She could still remember how he felt, the soft hands dancing up her naked side in the early morning hours when nobody’s awake, not even the ones without a home roaming the streets. She could still remember how he tasted, the soft taste of tea sticking to his lips, a constant reminder of the calm hours shared in the home they were once supposed to raise their kids in together. She still could still remember how his voice sounded, soft like a new instrument that hasn’t been played for long, clear like a poet perfectly able to express their longings. 

Mere fractions of Tommy Shelby (y/n) had to cling to now that he was no longer at home, not even in their country. 

He had left for war months ago, and yet sometimes it felt as if he was only a few rooms down from their shared bedroom. As if they had tumbled into a fight, needing to chase the distance before they’d spiral into something they couldn’t pull away from. Sometimes it felt as if he’d stumble into their home any moment now, drunk from the endless hours he had spent with his brothers, enjoying a carefree life that wouldn’t leave them traumatised. Nothing but wishful thinking of hers. 

She missed him, god, her heart was aching for the man she had once promised her life to. There was no doubt that she’d wait for him, the thought of turning towards other men that hadn’t been sent to war left her insides churning, there was no doubt that she loved Tommy like she had loved him all those months ago when he had been around. And yet she envied the women whose men were still around. She envied the lives they were able to share, the love they felt with every rising of the sun. 

Tommy hadn’t promised her much, he hadn’t promised that he’d make it out without wounds and scars gracing his skin, but he had promised to somehow keep in touch. She clung to the address he had clumsily scribbled down moments before passing their threshold, the only way to reach him. Panic would rise in her system whenever she thought about losing the one piece of paper she had copied numerous times, the only thing she could cling to, the only thing she could remember Tommy actually touching. 

At first she had received a handful of letters from him, letters she’d reread every single night, while planning her own letters she’d write to him. Her fingers would trace Tommy‘s words, the way he expressed his love and longing for her; a dull ache would stretch through her whenever she read the letters, a pain so bittersweet she couldn’t stop herself from torturing herself. 

It had turned into some kind of routine for her, she’d shrug out of her dress, undo her hair and wear one of Tommy’s old dress shirts - breaking laws a woman like her could pay no mind to. Trembling hands would open the wooden box she used to store his letters in, and for a few seconds she’d stare at the letters, starting with the one she knew by heart:

“Dear Y/n, 

I just received your letter and was very pleased to have the distraction. I had reconciled myself to reading the same letters over and over again, not knowing if the post would find us. We’re not in the same place, in fact we don’t stay anywhere very long. We’ve been travelling through terrible weather for four days and nights and we’re up to our knees in mud and water. Despite, Arthur, John and I are well and our boots have not worn as quickly as Aunt Polly feared. 

I hope this finds you in good health and you have all that you need in light of the shortages. I’ve been promoted to Sergeant so I’ll be sending more money soon. If you have need of anything, I want you to be able to get it without worry. 

At night as I lie awake, I remember you and me as we were before I went away, happy and carefree. I would fight this war in any condition, without complaint, if that is how you could remain. You’re constantly in my thoughts and dreams, the only person I long to see in the world. When I return, we’ll take the horses through the fields and down to the stream as we used to, riding until sunset. That is my promise to you. Stay strong, my darling, as I know you are. All my love, Tommy”

Tears would run down her cheeks, at first her body had been overwhelmed by the waves of sadness clashing through her, never had she experienced a pain so strong, but somehow it got easier with time. Somehow she had adjusted to the sensation that left her breathless, making her feel something besides the dull ache that stuck around like a friend that would never leave one's side. And yet, (y/n) wouldn’t be able to thumb through the letters she had collected over the months, laughing at the shared memories he kept mentioning, how he expressed his love and longing.

Somehow she had managed to find beauty in the pain, in the darkness she had been dragged into from the moment Tommy had been called to war. She could still remember the last day they spent together, cherishing the calm moments with her ear pressed against his naked chest, listening to the beat of his heart, roaring in his chest as if the strong muscle could already feel the pain coming upon the two lovers. 

“I love you, don’t ever forget that.” Tommy had murmured as he had moved with her close, allowing one another to relish in the lust thumping through their veins, needing to feel their shared high for one last time. Her moans had echoed through their bedroom, nails scratching at his shoulders, leaving marks he’d be able to trace even days after leaving Birmingham. 

The moment hadn’t been rushed, it had been filled with emotions one could only envy, not able to feel something this raw and yet so simple. He had fucked her with his eyes not straying from her features once, praying that he’d forever remember her lust-drunken appearance. One he’d take to grave if he had to. 

Their love hadn’t been perfect, but it had been theirs, only theirs to feel, to share, to cherish. She wouldn’t trade her time with Tommy, the man she had known since she had been a child, for the world, all (y/n) could do was pray that he’d find his way back to her, soon. 

Over time (y/n) couldn’t help but notice how Tommy’s letter grew shorter, no longer filled with the emotions she shared with him, even with the growing distance between them. No longer did he talk about his days, the men and women he met whenever they rested. She could tell that he was growing distant, full of hatred for the countries forcing simple men like him to fight for a war that seemed endless. 

“Dear Y/n, I’m sorry it’s been so long, but present conditions do not offer much chance of writing any letters. We are in a place now where the night stretches on endlessly and it seems no matter how long or what you have been through they are never done with you.

I see the frustration of it building within Arthur most. He has fits of anger, followed by long silences, as though he no longer cares if a bullet finds him. There are days I feel it as well, the pull of the inevitable and I wonder if I will ever see you again. I should write something more courageous for you, but as you’re the only person I want, you’re the only one I could tell. All my love, Tommy”

Even though (y/n) could tell that he was no longer the same Tommy that had left their shared home all those months ago, (y/n) couldn’t help but await his return back home. She needed him, every part of the man she’d dream of late at night, of a better life without the war keeping them apart. It could be so simple, so raw, and someday they’d get to share this life – together. 

It was afternoon by the time (y/n) found her way outside, naked feet patting along the warm soil of their garden. Dark clouds were gracing the sky, carrying rain that would eventually clash down to earth like the tears she had cried just hours ago, desperate for relief. Exhaustion clung to her, a tiredness she was all too familiar by now, a steady companion in those times where she felt lonely, so awfully lonely. 

Her feet carried her inside, body trembling as she came in contact with the cold flooring of their house. The heat hadn’t managed to crawl inside just yet, lingering outside her door like a ghost of old times, not daring to enter without her invitation. Another day would pass where she wouldn’t speak to anybody, fostering her tea while reading the books she knew like the back of her hand, she was torturing herself, needing to feel anything besides the gaping hole inside her chest. 

The sound of impatient knocking ripped her out of her thoughts, head snapping towards the door. Slowly she moved closer, urged on by the knocking that grew louder with every passing second. (Y/n) ripped open the door, staring at the postman who pushed a letter into her outstretched hand and left before she could speak up. With her eyes wandering down to the letter, taking in the unfamiliar handwriting, she felt her heart picking up its beat.

It had been five weeks and three days since Tommy had last written, forcing her to count down the days till another message would find her. She had expected a short update from him, anything about his whereabouts, perhaps a sentence or two about the way he was missing her and their home. But now she wasn’t staring at something written by him, so, why would an unfamiliar person scribble down her address? 

For a second she debated putting the letter down, not wanting to read it in case it was just a message from an old friend she couldn’t remember, unable to deal with the disappointment that would fill her system. And yet she was urged on by her curiosity, wondering what had been written down for her to read. She moved back outside, sitting down on the wooden bench Tommy had built for her years ago, allowing her to take in the field right outside their small house. 

A shaky breath left her aching lungs as she ripped open the letter, smiling as she realised that it was indeed a letter written by Tommy. 

“Dear Y/n,

I don’t know how to begin this letter because it’s unlike any of the others I’ve written before. I will not post it, but carry it in the pocket over my heart. John knows to deliver it to you if something should happen to me and if you are reading it now, I trust he has carried out his duty faithfully.” Her heart was racing, it took (y/n) a few seconds to notice the tears welling up in her eyes, forcing her to blink in hopes of clearing her vision. Has he been hurt? No longer able to write letters with wounds too big? 

“I would like you to know my family will always be yours. They will look after you accordingly, not only because I’ve asked them, but because they have always considered you one of their own. From the day I met you, I made no secret of my intention to become worthy of you.” Only now did the realisation slowly settle in. He had been hurt, though not in the way she had thought, no, no longer was he breathing, no longer was he sharing this life with her. Another soul amongst the endless number of fallen. A pained sob wrecked through (y/n), hands trembling viciously. 

“Do you remember when we were eight and I spent every last coin I had buying you a coconut? You laughed until your sides ached asking why I would do such a thing, but it was because I felt you deserved it. I continually strived to be the kind of man you could be proud to call your husband. Although I confess I’m not certain how you would view my actions in the name of duty and country, as they have often been beyond my own comprehension.” She could remember it all, every moment she had spent with Tommy by her side, every conversation, every touch, forever ingrained in her mind. 

How could it be? How could one be ripped from this life just like this? Had he been shot, laying on the cold soil with his mind drifting off to her for one last time? One question after another flashed through her thoughts, desperately trying to distract her from the painful truth. 

“In my darkest days, I bridged the long hours thinking of your unwavering devotion. Life would have been empty and utterly meaningless here had it not been for your letters. How fortunate I am to have known a love like yours. I would give anything to have known it longer, my darling. I realise this letter must seem a poor apology for breaking my promise to return to you. Know that my last thoughts were of you and the life we might have built together. Remember that I love you, Tommy”

—--

The September sun warmed her features as (y/n) was sitting in the middle of the field around their – her home. She was sitting on a woollen blanket, eyes shut to take in the heat that would soon leave Small Heath. Autumn was about to settle in, one with the colder days, the leaves that would fall and the rain that would clash down on her part of the land.

It had been weeks since (y/n) had received the letter telling her of Tommy’s passing, a letter she had added to the others, and yet she couldn’t reread it, couldn’t bear the pain shooting through her weak body. She wasn’t the same without Tommy near, wasn’t the same she had been before the message had reached her. 

Not once had she tried to get in touch with the family she had once loved oh so much, they  reminded her too much of him, the memory of Tommy was still too fresh in her mind, unable to forget about the features she’d see whenever she closed her eyes. And yet it somehow got easier with every passing day, even though (y/n) knew that she’d never be able to live as she had been able to all those weeks ago. 

What was a woman full of love without a husband alive to share the emotions she felt deep inside? 

Her fingers absentmindedly stroked along the lush grass, deeply inhaling the warm air whenever her brain reminded her to keep on breathing. The days passing by followed the same pattern, a routine she cherished, a routine she needed to keep on living without breaking every moment she wandered through her empty house. 

“Love?” For a second (y/n) froze, shaking her head as a chuckle left her, she was going insane, hearing the voice of the lover that no longer wandered the same earth as she did. (Y/n) found comfort in the conversations she’d share with his ghost, speaking to the man she could have married, building a life together with their family close. “(Y/n)!” 

Her eyes shot open, body forced to turn towards her home. The sun was blending her, and yet she could perfectly make out an all too familiar figure. With her breath hitched in her chest, (y/n) scrambled to her feet, stumbling over her dress as she tried to steady herself. 

“You’re dead, this isn’t possible. Oh god, I’m going insane.” The heels of her hands found her eyes, adding pressure to her aching lids in hopes of clearing her vision. The sound of his raspy chuckles filled the afternoon, forcing her once again to take in his frame. 

“As much as I can tell, I’m very much alive, love.” And with a sob rumbling through her, (y/n) stumbled into his arms. He smelled of mud, dirt and sweat, and yet (y/n) was certain that she had never taken in a scent this familiar, finding love in the way he held her close. She tightened his grip on him, needing to feel every part of him, trying to accept that her fiancé was alive and breathing. “God, I missed you, (y/n).”

“How is this possible, Tommy? I got the letter, I,” another sob interrupted her, feeling him growing tense. It took Tommy a moment to reply, hand finding her cheek to take in her features, eyes wandering over the tear traces on her skin.

“Which letter?” His voice was low, lower than she had remembered. No longer was he a young man filled with excitement and curiosity about the chances this life may offer him. No longer was he a young man clinging to the adventures he shared with his brothers and cousins. No, he was a man that had seen more dead bodies than the eye could count. He was a man graced by the anger those in positions of power had unleashed on the continent. 

“Your letter, the one John should send to me, should you die. It reached me in July. I – I thought you had fallen, no longer alive.” One tear after another rolled down her cheek, dripping onto his warm hand. And with a pained expression tugging on his features, Tommy pulled her back in, chin placed on the top of her head. 

“My uniform had been changed as I moved my rank, another soldier must have taken on my jacket, with the letter still in it. He must have thought that I died. I am so sorry, love, if only I had known.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, not daring to let go as they cherished one another’s closeness. 

“Promise you’ll stay, don’t ever leave me again, Tommy. I won’t survive this again.”

It would take her weeks to fully realise that Tommy was back home, alive and breathing. She wouldn’t let him go, not now, not ever, because when one heart breaks, the other follows.

#Tommy Shelby imagine #Tommy Shelby smut #peaky blinders imagine

[kirimoochi]

the words i should've said.

₊˚ ᗢ kazuha x gn!reader.

⤷ drabble inspired by demxntia's "the words i should've said."

we both know i’m not the best at showing just how much i care, but every word you ever said, just know that i’m not unaware. kazuha watches from the side as you press your cheek against your folded arms. he can’t restrain his smile as he reaches out to you. to push aside loose strands of your hair as you slowly exhale. as the maple leaves begin to fall outside these cafe windows, he can only focus on his view of you. of all the little things you do, and everything that makes you cute.

it seems foolish, he says to himself. he knows that you’re not ready to love. he knows that you will always be healing the wound that is still fresh in your heart. you’re still looking far into the distance. and he knows he’s not in the picture yet. but that’s okay. he doesn’t want to get in the way. he just hopes that you might consider him someone you’d want by your side. someone you’d want to lean your head against.

i’d give up the world in a heartbeat, he whispers to himself, just to show that my love is true. this bittersweet feeling hits him like the first sip of hot tea. and he’s left licking his lips as he keeps diving for more. this love is cruel. he knows by the end of it he might be another fool left waiting for you. he knows. he knows better than anyone else. but he’ll ignore these warning signs just to see you happy. i know it’s been a while, it’s too late for me to say that i still really love your smile, and i regret it every day.

he’s hurting himself for you and it’s not fair. but that’s the consequence of his actions. despite being a poet, he is unable to convey to you the amount of love he felt for you. he couldn’t put it into words. he was too afraid to compare to you the sun because he knows you hate being idolized. he was afraid to put you on a pedestal because you wanted to be seen as human. you wanted to be a living, human being, not a perfect image in his head. and it hurts him. he wants to show you how much he loves you but he can never find the right words.

when he lies awake in bed, he is constantly thinking about the words he should have said to you. he’s left to his own devices, worried about too much with too little time. he’s having conversations with you in his dreams. he’s trying to articulate his thoughts as clearly as possible, so that one day when you talk, he might have the right words. 

i’m sorry i was wrong, he wipes away his tears, i know you hate when i apologize. and you hate that look inside my eyes. he wishes he could have done more for you. he wants to do more. he wants to show you that he’s more than enough. that he’s ready to love you with everything he has. but all of this just hurts you. and he’s selfish. he’s a fool. he just wants everything to be okay. at the cost of hurting you and driving you away, he’s left fumbling with your memories. you tell me it’s alright, but i still hate it when you cry. 

he closes his eyes for the night. just say the word, i’ll do my best to make it up to you. there’s nothing i wouldn’t give to see you smile like you did. he squeezes his pillow tightly to his chest, letting it soak up more of his salty tears.

there’s nothing i wouldn’t do, for one more chance to be with you.

#₊˚ ᗢ kirimoochi #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #kazuha #kazuha kaedehara x reader #kazuha kaedehara #kazuha x reader #kaedehara kazuha x reader #angst #angst with no comfort #vent post

[fandomfiish]

@inahallucination @theluminoussunflower ah yeah i still don't know who to tag so yeah KASDJASKDJAK am still writing the ATBDATE Au but this has been on my mind all day so I had to write.

"I do not understand why my son would ever do this, and it breaks my heart that-"

"Oh please, Mr. Perry you of all people should know why he did it!" Charlie's interrupted Mr. Perry's monologue causing all heads to turn to him, and he was smiling even through the tears that were still falling.

"What?" Mr. Perry could only say as he didn't expect anyone to interrupt him. Knox and the others looked at Charlie, some were trying to look at him pleading for him to just shut up. To Knox this honestly felt like the time Charlie did the call from god act on Mr. Nolan, this time though looking at Todd who was not stopping Charlie at all, both knew this was warranted.

After all, only Charlie Dalton can tell an adult a piece of his mind.

"Oh I don't know, at the night of his very first performance a night he worked so hard for, he was great ..." Charlie choked but with a deep breath he continued on. "He was really great, and you know that Mr. Perry since you were there. But what did you do Mr. Perry? Instead of celebrating your son's amazing performance you scolded him, humiliated him in public, and took him home without giving him any time to explain." Charlie let out a humorous laugh, as the other attendants started to whisper amongst themselves, apparently, this was not a known thing, and Charlie was glad they weren't the only ones who knew.

"I prohibited him from going to the play and he disobeyed me, what else am I supposed to do?" Mr. Perry spat as Mrs. Perry looked at his husband pleading with him to stop.

"Why? Is it because it's not part of your plan to vicariously live through your son's life? Is it because of how you want your son to live how you wanted you lived rather than letting him make his decisions and supporting him?" Charlie countered, the poets saw Charlie getting seemingly composed with a bittersweet grin, it was as if he was just waiting to say all of this to Mr. Perry.

"What do you know? You're an awful influence on my son, you were the reason why he decided to go through all of this stuff, to join that Dead poets society, and caused his life to fall apart." Mr. Perry countered, and it seems to have worked because Charlie's face fell, an uncertain look on his face and Knox knows well that he was already doubting himself in his head and what Mr. Perry just said isn't helping his case. Knox looked at Todd and the other nods, knowing they have to help their friend.

Knox stands up, along with Todd.

"That's not true Mr. Perry, Charlie was Neil's closest friend. And unlike you, he actually supports and helps Neil in all of his endeavors." Knox spoke, which surprised Mr. Perry and the Overstreets yet Knox didn't care.

"H-He's right, Charlie was always there to cheer Neil up whenever he's down, or whenever y-you say something that demotivates Neil." Todd continues, and they can both already see Todd's parents looking at him with wide eyes, Todd never met theirs as he kept his glare at Mr. Perry who looked surprised, his face getting redder by the second.

"You three, how dare you say all of these things on the wake of my dead son?" Charlie scoffed at the word 'my son' yet said nothing. "I want you three out of this funeral!" Todd's eyes widened and the three looked at each other, Charlie knew he would get kicked out when he started talking a while ago but he didn't expect for Knox and Todd to had his back, yet a part of him was glad he had friends who backed him up. So Charlie stood defiantly to Mr. Perry with a grin.

"Good, I don't want to stay any longer to this facade of a funeral." Charlie then looked at the two as well as the other poets.

"Let's go?" It was an invitation to the remaining sitting poets, hoping they'll join them. Unsurprisingly Knox was the first to join him, with a nervous smile the two gave a knowing look. And then next was Todd, to his parent's chargin as Mr. Anderson ordered his son to sit down, but was silenced by the person beside him, Charlie remembered that it was Todd's older brother, Jeff Anderson. Charlie gave him a thankful nod and Jeff nods.

The three stood there, as they gave themselves thirty seconds to wait for the others before they leave.

At twenty seconds Meeks stood up and joins them, his parents were surprised at his decision but before they could speak, in a quick motion Pitts stood up and went beside Meeks. Though surprisingly Pitts parents weren't surprised, they were even smiling at their son.

At ten seconds they looked at the last poets sitting, Richard Cameron as he didin't even met their eyes, just looking straight at Neil's coffin and as much Charlie dislike the other, he hoped that at least he'll stand by them right?

Right?

Ten seconds passed, and he didn't move a muscle, and Charlie could see the disappointed looks from the others and he decided to make the first move and left the venue with the others joining him.

...............................................

"Charlie." It was Knox. "Where do we go now?"

Charlie thought of it for a while until he found an answer. "Let's go to the cave? Give him a proper funeral?" The others seem to like the idea, as they started to talk livelier as they arrive near the parking lot.

"We should buy some food." Pitts supplied.

"And drinks, because I don't know about you but after all that happened I'm thirsty," Meeks added which made them all laugh.

They continued conversing until a car stopped right in front of them, Charlie and the others were confused at first until the driver's seat door opened revealing none other than Mr. Keating.

"Mr. Keating!" The others greeted him, surprised yet elated to see their favorite teacher. "I thought Mr. Perry prohibited you from going?" Charlie couldn't help but ask.

"It is true that I am not allowed to join the funeral of Neil Perry, however ..." He looks at Charlie and smiles. "I expected something like this to happen and decided to check on you boys." Charlie looked bashful for a moment knowing that Mr. Keating knew that somehow he would make a scene.

"I ... How?" Charlie could only ask.

"Phone call from god." The other replied which caused Charlie to laugh. "I mean the two of them deserved it." He defends himself.

"You don't have to worry about it Mr. Dalton." Mr. Keating smiles which slowly melted any doubt in Charlie's mind. Then opted to change the subject. "So to what destination are you kids heading in?"

"W-we decided to go to the cave and have a meeting in remembrance of Neil, but we thought we should buy snacks as well," Todd answered, always calmer whenever Mr. Keating or Neil is around.

"Well, then why don't I join you in this meeting? Just like that night?" Mr. Keating smiles, and the others agreed with him and started to let themselves in his car with Charlie in the front.

Once the others were situated Mr. Keating start the car and starts driving to the supermarket after Pitts pleas for sustenance which made the others laugh.

"Since we're all situated I wanna ask why Mr. Cameron didn't join you?" Mr. Keating asked and the other boys shrugged, not knowing what really to say, or perhaps not wanting to say it.

"You know him Mr. Keating, always the holier than thou guy, I wished he joined us but knowing him he probably would rather keep himself in the good graces of the adults there." Knox was the one who explained.

"I just hope he doesn't rat on us." Todd was the one who spoke, which caused the car to be silent for a moment.

"I hope so too Todd." Charlie spoke as they ride to the supermarket.

...................................

He psyched himself up.

He can do this.

This is the only way he can save the others.

This is the only way he can help them not suffer the same fate as Neil.

He knew that Charlie would make a scene, but he didn't expect Todd to defend him. Knox wasn't as much of a surprise knowing those two, and yet Meeks and Pitts later stood by them as well.

And he knew they all waited for him to join, and yet he can't

He just can't.

And he know's he's the only one who can do this.

He stared at the door in front of him, knowing full well what will happen once he enters this door.

A breath and he knocks.

A voice so familiar was heard inside the room.

"Come in."

He turns the knob even if a nagging part of him is trying to stop himself but he didn't.

It's now or never.

"Mr. Nolan, I've come to confess everything."

Mr. Nolan looked at him and he felt himself getting small.

"About what?"

Another breath.

"About the Dead poet's society."

Mr. Nolan's eyes widened for a second before his face transform into a scowl.

"Sit down and tell me everything."



@inahallucination @theluminoussunflower ah yeah i still don't know others to tag so yeah KASDJASKDJAK am still writing the ATBDATE Au but this has been on my mind all day so I had to write.

#dead poets society #neil perry #todd anderson #knox overstreet #charlie dalton #steven meeks #gerard pitts #richard cameron #mr. nolan #mr. keating #mr. perry #AAAAAA

[hachiyama]

“To the one I regret”

I am a friend… Just a friend

So who am I to meddle with her life who is bad from my perspective? She has to realize that herself but the more I do it, the more I indulge the “me” in self-hatred that I don’t if she can remove. 

I am afraid, confused not knowing what to do so I panic just kike any guy would do to whoever he tried to save but she just keeps getting farther, and farther and farther…

“NO!!!!!!” I scream as I wake up in buckets of sweat and catch my breath. “Some nightmare I just had,” I said to myself as I got up and get ready for the day. But as I start moving, I look at the picture on the left side of my bed. It was me and lei. Then I told myself, “Nope… Not a dream”

It was me and her on our trip to the countryside for some camping. But that wasn’t important, isn’t it.

This bittersweet sad loner you imagine is me, Wayde, and I wasn’t like this, I was someone can call an extrovert... Of .. sorts...

This all started because of her. 

I loved a girl…Big mistake

She was the one you can call similar to a summer love but instead, this was Seasonal Love this kind of love for me is unrequited. 

It hurts.

Lei was amazing. She can do all sorts of stuff and get to be what she wants to be without the encouragement of another person and she’s great and all stuff except for one thing. She suffers from social anxiety and only interacts with those people because she knows them and got along well with them. But when I deals with this ever since I met her on that in between a blessing or a curse, spring day when everyone is preparing to do normal lives. She was preparing to go to college and I met her just by the gate of the school. 

I am a man of few words but I greeted her with a smile.

“Are you gonna enroll too?”

“Oh yes, uhm… I am just waiting f-for my friend to come ”, she said stuttering

“Oh I’m Wayde by the way an enrollee to”

“Lei, nice to meet you.”

Then we talked and talked uninterrupted talking about why she enrolled and her troubles with talking to other people.

“It just looked scary as people gaze through me like I’m some ice cream that’s about to melt, just like when I talked to you a while ago.”

“Oh Sorry, it just seemed that  you seemed lost back there like a pup on the street.”

“No I don’t,” she said and chuckled, “Ooh my friend’s here,” she said as a guy walk towards us.

”Wayde, this is Luke, my friend since high school” 

“Sup bro” as he offered a hand and so I accepted it as a friendly gesture

“ Say, you’re going to enroll right? Want to come with us?” she asked out of the blue

“Won’t I be a bother” I responded

“Why would you be a bother,  we will meet either way at the office”

“Oh yeah, well then, I would gladly take your offer.” since then we have been friends for the rest of our days in college. We had our laughs we had fights and in the end, we forgive one another and become closer and closer. 

But I was the one that was changing. I started feeling intimate with my time together with lei so I asked about this to luke.

“Duude no..” Luke said with every amount of disapproval in his body at that moment, “You know how bad you do with women. If you confess to her, all those times, all those memories will be gone in a snap and you will pain you never felt before.”

“Are you a poet in your previous life?” 

“Dude, I’m serious here. If you don’t want to be crushed by your feelings…DON’T CONFESS. Period.”

“Okay okay, thanks”

He told me that and that was all everything I have to know. Not to confess but wait for the right moment. So I held back my feelings and continued being her friend and it was fine I think since we were all fine.

Fast forward to 3 years time , we are on our last year in this school and about to graduate. Lei began to have feelings for the president of the student council, Ned who was at that moment was our age and batch. Then did I feel a slight pinch at the side of my body with was bearable but painful.

“So are you going to confess to him?” I asked after being confronted by lei in private to talk about how she felt for Ned. 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

 “Sure, I’m going to cheer you on as a friend should.”

“Aww thanks.”

And that’s where the nightmare started.

Back to the present where I just woke up and see the picture from my left did I notice the invitation I want to forget that was there. 

If only I was to tell her through the times we spent together. I only I mustered up the courage to tell three easy words. 

Would’ve been different? 

Will there be changes between you and I?

Will a be able to give you such happiness than what he’s giving you?

Guess not.

{End}

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[finishinglinepress]

NEW FROM FINISHING LINE PRESS: Restless for Words: Poems by DeWitt Henry

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Former Shakespeare teacher, novelist, memoirist, and founding editor of Ploughshares, DeWitt Henry in his first full collection of poems goes in varied and unexpected directions, from “mapping the heart” to meditating on the DNA of everyday words such as “candidate.” He delights in quick-witted, gymnastic free association, contrary directions of thought and argument, and freely negotiates between the colloquial and literary, the personal and the cultural, and mixes moral searching with a benign, self-depreciating humor. His favorite pronoun is “we.” A deeply lived, engaging, and original debut.

DeWitt Henry’s recent prose collection is ENDINGS & BEGINNINGS: FAMILY ESSAYS (MadHat Press, 2021). Poems have appeared in Constellations, Ibbetson Street, On the Seawall, Plume, American Journal of Poetry and others. He was the founding editor of Ploughshares and is Prof. Emeritus at Emerson College. Details at www.dewitthenry.com .

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR Restless for Words: Poems by DeWitt Henry

DeWitt Henry’s lively riffs reveal how restless language can be as it shimmers and shifts from noun to verb, from history to headlines. Henry urges, like Sir Philip Sydney, to “look in thy heart and write,” as his chosen words, examined like life, fashion a bittersweet biography. These poems—each a collage of feeling and thought—are witty, satisfying, and always revealing.

–Joyce Peseroff, author of Petition

DeWitt Henry is best known and universally admired as the founder of Ploughshares and as an eloquent writer of fiction and non-fiction. So it should now come as no surprise that he’s reinvented a lost genre of poetry. These poems, on an astonishing array of subjects, are the wittiest, most verbally playful, most thoughtful and touching and personal essay-poems since Alexander Pope. DeWitt Henry has welcomed poets to his world for decades. It’s a great pleasure to welcome him to the world of poetry.

–Lloyd Schwartz, Pulitzer Prize-winning critic and author of Who’s on First? New and Selected Poems

Restless for Words is a huge gathering and sorting process by a writer who has thought deeply about a great many things. It’s a repository for the best answers he’s been able to come up with in a lifetime of inquiry and curiosity, guided by a commitment to clarity and to trying to see what’s the right thing to do…. My favorites are those that explore the etymological and let themselves riff on the resulting associations, a strategy that Henry used to great purpose in Sweet Marjoram. These poems are solid, and their complications stanza to stanza arise from wonder. Henry wastes no time on the mucker pose, the ‘Aw shucks gee whiz’ persona. He takes life—and writing—and learning—much too seriously for that. And I, for one, am grateful.

–Richard Hoffman, author of Noon Into Night

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[a-ramblinrose]

A Weekly Reading Journal 4.14.24

Once more the bookworm has been distracted by fanfiction...

Currently Reading:

Fiction:

Guardian Vol.2 by Priest

Fifty Beasts to Break Your Heart: And Other Stories by GennaRose Nethercott

Poetry:

The Book of Songs translated by Arthur Waley

The Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale

Rilke: Poems by Rainer Maria Rilke

War of the Foxes by Richard Siken [RR]

Nonfiction:

Unlikeable Female Characters by Anna Bogutskaya

Eros The Bittersweet by Anne Carson

Graphic Novels:

Batman: Wayne Family Adventures Vol. 2 by C.R.C. Payne

Weirdos from Another Planet! by Bill Watterson

Just Finished:

Upstream: Selected Essays by Mary Oliver [RR]★★★★★

A Little Light Mischief by Cat Sebastian ★★★★

General Reading Thoughts:

The distraction is real! It took me days to get through a 100 page novella. How? What? Why? I am making progress on my many poetry reads which is lovely. Having a multitude of very different poets/collections going at once really feeds the word loving goblin living in my brain! XP

Happy Reading!!!

Current Reading Tag || General Original Content || 2024 Reading Page

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[bittersweettragic]

Just once, I wish you'd look at me the way I look at you.

I hope you think of me every now and then, so it won't feel as pathetic that you've never left my head.

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[aftaabmagazine]

شب چو در بستم  |As the night embraced me tightly | احمد ظاهر | Ahmad Zahir

شب چو در بستم

As the night embraced me tightly

آواز احمد ظاهر

Song by Ahmad Zahir (1946-79)

شعر محمد فرخی یزدی

Poem by Mohammad Farrokhi Yazdi (1889-1939) 

شب چو در بستم و مست از می ‌نابش كردم

As the night embraced me tightly, and I lost myself in its pure wine

ماه اگر حلقه به در كوفت جوابش كردم

If the moon tapped at my door, I paid no heed

غرق خون بود و نمی‌مرد ز حسرت فرهاد

Drenched in blood and not dying like the longing of Farhad 

خواندم افسانه شيرين و به خوابش كردم

I recited the sweet legend and immersed myself in its dream

Translated from the Farsi by Farhad Azad, with edits by Parween Pazhwak 

Spring 2024 | بهار ۱۴۰۲

* The phrase “sweet legend” is a play on the word “shirin,” which literally means “sweet.” It also refers to the story of Princess Shirin and the sculptor Farhad, as told in the “Shahnameh,” “Khosrow and Shirin” and folk tales.

With his soulful voice, Ahmad Zahir brings to life the verses scribed over a century ago by Mohammad Farrokhi Yazdi.

As the sun sets and darkness envelops the land, Ahmad Zahir finds solace in the twilight. With the virtuous wine of the night, he begins to recite the age-old story of Farhad and Shirin. It's a tale of undying love and heartbreaking tragedy passed down through generations.

Farhad, the legendary sculptor, pours his heart and soul into carving steps out of the rocky cliffs, hoping to win the hand of his beloved Shirin. His determination knows no bounds as he toils day and night, driven by his unwavering love.

But fate has other plans. Just as Farhad nears the completion of his monumental task, tragedy strikes. A cruel deception orchestrated by his rival shatters his world as false words reach Farhad, telling him of Shirin’s death. 

In a moment of despair, Farhad takes his own life— he stabs his chest with the sculptor's chisel and throws himself off the steep cliff. It's a tale of love and sacrifice, dreams crushed and hearts broken.

Yet, despite the tragedy, Farhad's story resonates through the ages, inspiring countless souls to pursue their dreams against all odds. 

In two lines of the poem, Ahmad Zahir's voice carries the weight of this timeless tale. His songs are not just poetry—they reflect his heartache, a bittersweet reminder of the fragility of love and the inevitability of loss.

As a child listening to Ahmad Zahir's cassette tapes, I eagerly listened to this song and awaited hearing my name. With excitement, I would exclaim, "He sang my name!" It was a moment of sparkling magic. Many years later, I still feel the same. 

Mohammad Farrokhi Yazdi (1889-1939) was a writer and political activist who played a significant role in creating the Iran Constitutional Revolution (1905-11), which included the establishment of the parliament in Iran. He also published the political journal Storm, which he used to criticize the totalitarian regime of Reza Shah (r. 1925 – 1941). Unfortunately, he was arrested and executed in a Tehran prison.

The singer, born seven years before the execution of the poet, met the same fate at the age of 33, alas cowardly masked by the Khalq oppressive regime as a “car accident” near Salang, north of Kabul.  

For centuries, these neighboring regions have shared a tragic commonality as is today: the dogmatics’ noose hunts free-thinkers.

Although their breaths may have been extinguished, their art lives on because true art is ardent and eternal.

—Farhad Azad 

March 29, 2024 

#AhmadZahir #Kabul #Kabulistan

[corkcitylibraries]

Cork in Verse | Ana Spehar Interviews Sylvia Wohlfarth

Sylvia is a social anthropologist and retired English teacher. She writes poetry, short stories and creative nonfiction themed on social injustice, racism and life in general. Half-Irish, half-Nigerian, born in Nigeria, she now lives in Cork after 40 years in Germany. Sylvia is a volunteer mentor at the Cork Migrant Centre.

She has published essays and poems in, among others, Our Human Family Weekly (https://www.ohfweekly.org/vol-4-no-2/). She is featured in Breaking Ground Ireland and was selected for the Foundation Mentoring Programme run by the Irish Writers Centre in collaboration with Cúirt International Literature Festival Dublin.

You are born in Nigeria and have lived in Germany. Do you write in both German and English?

No, I’m afraid I only write in English. I lived in Germany for about 40 years and worked for 30 years as an English teacher and translator from German into English. I can understand and speak German very well but the grammar behind written German is pretty complicated and I’m afraid I was too lazy to take up the challenge and learn to write in German ‘properly’.

Where do you seek inspiration from? 

I’m inspired by everything around me, from what I observe, hear/overhear or read. As an emodiverse person, I imbibe and collect anything that stirs my emotions and channel these feelings into whatever conduit I have at hand, be it poetry or prose. I have a collection of hundreds of words waiting to be put to use. A lot of inspiration comes from the poets and writers I read, but not only from the words they write but from their reflections, too, on themselves and life in general. 

Could you tell us more about your creative process?

My creative process, along with myself, is ageing and I am fighting to subdue my panic about the dwindling time I have left to pen everything I have lying around unfinished and still to be written. I have a lot to share. I began writing continuously, late in life, but like many other creatives, scribbled my thoughts and stories on notes from a much earlier age.

As a child born and raised in Nigeria to an Irish mother (from Cork) and a Nigerian father (who studied in Cork), I was always aware of the debilitating effect of poverty and social injustice. Not as physically active as I would have wished to have been, I have always tried in my writing to open people’s eyes to discrimination and global suffering. This awareness feeds into my creativity and includes how I am as a person and the experiences and processes I have made.

Would you look on writing as a kind of spiritual practice? 

Definitely. How else can I cope with and deal with the amount of suffering and sadness in our world without becoming depressed or losing my soul-inspiring sense of humour. Writing awards me the spiritual awareness to practise what I preach and question my own ‘goodness’ or lack of it.

What are you reading at the moment? 

Although I try not to, I’m reading two books simultaneously, one ‘Beloved’ by Toni Morrison because I’ve just written an article for Our Human Family publication on her wonderful children’s book, The Book of Mean People which led me to wanting to read all of her books. And two, the bittersweet ‘Welcome to Lagos’ by Chibundu Onuzo as a resource for the book I am writing about the story of my parents. She is helping me revive my childhood memories of Nigeria.

And naturally, I read poetry all the time. Lying around and ready to be picked up and dipped into are, eg, Sylvia Plath’s collection, Arial as well as Seamus Heaney’s 100 Poems. Yeats is another poet I’ve continuously read over decades. As a great example of documentary poetry, I’ve almost finished reading Judith Willson’s, Fleet, but will have to read it all over again as there is such a wealth of imagery to be discovered which I know I’ve overlooked.

I intend to read more contemporary Irish poetry over the coming winter.

Frederick Douglas

Somewhere in the neighbourhood a car alarm sounds the same car, the same alarm, the same time  and penetration breaks into my nocturnal cerebrum  as incessant as the howling as perpetual as the river I walked past this evening  her cuffs of white foam mesmerizing me with their roughness. I hate stagnancy, it quenches my most inner emotions I sense a ripple from somewhere deep down  Will the alarm ever stop? What is it I dread?  The dogs, in contrast as inoffensive as their barking

I dreamt this early morning I had the virus my first pandemic nightmarish dream a suffocating sore throat screamed into my head  as dreadful as the pain. What pain, I pray, is this compared to Frederick’s? I was never enslaved, nor my mother torn from me  4th of July means nothing to me though I, like him  am mixed black and white and green when colour counts.  Head in hands, I am aware that he was here and it is time to rise and track his trail along this Emerald Isle

Summer 2018 

Refined, she spoke well her words, she chose softly my elderly companion on a journey along a vista of reminiscence reeling a city of change in a silent movie from black and white to colour

So personable and polished seated alongside her I dared not stir, for fear my weight might suffocate the story of her words on the topic of the month Ireland in its turmoil of climate change

A heat remarkable in its appearance unprecedented — sweltering the land — offered the perfect small talk and served platters of lobster-skinned bodies on beaches and barbecues

Six weeks of no rain nor respite brown and yellow the new green forest fires upcountry and water rationing for all the solemnity in our chat I almost missed the tap of rain patterning the window of the bus

With a grace of demure elation she smiled — “Ah, a light drizzle, she murmured — “Just enough to hold down the dust.”

#corkcitylibraries #corkinverse

[bananaclips]

Hotarubi no mori e movie download

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Plato once said, "at the touch of love, everyone is a poet". Nobody really knows what love is but everyone has their own interpretation of the word. With all of these takes on love, can we really be sure of what love is? Simply put, love is a universal. And it does all of this in a mere 45 minutes.įorbidden love, playful love, intense love, a love that is not love. The anime pulls us viewers in with dramatic music and writing while keeping everything light and down-to-earth. Much of the brilliance in this anime can be accredited to the captivating character and background designs as well as the honesty that shines through in the writing.

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Hotarubi no Mori e is a beautiful movie that takes the idea of forbidden love, a topic that has been overly done and worn out by bad soap-opera themed dramas, and remakes the idea in an elegant, refreshing manner. Their time together is short, meaningful and ultimately bittersweet. And so, the two spend time together when they can, and as she grows up with him she realizes there will come a day when time will yet again become their enemy. HeĬannot leave the forest for fear of being touched by a human and she cannot see him until three seasons have passed and summer comes again. Much like a fleeting summer's day, the main characters in Hotarubi no Mori e are bound by the chains of time. You come to love the smell of rain in the spring or the cool breeze of a summer night and then poof. Time is responsible for the summers that come and go, for the leaves in autumn that shrivel and fall to the ground at the mercy of the next toddler looking to create satisfying crunching sounds, for the long and cold winters. But, even still, until then, let's stay together." -Hotaru Takegawa

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[3d-wifey]

Once More to See You: Of Departures and Homecomings

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Reader Synopsis: Anthony is not one for flowery musings. He isn’t a poet, nor does he spend his time admiring the arts or waxing poetics about beauty and such. No, he leaves that sort of thing to his brother. But as you peer up at him with expectant eyes, the lights of the chandeliers painting you in a soft yellow, he can understand why a war was waged over Helen of Troy. Word Count: 4.2k Warnings: N/A A/N: I wrote this after watching a shit ton of Anthony tiktok edits and 3 episodes of Bridgerton. Ao3 link + Playlist

You have always preferred Autumn. The changing of the leaves, the rainy days spent inside, and the crisp air that carried a cool breeze. As you and your mother stand before your carriage, the breeze you love so much comes to soothe the heat of humiliation from your face.

Your mother is steadily advancing in her pregnancy and you both will be making the journey from England to Paris to be closer to your father. The decision to move was a sudden one, giving you only a few weeks to get your affairs in order and say your goodbyes. The Bridgertons, a family who had practically taken you in and treated you as one of their own, have come to see you off.

Lady Violet Bridgerton and your mother converse the way only old friends can. Eloise gave you a book that reminded her of you to read on your journey, Colin and Benedict gave you advice surrounding noblemen that you were confident was largely nonsense, and you and Daphne exchanged tearful hugs. Even the little ones said their goodbyes before running off to play.

You should have left by now. But everyone knows who you are waiting for, and everyone knows he won't come. All except—

"Just a few more minutes." Daphne reasons. “He’ll be here.”

You have already been waiting for over half an hour. There is only so much small talk your mothers can make on your behalf before it becomes truly pathetic. Despite all of that, Daphne is sure Anthony will come and no amount of convincing will persuade her otherwise. Stubbornness is a trait they both seem to possess.

You sigh. "Daphne—"

"No. He promised me he would be here to see you off." Overwhelmed with your own business, you gave Daphne the task of informing her family about your departure. She told you Anthony had given her his word that he would be here to bid you farewell and that he wouldn't miss it for the world. You may not have been there for the discussion, but you’re sure she embellished it to make you feel better.

"You should have seen his face when I told him. He was miserable, truly."

In reality, your relationship with Anthony is partial at best. There has never been any indication that he has ever felt the same as you. At most, he sees you as a sister. But if that were the case, he would be here now, ready to see you off with a bittersweet smile. You know it’s only wishful thinking on your part to think he sees you as anything more than his sister's bothersome friend.

"Well, I guess I am not terribly important to him." You jest, but you can tell it had fallen rather short. Just as well. You didn’t find it too amusing to begin with.

"You cannot possibly believe that in earnest—"

You grasp her hands before she can try to convince you to stay any longer.

"Daphne, I understand what you are trying to do, and I thank you for it. But if Benedict throws me one more pitying look, I will be prone to hysterics." She huffs a laugh before a look of disconcertion takes over her features.

She shakes her head. "I just do not understand why he has not shown." 

The wind picks up, ruffling your hair and the skirts of your dress, as well as giving you a good excuse for why your eyes are welling up.

"Nor do I. Now, I'm afraid if I do not get into the carriage, my mother will drag me by the ear herself," you kiss each other's cheeks in farewell, "Write to me?"

"Of course. You needn't even ask."

After you and your mother climb into your carriage and set off on your course, it is much harder to disguise just how hurtful his absence proved to be. You had held out hope that Anthony would come to his senses and he would show you the kind of love that all the great poets wrote about, but that was just the childish musings of a girl. It is nothing less than tragic just how long it has taken you to see how little he cares for you.

As the familiar scenery of London fades away outside your window, you find yourself barely suppressing a sob. It is mortifying to be weeping over a man who has never given you the time of day, and, yet, here you sit crying into your hand. Your mother pulls you to her side and you let your head fall to her shoulder.

"Maybe he will write to you."

You say nothing of how little you believe that and, instead, bury your face in her shoulder.

After settling down in France at your father's estate, the next three years went by in a blur for you. Many things changed, but your one solace was Daphne, and never once did her letters falter in frequency. 

She told you all about the gossip back home and in turn, you made sure not to spare a single detail about how different the nobility of Paris was compared to London's. You gushed about how much your brother had advanced in his learnings and she wrote to you about her etiquette training.

She told you of her insecurities surrounding marriage and how she doubted she'd have a love like her parents and you told her about how utterly isolated you felt. You weren't able to attend her debut, but you were able to send as much advice as possible.

Through it all, you never received a single letter from Anthony. You didn't hold it against him. It just proved you valued your friendship more than he did if it could even be called a friendship. It was more so him just indulging your embarrassingly childish crush. A crush that, despite the years, hadn't quite gone away.

Though she did it sparingly, likely for your sake, you found yourself becoming giddy when Daphne mentioned him in your letters. Your heart would kick up in speed as your fingers traced his name on the rough parchment. There were many a night where you wished he would suddenly write about how much he missed you and your company.

However, as your mother adjusts the feathers on your head for what must be the thirtieth time, you realize that’s all trivial to think about. Your parents have allowed you to push it back for two years now, but you can no longer delay the inevitable.

It is time for your debut.

You haven’t told Daphne of your plans to come back to London before the queen this season, hoping to surprise her. She had told you Eloise would be debuting as well so you know the Bridgertons will be in the crowd.

Your mother adjusts the hem of your gown one more time before the guard at the door gives you the signal. It’s your turn.

"Miss Y/n Dupont...presented by her mother, the Right Honorable Countess Dupont."

The grand doors open before you, displaying an aisle with people on either side and the queen seated at the end. You summon all of the lessons in etiquette your mother had drilled into you and walk forward. 

Your entire life has accumulated into this one moment. Each of your steps are steady and sure as you cover the distance between you and the queen with your mother at your back. Your chin up high, back erect, and a delicate smile on your face.

You bow into a deep curtsy before her majesty. In the crowd, familiar faces catch your eye. Though they have matured with age, you’re able to make out the Bridgerton family's faces fixed with surprise and delight respectfully.

"Very good, my dear." Queen Charlotte praises with a slight smile. Though it isn't as big a reception as Daphne got last season, it’s by far the best anyone has gotten all day and certainly more than you were expecting.

As practiced, you and your mother back up and bow once more before walking back down the aisle.

-

The debut was cut short with the arrival of Lady Whistledown's latest column. Shortly before you and your mother leave to prepare for the ball, you hear your name being yelled from outside the carriage. You look out the window to see Daphne frantically waving.

"Stop the carriage!"

You push the door open and ignore the hand of the coachman as you all but jump out. She calls to you again and you gather your skirts under you, walking as fast as you can to her without it being considered running.

She meets you halfway in an embrace that nearly knocks the air out of you. Wedlock seems to give one abnormal strength.

"Daphne," you pull away from her, "or shall I say, Your Grace."

"You most certainly shall not," you giggle at her scandalized face, "Daphne will suffice."

"Well, you must forgive me, Daphne. It is not every day one's friend becomes a Duchess." 

It isn't long before the rest of the clan comes to say their salutations.

"Oh, you looked wonderful out there, dear!" Violet gushes as she pulls you into a hug. Her motherly embrace is one you have particularly missed. She squeezes you once more before moving over to your mother, who you completely forgot about in all the excitement.

You thank her before greeting the other young lady who was supposed to debut along with you.

"Eloise, look how much you've grown," the last time you had seen her, she was barely at your shoulders, "I'm so sorry your debut was interrupted."

"You need not worry," she waves you off, "Believe me, this has worked in my favor." You are, in fact, inclined to believe her. For as long as you have known her, Eloise hasn’t been keen on the feminine traditions women are expected to take on in the Ton.

One by one, you catch up with the people you regard as a second family. Exchanging stories of your journeys and things you missed in your absence and it’s as if no time had passed at all. 

Until he steps forward.

You knew he would be here—you did, and you had gone through many possible scenarios of how your meeting would go. What you would say, how you would act, how he would react to seeing you if he would react at all. 

However, many things are different in theory than they are in practice. In theory, you would keep your cool in his presence and he'd be utterly floored by your manner. In theory, he would be the one vying for your attention and you wouldn't even bat an eye.

Yet, in practice, your heart races as his eyes lock with yours and you feel awfully close to being ill. 

In practice, you’re the same as when you left three years prior: wholly and positively in love with Anthony Bridgerton.

"Countess Dupont," he bows his head to your mother before pausing a breath, "Y/n." You falter at the sound of your name rolling off the tongue of the one voice you have wished to hear for what felt like ages. If your relationship had ended differently, on better terms, you would have lunged at the opportunity to say his name in turn. 

As it stands, you are both past that easy companionship you once shared.

"Lord Bridgerton," for some reason, you can see Colin and Benedict give twin winces in your peripheral vision, "It has been far too long." It feels as if everyone has stopped to listen in on your conversation. Probably because everyone has stopped to listen to your conversation.

You feel yourself grow warm as the weight of everyone's gaze falls upon you, but none heavier than his.

A series of expressions pass over Anthony's face, none of which you can even begin to parse before he swiftly settles on indifference.

"I would have to agree," he clears his throat, trying—and failing—to clear the stilted air between you both, "Though not time wasted, it would seem. You've been in good health, I hope?"

"I have been well. And you?"

"Much...of the same."

You thought you had loosened the hold that the incident had on you and removed any lingering bitterness you had, yet it seems it still dictates your interactions with him. Despite your muddled feelings towards him, you can’t help but notice he’s just as handsome as you remember.

Thankfully, Colin steps forward before the conversation fails even further.

"Not to interrupt this remarkably stimulating tête-à-tête, but—actually, I would very much like to interrupt it."

"Colin Bridgerton!"

"Oh, we were all thinking it, Mother!"

-

Lady Danbury's ball is in full swing. Dreary debutants and maddening mamas swarm the room like locusts, setting their sights on any eligible bachelor they see.

Anthony looks out over the soirée and deems himself lucky that his reputation keeps him from being approached. He knows he will need to marry, sooner rather than later, but he can’t find it in himself to settle for a marriage of convenience.

Maybe some part of himself, some part of him that hadn't died with his father, still holds onto the childish notion of a love match.

Though, not everyone can be as lucky as Daphne and Simon.

His siblings don’t share the same resistance to consorting as he does. Eloise in particular should be on the lookout for admirers like the rest of the debutantes.

No, instead of socializing, they spend their time recounting his reacquaintance with you in great, mortifying detail.

"You should have seen his face when she came through the door, Eloise. I'm surprised his eyes didn't roll out of his head with how wide they were." Colin stage whispers to their sister.

"I especially loved the part where he froze up when she called him "Lord Bridgerton". You're a real," Benedict pauses, wide-eyed at Anthony's glare, "charmer. I'm sure the poets envy your eloquence."

"It couldn't have been that bad." When he saw you debuting before the queen, the only thing he could focus on was how much you had matured since the last time he saw you. 

No longer were you the young girl chasing his coattails. The girl—the woman he saw was nothing if not awe-inspiring. But he can confidently state that he hadn't expected such a cold reception from you. You greeted him as if you were strangers and walked away just the same.

"Oh, no. It was horrendous. Ow," Eloise yelps as their mother pinches her arm, "I guess it could have gone worse. Somehow."

"Chin up, brother. It's only up from here," Colin chimes in before mumbling into his drink, "Hopefully."

Lord Almighty, strike him down now.

Before he can defend himself, a hush falls upon the room. Ladies whisper behind fans and gentlemen stare in awe, himself included, as you come through the entrance arm in arm with your mother.

Of course, he came to support Eloise, but he can admit in the safety of his own mind that he had hoped to see you as well. And see you, he does.

As it is, the daughter of a foreign Earl would garner plenty of attention, especially one as beautiful as you. But with the Queen giving you such a phenomenal reception, it seemed your allure only soared.

All eyes follow you as you and your mother greet Lady Danbury before making your way toward his family. Did you notice the effect you had, the attention you reaped?

Your royal blue dress sways with each of your steps as you come closer and his breath catches in his throat before he forces himself to swallow around it. You bow your head in greeting.

"That is a gorgeous dress!" His mother compliments you before kissing your mother's cheek in greeting.

"Why, thank you. We brought it with us from France." You preen. Had you always had that slight Parisian lilt to your voice? How hadn’t he noticed that until now?

"She looks lovely. Right, brother?" Benedict's sharp elbow nudges Anthony in the arm as he stares at you. Later, he will thank Benedict for giving him this opening. But, for now—

Anthony is not one for flowery musings. He isn’t a poet, nor does he spend his time admiring the arts or waxing poetics about beauty and such. No, he leaves that sort of thing to his brother. 

But as you peer up at him with expectant eyes, the lights of the chandeliers painting you in a soft yellow, he can understand why a war was waged over Helen of Troy.

"Stunning. You look—stunning." You hold his gaze for a moment before looking away, seemingly bashful. He wonders at what point in your lives did he become someone you hid yourself from.

"Thank you, my Lord." There it is again. That steady growing distance between you and him. You bow your head in thanks before turning and starting a real conversation with Eloise. 

Is that all you’ve him to? An afterthought?

He interjects at multiple points in your conversation, adding his input in hopes that he'll grasp your interest, but you don’t even spare him a glance.

"There are plenty of young men in attendance. I wonder who will approach me first." You grin at Eloise—who undoubtedly does not share in your enthusiasm—and your eyes are bright with excitement as you look around the room.

"I'd advise proceeding with caution. You shall be surprised with what these pests will attempt for a foreign wife of large title and an even larger dowery." He speaks up once again and, finally, your attention turns to him.

"Is that so?" He doesn’t know what to say to you when you look at him like that, eyes wide with curiosity as you peek at him from under your eyelashes and he falters. Instead of coming up with a witty or even articulate response, Anthony sputters in a way that he is sure looked reminiscent of a fish on dry land. 

He’s determined you really don’t know the effect you have.

"As it is your first season, and you don't have a brother here to help you sort through the excrement, I'd like to offer my services as a chaperone." He proposes as if it is a benevolent act of charity and not a thinly veiled excuse to keep you close to him. An excuse he is sure you see right through.

"What of Eloise?" Your mother asks.

"She has two other brothers who will keep a close eye on her. Right?" He looks over at Colin and Benedict who both turn to each other before nodding in agreement. 

He is thankful they both choose at that moment not to make an ass of him.

"While that is a very generous offer, my Lord, it is wholly unnecessary. Not to mention improper, as I am not your sister." He needn't be reminded of that. It is a fact he is well aware of.

"Yes, you most certainly are not," the corners of his mouth twitched up as he clasp his hands behind his back, "And forgive me, my Lady, I had not thought of it that way."

"Yes, well, with those sorts of suggestions, you will lead many to believe you do not think at all. Now, if you all will excuse me, I have a dance card to fill." Your smile is stiff as you turn your back on him to continue your rounds with your mother. 

He is sure you meant the remark to be scathing, and if anyone else had said it to him, it might have left him scowling. Still, when you look back over your shoulder at him with a satisfied smirk in place, he can’t help but smile in turn.

"Why is he smiling? That was worse than the first meeting." Eloise voices.

He sees Benedict shake his head in his peripheral. "I haven't the slightest clue."

-

"You must forgive me for staring, my Lady, but I've never met anyone as…exotic as you. The French have always intrigued me."

Next partner.

"Pardon me for asking, but what am I to expect in terms of your dowery?"

Next. Partner.

"My profession? I'm sure it's too complicated for your delicate sensibilities. Don't worry your pretty little head about it."

Next. Partner.

By your fifth round of dancing, the conversation with your potential suitors only further declines in quality. You hate to admit it, but Anthony's earlier statement proved true. You seem to be a lighthouse for vermin. Perhaps you should have taken him up on his offer, but the very idea ignites your nerves.

Spending the entire night alone with a man like him—even with your mother in attendance—is dishonorable and calls for scandal. Even if said man holds no affection for you.

You take a break from the dancing and horrid small talk by the refreshment table. If you knew the company in England was so dull, you would have stayed and debuted in France. You could have spent time with the number of Bridgertons in attendance, but you need a moment of respite.

"Escaping by way of refreshments?" You sigh into your drink at the accented voice coming from behind you. Though you know it is the entire reason that you attended, you are getting tired of pompous men thinking they are owed your time. 

"Yes, though it doesn't seem to be working considering your being here." Your posture straightens like a cracked whip as you spin around, you hadn't meant to say that out loud. "I'm so sorry, I hadn't—"

"No need," he laughs, "You were only being honest. Rarely do people of high standing speak their minds. It’s refreshing." Despite what he said, you are still mortified at your behavior.

He bows before you, "Count Henri LeClair." The name LeClair seems familiar, but you can’t put your finger on it.

He is quite a bit taller than you, at least by a head. His dark brown hair shines copper in the light and warm brown eyes peek up from beneath his fringe. A red, velvet coat is tailored well to his lithe frame.

You curtsy in turn and introduce yourself.

"Ah, I already know who you are. Um, our fathers, they worked together in France." 

"Oh, LeClair! Yes, yes I've met your father before." That's why the name seemed so familiar. The Right Honorable Count LeClair was a family friend before his untimely death, but you had only met him after you moved to France.

"So, you're the little Henri he spoke so fondly of," you grin up at him and realize little might be an inaccurate description, "What are you doing in London?"

"Perhaps I can explain while dancing?"

He holds his hand out for you to take as the band readies themselves for another set. He would definitely be the best dance partner you've had thus far. And he’s quite pleasing to look at, so even if the conversation did fall through you'd at least be in good company.

"Perhaps you can." You take his hand in yours and allow him to sign his name on your dance card before he leads you to the dance floor.

There are some lulls as there often are in discussions and he isn't the perfect conversationalist, sometimes speaking too little or too much, but you eventually find your rhythm with each other.

It isn’t terribly engaging and you aren’t swooning at everything he says, but he’s easy to talk to and you enjoy actually being able to speak freely.

He explains to you that he began his tour in Europe and decided to start in London before continuing his journey to Ireland. Under the urgency of his mother, he decided to stay for the debut and look for a wife.

"Thank you for this," you smile at him as the violins reach their crescendo, "I was afraid I would be doomed to a night of dull conversations with even duller men." He spins you under his arm before he pulls you back towards him. You follow him step for step as he leads.

"I hope you do not mind me asking, but do you...already have a courtship with Lord Bridgerton?" He asks with a tilt of his head.

You blink rapidly, taken aback. "Whatever would make you think that?"

He nods over your shoulder towards the other side of the room where the Bridgertons converse amongst themselves. Your mother and Violet are locked in conversation, Colin and Benedict are chatting on either side of Eloise, and at the end of that line stands Anthony.

His face is pinched with a deep furrow between his brows. His lips are pursed together in a thin line and his jaw is stiff. That’s all normal. What isn’t normal is the way his eyes haven’t moved an inch from your dancing form.

There is no telling how long he has been watching you, and if you didn't know any better, you would assume he’s jealous.

But you do know better.

Daphne's whirlwind of a season is no secret to you and you had read enough from her letters to know how much Anthony's overprotectiveness had played a hand in it. It wouldn't do to have him scare off any of your potential suitors as he did for her.

"He's a family friend, nothing more." You say far harsher than you meant to. It is the truth, no matter how much you wish it to be the opposite. 

Best not to think about that.

#bridgerton #anthony bridgerton #reader #anthony bridgerton x reader #Anthony Bridgerton/reader #once more to see you #im really excited for this one

[polarisbibliotheque]

Dante & Vergil finally having a relaxing bathtub time with their s/o

Because everyone needs to wind down every once in a while.

Pairings: Dante x Reader; Vergil x Reader

Summary: Everyone needs relaxing. In the Sparda household, that is done through baths with trusted lovers

Author's notes: I think I'm always going to put some poem reciting on Vergil's stuff. I am so sorry. But he cannot get away from it anymore - as Dante can't get away from chatting with his s/o while chilling on his big office chair.

And there's no NSFW in it. I know, weird.

Also, do check Pablo Neruda's work. He is one of my favourite poets after watching "Il Postino", a 1994 movie "about" him, at school - and do watch the movie. It's poetry in images

Age Restrictions: Well, they are taking baths together, naked - so reader's discretion advised. Although there's nothing overtly sexual (forgive my ace ass), Vergil's one can be a little more... Tempting.

Dante

“You look horribly tense.”

You observed Dante as he entered the Devil May Cry – disheveled, sprinkled with blood and a few more cuts on his shirt than he’d have planned. Yet another that you’d have to sew into place until you convinced him to buy another one.

Because since he was young, Dante had the “if I don’t have shirts, I’ll just walk around shirtless then” mindset. Not that it bothered you, but it surely wasn’t a very acceptable dress code everywhere.

“Not more than the everyday amount.” He winked back at you, slumping on his chair with a deep sigh.

“I bet an electrical bill that your shoulders are rock solid.” You approached the man, who just leaned his elbows on his desk and kept looking at you from under his ruffled white hair.

“You know I have rotten luck with bets.” Dante closed his eyes, his usual smile too tired to make an appearance.

“I’d say you have a rotten luck with everything except fighting, but I don’t want to be too cruel with you today.” You managed to make him chuckle with your words as you laid both of your hands on his shoulders.

And it seemed like grabbing two sets of bricks.

“Jeez, Dante, you gonna die with all this tension.” Your comment was more of a surprised whisper: it was worse than you thought. Not that you weren’t used to massaging him all over because of sore muscles after intense fights – and the reciprocate was true – but it seemed like all the tension he had accumulated from the last few weeks decided to make an appearance that day.

“I know, babe… I’m really tired today.” He lowered his head, massaging his own neck a bit. You furrowed your brows – that behavior was rare and so out of character on your red devil. “This last month has been really tense… There were some old foes of my father back, they kept sayin’ all those things about my family and my mom… Sometimes, they hit us hard.” Dante raised his head again, looking at you with a faint smile. His sky-blue eyes, though, carried sadness instead of the usual energy. A bittersweet demeanor, as Dante would always wear when his strength was low, but he didn’t want you to care about it too much. “But I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about lil’ ol’ me.”

“I always worry about lil’ ol’ you.” You wrapped one of your arms around his shoulders, forcing him to slide a little with his chair so you cold sit on his nearest thigh. Dante couldn’t hold back a smile filled with care. “That’s what being a partner means, cowboy. I’m here for the good and the bad times, no less. Although, I can accept more.”

“I guess we can all accept more, huh, partner?” He forced an old western movie type of accent, making you laugh as Dante wrapped your waist with one of his arms, using his other hand to hold one of your thighs and properly putting both of your legs across his – Dante’s thigh being the best chair in the office. Not that you had much choice when the only chair was taken by him on a regular basis. “I just don’t want ya to get as tense as I am. One worried devil around the shop is enough.”

“Technically, I’m not a devil. Even if I’m worried, you’d be the only one to fit that category.” You argued, making him roll his eyes while laughing. It wasn’t his usual hearty laugh, but it was a good one to listen. Dante’s voice would always be the best kind of song to your ears. “Plus, carrying the weight of constantly saving humanity is too heavy of a burden to carry on your own. No wonder your shoulders feel like I can throw Cavaliere at you and you won’t even feel it.”

“Oh, I’d actually like to see you doin’ that! When are you goin’ to let me train you?” His hand unconsciously drew patterns on the thigh he was holding to keep you in place. “Gotta say, you’ll look hella sexy driving Cavaliere around and kickin’ some…”

“Demon ass!” You both said together, mimicking Nico’s accent. That made Dante break in a more cheerful laugh, resting his forehead on yours.

“Well, you can always teach me. I can’t assure you I’ll be strong enough to wave a full-ass motorcycle around, though.” You had a few giggles in your voice still, closing your eyes as you felt his breath calming down on your face.

“You kiddin’? If I train you enough, you’ll be able to throw me at demons.” Although his voice was lower, Dante’s usual playful tone was still there, slowly coming back to his heart. You always brought his heart back – it was your most beautiful power, in his opinion. No demon could ever do that.

“Neat. I’ll just go ‘Dante, arm!’ when I feel like it and hold it to throw you at demons. It would be epic. ‘Want a piece of Sparda, you clowns? Well then, catch THIS!’” As you spoke, Dante himself closed his eyes, hugging you tighter and laughing while imagining that scene. “I think Nero would be jealous.”

“He’d want to try it out with Verge. Only he wouldn’t give his ol’ man a heads up.” With his own phrase, Dante laughed even more, imagining how Vergil would be mortified with that. “That would be a sight to see!”

“We gotta train it, now. You’ll be my biggest weapon, Dante.” You took some distance from him, to look at his eyes again. The skies were getting a little bit clearer, adoration now mixing with the sadness. You ran your fingers through his blood sprinkled hair, something Dante loved with all his heart. “A huge weapon that needs a bath, by the way.”

“Ah, I’m gonna take a quick shower. That water bill…”

“Don’t worry, it’s already on the budget. We’re taking a bath today, red devil.”

Dante looked back at you, interested. He wasn’t expecting you to use “we”.

“Do you prefer jasmine or orange blossom?” Your head appeared through the bathroom door as Dante took his clothes off and left on a designated place on the floor – currently shirtless as you decided to ask.

“Well, I prefer you.” His answer was laced with a serene smile while his clothes met the floor.

“Very funny, you goof.” You weren’t pleased with the reply, but not exactly surprised. It was classic Dante at his finest. “I want to choose a scent you like.”

“If it’s the ones you use, I like all scents, honey.” Dante stretched out his arms, cracking his neck in the process. It seemed like his muscles were made of marble. “Make me a surprise.”

“You know, one day, you’ll have to get used to the idea of choosing stuff you like, not just accepting what life throws at you.” You were almost as grumpy as an old lady and, for some reason, Dante found that adorable.

But he knew you were right. Dante was too used to just accept things and never ask for more – he barely had an idea on how to choose what he actually wanted. Yes, you were just talking about bath scents, but he’d always be happy with whatever. Life wasn’t too keen on being nice to him, so Dante figured, at some point, that if he couldn’t fight it, at least he wouldn’t stress about it.

That’s why he was so good at being versatile during fights: he’d see what his enemies would do and adapt – that way, if something went wrong, he’d wing it instead of panicking. It had worked pretty well so far.

“So… Is the bath ready? Do I have permission to enter the premises, sheriff?” It was turn for his head to appear through the bathroom’s door, observing you, wrapped around your towel, testing the water with your hand.

“Permission granted, cowboy. Bath is ready and you’re sinkin’ in there until further notice.” You smiled back, sniffing your hand. It was better than you expected.

“What scent you opted for, babe?” And as he entered the bathroom you only observe how Dante could be so comfortable wandering around the way he was born into this world. It was an ability you truly envied, honestly.

“Both.” Your smile was certainly annoyed, and Dante couldn’t hold back his laughter.

“Well, it counts as a surprise! I wasn’t expecting that!” As he sank into the warm water filled with bubbles, you heard a soothed sigh from him. Who would’ve know the Legendary Devil Hunter just needed a good bubbling bath every once in a while to wind down? That made you smile contently. “Are you just goin’ to watch me or are you comin’ in, babe? I can always seduce you, ya know…”

“Oh…” And Dante started wiggling his eyebrows dramatically, performing the campiest sexy pose you had ever seen. And that was saying a lot – he had a weak spot for doing that from time to time. You held his hand on place by the side of the tub before he could continue. “Please don’t.”

Dante chuckled a little while you made sure your hair wouldn’t get wet. He always enjoyed watching you – there was something so ordinary on it, so human, that made him feel almost as if he wasn’t who he was. Almost as if he didn’t have demon blood in his veins, and all that mess going on in his family and his life in general. For a while, watching you, Dante could live a perfectly human life – even if it was for a few eternal seconds.

“Do you want me to go in or do you want me to just stay here with you?” Your question woke him up from his thoughts, though, making Dante tilt his head a bit, still processing it. “You need to start choosing and knowing what you want, cowboy.” You sat by the edge of the tub, playing mindlessly with the water. “Might as well start with me – I won’t get mad at any of the answers. Both work fine for me and I have all the time in the world.”

“Oh…” And there it was: your marvelous ability of leaving Dante speechless. That was quite a feat, and you could always do it masterfully. Vergil adored you for that. “Hmmm. I’d rather have you here with me, y/n.” Even though his words were certain, his eyes weren’t – as if Dante was asking you to stay. “Is that ok for you?”

“Of course.” As you smiled back, he watched as your towel was put aside and held your hands while you made your way into the bathtub. “I’ve already said it’s ok, both options.”

“Hey, it’s all brand-new for me, don’t shoot the apprentice.” Dante chuckled back, holding your hands so you wouldn’t risk getting hurt while getting comfortable in the water with him.

“I’m not shooting, just stating. You gonna learn how to put yourself first for good or for bad now.” And it always amazed him how you could threaten anyone so casually – you and Vergil were quite a pair in that department.

“Or else you gonna throw me at demons. I know, I know.” He raised his hands as if you had him at gunpoint, while you were only leaning against him and resting your head on his shoulder amidst giggles. “Comfy, lil’ angel?”

“That’s a given when I’m with you.” It sounded like one of your playful answers, but your voice was serious and serene, having your eyes closed as if you were ready to fall asleep in his arms.

And indeed, both of you could fall asleep like that. Dante observed while the sun tinged the sky with the last rays of rosé orange, before giving in to the darkest of blues. A few birds chirped outside, sometimes flying by the window in golden silhouettes. There wasn’t any other sound in the streets – every once in a while, a few people walked by, chatting words you both were too far to understand.

It was a kind of peace Dante wasn’t used to. He wrapped one of his arms around your waist, using his free hand to play with yours. You let yourself get lost on his touch, enjoying that peaceful afternoon while feeling his heartbeat calmly against your back – something so rare at the Devil May Cry.

“Hmmm.” You turned your head at him, kissing Dante’s neck to get his attention. He looked down at you – a serene expression, without his usual smile. It was so different, but as beautiful as he would always look. “I can always massage that bag of bricks you’re carrying in your back. You just have to ask.”

“If it’s that bad, you might need a hammer, babe.” And his smile was faint, but it couldn’t refrain from making an appearance. You didn’t want to, but nevertheless ended up chuckling with his words, planting another kiss on his neck. “Sure you can handle it?”

“Oh, yes. I’m on a mission now.” You kissed him one last time, sitting up straight so you could properly turn to look at him. “C’mon. Time to change positions.”

“It’s easy for ya, lil’ thing! Have you seen my size?!” Dante pointed at himself while still holding one of your hands, making you laugh more than you expected.

“I can try like this, but knowing us, we’ll end up with the ‘bathtub make-up time’ from A Star is Born then properly working on relaxing you!” As you answered, Dante raised one of his eyebrows, pulling your hand towards him.

“If you wanted to, I wouldn’t complain about it.” He shrugged, kissing your fingers tenderly, taking his time. You had nowhere to be and no reason to rush.

“Turn around, cowboy. First, we’re getting rid of those tense shoulders. Then, we’re getting to the make-up.” You watched as he continued kissing every spot in your hand, slowly trailing up to your wrist.

“My, my, you’re bossy!” And even though it seemed like Dante was complaining, he had a smile on his face that showed his enjoyment. He’d never complain about you trying to take care of him.

And soon enough you had Dante’s shoulders in your hands, his back exposed for you to work on. He knew he didn’t have to speak or keep small talk around you – interestingly enough, you were always comfortable around him not to need any words. That was also a new world to the Crimson Slayer – not used to have people comfortable near him.

As your hands glided through his back, breaking the tension on his stony muscles, Dante found himself slouching – closing his eyes and taking a deep breath; allowing himself to enjoy the moment. It was nice not being called names, not being treated harshly, not being in the middle of a fight, not being strong all the time… Being human, for a change.

Dante knew kindness was human’s superpower, but he was never one to experience it first-hand in a regular basis. He usually knew it by proxy – in your hands, though, there was nothing but kindness. Dante had a theory he was relaxing not by your abilities in massaging, but by having you take care of his heart so carefully.

“You know… I never really thought I’d have this.” He suddenly said quietly, a faint smile on his voice as his eyes remained closed. You kneeled behind him just so you could reach his shoulders better, working gradually on the knots in his neck. “I mean… I’d wish for it, sure. But it always felt like one of those Disney movies wishful thinkin’, ya know? The ones we pray for a star at night and hope no one’s around to listen.” You’d always let him talk, without saying a word. It was so rare to have Dante really open up about his feelings – so you’d let him speak until the moment was gone. “I know huntin’ demons isn’t easy… And I know it isn’t easy not knowing if I’ll be back or stuck in Hell. Again.” Dante’s head turned slightly back, while you left out a chuckle. That was a classic, honestly. “But I’m glad to have you around; for as long as you want to stay. Thank you, y/n.”

Your answer took a little time to form words, so you seized it to embrace your red devil, pressing your chest so tight against his back and resting your hands over his heart. Dante would be taken aback if he didn’t long for that kind of affection. With a comfortable smile coloring his lips, he took your hands on his, cradling them as much as he could, trying to look back at you. It was in vain, though: your face was peacefully rested on his shoulder, while you kept your eyes closed and enjoyed your time with the Crimson Slayer.

“I’ll stay forever, if you’ll have me.” Your voice was nothing but a whisper in that late afternoon, not giving Dante the chance to say he’d have you forever. “For there is no harshness in this or in another world worst than being without you. I love you so much, Dante – and I hope someday you’ll understand that. You saved me in all manners a person can be saved. This is a dream for me too.”

“You kinda sound like Verge sometimes, ya know.” He mumbled, making you snort briefly in his back. Dante laughed as well, playing with your fingers while one of your hands remained in his heart. “Also, isn’t that saving thing from Titanic…?”

“Oh my. I wasn’t expecting you’d know Rose’s lines by heart.” You quipped back playfully; internally grateful he couldn’t see how much you were blushing. If Dante was the Crimson Slayer, at that moment you’d certainly be the Crimson Apple. “Here was I, thinking I’d be seen as originally poetic.”

“You kiddin’ me? You know how many times Titanic has aired? It saved my boring nights!” He laughed quickly, suddenly pulling your hands while moving swiftly. When you noticed what happened, Dante found a way to turn slightly around so you’d find yourself in his arms, as if he wanted to carry you bridal style. Dante kept your head above water by having one of his arms on your back, while the other wrapped around your waist, keeping you close. Your hands were lost in his chest, in his heart. “I do think you’re poetic though. More than you give yourself credit for, angel.”

“Well, then you know where my heart is. And It’ll never refrain from giving you all the kindness in the world, as much as you need.” You placed your hand briefly in his face before pulling Dante for a kiss.

His heart would be glowing in golden knowing there was no time, no chores, no demons to kill – only you, him and the bathtub. Dante could cherish you as much as he wanted and that kiss could last forever, if he meant to. You were uncharacteristically vulnerable in his arms, completely disarmed by the Crimson Slayer – and he knew he was the only person you’d allow yourself to be like that around.

Life was never kind to both of you – but you could be kind to each other. And that was enough.

Vergil

The oncoming storm.

Vergil found it amusing that you used to call him like that when he wasn’t in the best of tempers, but you could look like a lingering chaos when wrathful feelings stirred in the depths of the ocean that was your heart.

His cunning eyes followed you as your presence made itself known back in the room. He was sitting by his favorite dark blue armchair, reading one more of his occult books – Vergil would never cease to search power, but now for different reasons than before – as your brooding form entered while carrying the Yamato. By the look in your eyes, it wasn’t the best of hunting days – and that he could understand beautifully.

You looked like the most perfect oncoming storm.

“I take your hunt was not just a simple job as it seemed when you left.” His voice echoed in the room while you left the Yamato on its designated place to keep it safe. You only looked back at your lover, more unsatisfied with the circumstances than with his comment. “If you feel like talking about it, do so. I’m not busy.”

He looked busy, though – and Vergil could read that thought in your eyes. As soon as he did, he carefully closed the book and left it on the desk by his side, taking a cup of warm tea while waiting for you to say something. You knew it was his way of saying he had time to listen to you – that you were more important than a book.

It was always like that between you two. You wouldn’t ask what was wrong, but you’d make yourselves perfectly available to listen to each other’s troubles. That way, sharing your feelings didn’t seem so scary or vulnerable – it seemed more like an objective therapy with someone who would never judge or run away from your words. It was the way you and Vergil found to become used to talking about the deepest emotions stirring in your hearts.

“It was much worse than we thought. I wasn’t ready for it.” You sighed, tiredly rubbing your neck while walking towards the closet. You needed to unwind, or you’d fall flat from stress. “Note that the demon wasn’t stronger. Last week has been terribly overwhelming and I thought a quick, easy job would blow off some steam. Turns out, this wasn’t a quick and easy job.”

“Hmmm… You underestimated it.” Vergil’s voice analyzed quietly while you confirmed with a gesture and proceeded to find your pajamas. “Sometimes, slicing demons is exactly what we need to get some adrenaline out of our system and get back to our focus…” As he spoke, Vergil got up from the chair and made his way to the closet, towering behind you as you chose your comfortable clothing. “Some other times, what we need is a little more delicate than that.”

“Delicate? That’s a choice of words I wasn’t expecting, honestly.” You furrowed your brows and, before you could take anything from the closet, Vergil placed a careful and loving kiss on the top of your head. That made you stop whatever you were doing, failing to understand his intentions.

“I know. We’re not ones to expect love and care, are we…?” He whispered in the slightly cold air of the night, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Come. The water of a bath can melt the tension in your body, love. This time, it will be better than slaying demons.”

You closed your eyes, smiling with a sigh. Vergil wasn’t one to show a softer side – but he always did when it was about taking care of the ones he loved, even if he wasn’t keen on admitting it.

“You know… You prepare the best baths.”

You were leaning by the door, resting your head on it, while watching Vergil working. As per his instructions, both of you were already covered only by silky bath robes, waiting for the water to get warm and the bath filled with bubbles.

“It’s not a difficult science.” He noted back – and even though it was a chastising comment, Vergil didn’t have a harsh expression. Au contraire, he kept on testing the water with his hand, focused on making it as bubbly as possible. He knew you loved it.

“No, but it is rare to find someone well versed in it.” You wanted to compliment him, and that man was usually so difficult to accept praises that didn’t surround his power. Vergil wasn’t one to see many qualities in himself, apart from his demonic heritage.

Taking him by surprise, your arms enveloped him from behind, while Vergil kept sitting by the bathtub. You felt him tense a few seconds before relaxing into your touch, melting like snow in the first rays of spring. One of his hands met yours, while the other worked in the water – he never wanted to show how much he cherished those displays of care towards him.

“It is because I have someone who enjoys it greatly.” His words weren’t more than a whisper, as his fingers entangled with yours and Vergil raised your hand to place a slow and gentle kiss in its back. “Now we should get to it before the water turns cold.”

You’d note it would take a while for the water to turn cold, but it was just Vergil’s way to ask you to get into the bathtub. He helped you take off your robe, setting it aside alongside his, and made sure you’d get into the water without any accidents. Soon enough, you were submerged between Vergil’s arms, your head resting on his shoulders.

“Comfortable?”

“Hmmm.” You mostly confirmed with your head, a faint smile coloring your lips. Vergil couldn’t help himself from mirroring your expression. “Which scent is this? The water is marvelous.”

“White roses.” His answer was simple and velvety in the quietness of the bathroom, making your smile wider. Vergil once told you about white roses being used by brides over time for its meaning of serenity, innocence and eternity – qualities he always saw in you.

You’d beg to differ, especially on topics like serenity and innocence – although, for a half-devil who spent a great part of his life stuck in the horrors of Hell, even someone like you could be an angel.

“You were reading about occultism again?”

“Hmmm. There are a few new things I need to grasp on energy work.” His answer was pensive, while you cherished the feeling of Vergil’s hand mindlessly drawing patterns on your thigh. “Although most of them is just new age foolishness.”

You tried not to laugh. Your eyes remained closed while your lips shrunk in a straight line, containing how much you found that endearing. Little did you know your lover stared at you with one raised eyebrow, ever so ready to scold you.

“At least someone finds that amusing.” As soon as his brooding voice echoed in your ears, you couldn’t hold your laughter any longer.

“The ‘new age foolishness’ is already absurdly annoying to me.” You finally opened your eyes, meeting his silvery gaze. Although, this time, Vergil watched you with amusement and care. “I can only imagine how much it vexes you.”

“Beyond description of any words.” His gaze turned into a playful sort of annoyed expression, sighing right after. “Through me you enter into the city of woes, through me you enter into eternal pain, through me you enter the population of loss. Abandon all hope, you who enter here.”

“Ah, yes. Alighieri clearly thought of new age’s take on occultism when describing Hell. It’s all a metaphor.” You couldn’t keep yourself from chuckling. Vergil wasn’t one to be playful, but he was one to be dramatic. And it amused you greatly how often those traits overlapped.

“Trust me. I do know a few books that certainly would belong into the freezing confinements of the 9th circle.” He rolled his eyes, making you laugh briefly and plant a kiss in his jaw. Vergil looked back at you, raising one eyebrow – but this time as a question.

“Well. You do warm my heart whenever you complain about modern stuff using your classic literature knowledge. You only get yourself to blame for unexpected kisses.” You smiled back, taking him by surprise with another kiss on his neck. Little did you know Vergil did his best not to blush with how much his heart was racing. “Actually, your literature knowledge in general should be blamed for my kisses.”

“Then I wonder what the result of a recital would be while I work on those tense shoulders of yours.”

His eyes were as intense as yours, always finding someone who could keep up to his gaze in you. It was true, you were not in your best of days – and Vergil knew that. But being in his arms made you feel safe in a way you never did before: your blue devil was the only one capable of making you feel protected, the only one who could make you relax.

“Why don’t you test it out…?” As your words left your lips, Vergil tried to contain a devilish smile that colored his own lips – not being able to fully hide it, though.

“One day, you’re going to get yourself in trouble with those witty words.” He whispered back, inches away from your lips before slowly kissing them.

“You do love my witty words.”

“Indeed.” Vergil kissed your lips once more before guiding you to turn forward and slipping his warm, wet hands on the back of your neck. He had a strong grip, but it never failed to make you smile how well Vergil could control his strength when dealing with you. That carefulness rarely showed – he reserved only to the most special people.

His brother definitely wasn’t one of those – neither was Nero, to an extent. But Vergil knew very well how to be gentle around you, Kyrie or Nico. The way he treated Kyrie was as if she was the most fragile of flowers in a secret garden.

“Hmmm… You know, I have no clue where you learnt to do this, but your hands are magnificent, love.” You had to comment as he kneaded the sore spots in your trapezius. “Midas would be jealous of your touch.”

“I cannot turn that which is already golden into gold. I can only help you not die out of tension.” His answer was sharp, making you giggle. It always warmed Vergil’s heart how you were amused by his dry sense of humor – Dante seemed to be the only one to laugh at his attempts of jokes before you arrived in his life. “You should ask me for these more often. I don’t mind spending time with you.”

“Even if you have to stop reading?”

“Books can wait.” And Vergil kissed the top of your head, calmly lowering his hands on your back. “Being with those we love, can’t.”

You closed your eyes, slowly sighing as you felt every knot from your back unravel under his skillful hands. Vergil took his time, without worrying about the water or how long you’d take in that bath. He wouldn’t leave until you were feeling at least a little better.

“Everyday you play with the light of the universe. Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and in the water.” Vergil’s voice started reciting a carefully chosen poem after he thought for a while, at first too quiet in the walls of the bathroom. Nevertheless, you’d never tire of hearing his words like that. “Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh, let me remember you as you were before you existed.”

There was something about those words that never failed to make you smile. Vergil knew that.

“You are here. Oh, you do not run away. You will answer me to the last cry.” Now his voice was like velvety dark chocolate, pouring into your ears like a forbidden song. You didn’t dare opening your eyes as his hands worked on your back. “Cling to me as though you were frightened. Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes.” As Vergil spoke, you could hear the slight smile he had in his lips: you weren’t one to love easy, but when you did, you loved wholeheartedly. Just like him. “Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle, and even your breasts smell of it.” He planted a kiss under your ear, working on a tense spot in your neck. “While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies, I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.”

Vergil barely finished the sentence, and you could feel his teeth playfully nipping the tender spot in your neck. You giggled back, feeling little tears that formed around your eyes – if they were because of how much that spot was hurting or how his words could make you feel a myriad of emotions in your ocean heart, you did not know.

“How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.” The honesty in his words as Vergil’s hands lowered in your back made you breathless. It wasn’t just an empty poem he was reciting – it was one he could see himself on it. And you could feel it in the way he delivered the words like sweet honey dripping from his lips. “So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the gray light unwinds in turning fans.”

You couldn’t stop yourself from opening your eyes vaguely while Vergil guided you to stretch your neck slowly, moving your head gently. You smiled contently as he pulled you closer, keeping his mouth inches away from your ears.

“My words rained over you, stroking you. A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body. I go so far as to think you own the universe.” You had known that poem and always cherished it in your heart, but his delivery of the words made you shiver. Who would’ve known the Dark Slayer would have you as the owner of the universe? “I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels and rustic basket of kisses.” With those words, Vergil playfully kissed the top of your ear, making you laugh slightly – until you could feel his lips touching the shell of your ear, ready to whisper the last line for only you to listen; a secret to be kept only by your heart. “I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”*

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. Oh, damned devil – is all you could think. You could feel Vergil’s smile from watching your reaction and how much you controlled all your feelings not to arise in a sea storm, taking him whole into the maelstrom of your heart. He knew what he was doing.

“I have to say…” You slowly turned your head to your lover, finding Vergil’s triumphant silver glare ornated by a faint smile. You both were at the same level of emotion control, but he could never stop himself from feeling proud whenever he provoked such a havoc of feelings within you. “You have won more than a few kisses, devilish poet.”

“Hmmm. I’m afraid to point out, this poem is exclusively human.” One of his warm hands stroke your cheek, putting away a rebel strand of hair. Again, his voice fell into a whisper, only for your ears. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

For the first time, Vergil lost track of the warmth of the water – but what water could be warmer than the flame of love?

*Every Day You Play, by Pablo Neruda

#dante x reader #vergil x reader #dante imagine #vergil imagine #devil may cry imagines #devil may cry fanfiction #dmc imagines #dmc fanfic #devil may cry #dante sparda #vergil sparda #I could spend a lifetime inside a bathtub #plus Verge is getting softer #and Dante is getting serious #who would've known #also READ PABLO NERUDA PLEASE

[noforkingclue]

Flustered (Thomas Thorne x reader)

I’ll admit, I did change this after seeing series 3 episode 1, although no spoilers for the episode for people who haven’t seen it so don’t worry!

A request for @violetlucrezia who wanted a Thomas Thorne x reader with some suggestive flirting. Hope you like it! :D

Warnings: nothing major, just some innuendo 

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @imjustassaneasyou

Your fingers brushed just above the keys of the piano and you smiled softly to yourself. Memories of playing for your family and friends flooded back. It wasn’t very often that you thought back to when you were alive but when you did the memories were always bittersweet.

“Y/n?” a soft voice dragged you out of your thoughts, “Are you alright?”

You looked over your shoulder and smiled as Thomas approached you. You were always glad for his company even if he could be a bit eccentric at times. Then again, who out of your strange little family wasn’t? Thomas came and leant, against the piano and looked down at you. You looked up shyly at him and said,

“Yeah, I’m alright. Just…”

“Yes?”

“Y’know,” you sighed, “Remembering when you used to be alive. You think about what could’ve been and how life could’ve been different if you had done things differently.”

You traced your hand over the keys but when you tried to push down your hand just sunk straight through. You grimaced but suddenly jumped when you felt Thomas sit down next to you. You weren’t used to having such close contract with any of the other ghosts, even ones as affectionate as Thomas. You shifted slightly as you continued,

“Before I died I wanted to be a pianist. I would practise every day. I thought I was quite good, if I say so myself. I miss it.”

“Yes,” said Thomas quietly as he looked at the piano, “I remember your playing. It was a joy to listen to. Your fingering has always been remarkable.”

If you were alive you would’ve been blushing. Sure language had evolved a lot since Thomas had died but surely he must know the double meaning of his words. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye before saying,

“My… fingering.”

“Is that not the correct term,” Thomas said innocently, “I do apologise! I was never truly understood the majesty of the piano while I was alive and now it is too late for me to learn.”

“No, it’s just,” you paused while trying to figure out the best way to phrase your explanation, “Never mind.”

You stood up, suddenly feeling very embarrassed, but Thomas quickly put a gently hand on your wrist. He pulled you down so you were sitting back down next to him. He gave you a soft smile which you couldn’t help but return.

“I apologise if I made you feel uncomfortable,” he said, “You know how much I appreciate your company.”

“I know.”

“And how much I like to hear you fingering.”

There it was again. A seemingly innocent comment but the way Thomas said it made you shudder although in a good way. Emotions swirled in the pit of your stomach, emotions that you thought you’d never feel after you had died.

“I do miss hearing the sweet music that you used to play,” said Thomas, “You held so much skill. It makes me wondering what other skills you could’ve honed if you had remained alive.”

Your eyes widened at his words as he moved closer. You felt him press up against your side and you realised how much you missed contact with other people, even if they were dead.

“I don’t know,” you said sheepishly, “I’m really not that talented. I don’t pick things up very easily.”

“Preposterous!” exclaimed Thomas, “You are a natural at the arts. I’m sure under expert tutelage you will flourish. I, for one, will be more than happy to guide you with your oral skills. I know that you would’ve made a marvellous poet.”

There is was again, a harmless comment for Thomas’s era but in yours could be read in a completely different way. You spluttered at his comment as Thomas leaned closer. Part of you wanted to move away, knew that you should, but instead you stayed. You locked eyes with him and you found yourself unable to look away. It was just an innocent comment, a difference in language, that’s all.

“If only we had met while we were alive,” Thomas said quietly, “We would’ve made such beautiful music together.”

You hadn’t realised that he had been leaning closer until his nose bumped against yours. In a flash you were on your feet and had jumped away. The two of you stared at each other for a moment before you stammered,

“I… I need to go. I have th… things to do!”

“Things?” Thomas gave you an amused smile as he stood up

“Yes,” you moved towards the door, “Lovely speaking with you, as usual, but I’ve got to go. Stuff to see, people to do. I mean,” you were so glad you couldn’t blush anymore, “People to see and stuff to do.”

Thomas couldn’t help but soften his gaze as you practically collapsed through the door. Your shyness to his affections was an attractive feature and he couldn’t help but be drawn to your quiet and peaceful nature. He never realised how much he enjoyed seeing your flustered face until now and he was determined to see it again.

#fanfiction #bbc ghosts #reader insert #request #thomas thorne #thomas thorne x reader