#eleven sentence challenge

[slytherinslut0]

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Three- Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Thèos fucktoy. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: 18+, PURE SMUT, Sub!Reader, Dom!Mattheo, Oral Sex (M Rec), Throat Fucking, Toxic Behaviour, Blackmail, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, Humiliation, Manipulation, Gagging, Spitting, DubCon, CNC.

**here’s: one, two, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen & twenty.

As you approached the door of the familiar private classroom, a subtle sense of unease gnawed at the edges of your confidence.

Admittedly you got lost in the depths of your homework after dinner, becoming absorbed in the swirls of ink on your parchment, diligently crafting your Astronomy essay due in a mere three weeks from now. The minutes seemingly slipped away, and you realized you were running late for today's tutoring session, the devastating consequence of your intense focus on your academic obligations.

However, considering Mattheo's habitual tardiness--one of which he has mastered as well as any given art form--you assumed your delay wouldn't be at all consequential, and would most likely even go unnoticed. So without really thinking twice about it, you gently pushed open the door, expecting the room to be empty, the usual silence welcoming you as you stepped inside.

But then, to your astonishment, the room was not vacant. There he was, Mattheo Riddle, perched on the chair with an air of casual authority. His long legs were stretched out before him, feet confidently resting on the desk's edge, displaying a newfound confidence that sent a shiver down your spine. His arms were folded, his posture exuding an almost predatory assurance. His eyes, dark as the night and twice as intense, followed your every move as you stepped inside. The atmosphere crackled with tension, the weight of his gaze pressing upon you.

You closed the door with a deliberate slowness, the soft click echoing through the room like a gunshot in the silence, and his eyes locked onto yours, silently challenging you.

"Well, well, look who finally decided to show up." He taunted, his voice laced with a poisonous charm. The room seemed to shrink in the wake of his suffocating arrogance. "Guess Ravenclaws little good girl isn't so perfect after all...who would have guessed."

You rolled your eyes, a flush of embarrassment staining your cheeks as you awkwardly dropped your gaze to the floor. The weight of being late for the first time in your life was almost palpable, but you made an effort to play it off, attempting to regain your composure despite the lingering discomfort.

"Save the mind games for someone who's willing to play, Riddle," you said, slowly making your way toward him. "You have no right to talk, you're late every single week."

"Yeah but I'm not the one who turns into a sobbing mess over a less-than-perfect grade," Mattheo sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. "I don't have mental breakdowns just because I'm not the class's golden child in everything, and I'm definitely not the one who's about to graduate in merely a few months while still a fucking virgin-"

Your jaw dropped in astonishment at his audacity, a surge of indignation propelling you to slam your bag down on the desk in front of him. The force of your action knocked his feet off the desk, abruptly interrupting whatever sentence he had intended to finish, leaving him silenced in disbelief.

"At least I'm going to fucking graduate without needing someone to hold my hand like a child." You hissed, the words slipping past your teeth before you even had a chance to process them. "For someone who needs me so much, you sure don't act like you appreciate my help."

Mattheo's eyes darkened, a storm of arrogance and anger swirling in their depths, transforming his usual stoic demeanor into a deep scowl etched across his face. He rose from his seat, his tall frame looming over you, casting a shadow that seemed to stretch across the room.

"You think I need you, Raven?" He purred, wetting his lips. "You really think that?"

You steeled your jaw, strengthening your stance, ignoring the fact that your fingers were trembling like leaves in the autumn wind.

"Where would you be without me, Riddle?" You whispered, kinking your neck back to catch his dark, hungry eyes. "How many tutors did you have before me? How many other students tried to help you but couldn't stand your arrogant, no-fucks-given attitude, hm?"

Your words draped the air with a palpable gravity, silencing Mattheo completely--an unprecedented reaction, given his usual quick retorts. The revelation ignited a fierce ember within you, fueling your resolve and lending a sharp edge to your words, as if each syllable carried the weight of your determination.

"That's what I thought..." your voice was low, reverberating as a mere whisper in the air, something flickering behind Mattheo's eyes that made your lips curl into a devilish smirk. "You know that without me, you'd be here forever...maybe you've managed to manipulate me into being your little toy, but that doesn't change the truth about this whole thing...you need me, Riddle, you fucking need me..."

Mattheo blinked, the ensuing silence lingering for what felt like a painful fucking eternity--time seemed to come to a standstill, everything around you fading into insignificance, leaving just you and the cunning, arrogant boy with tousled hair in your presence.

When he finally spoke, You couldn't shake the sinking feeling in your stomach, understanding all too well that his words were laced with an arrogant twist, a prelude to something manipulative and cunning yet to unfold.

"You're right," he finally said, stepping closer. "I do need you,"

His voice dipped into a low, sinister register, and the corners of his lips curled into a sadistic smile, sending a chill down your spine.

"I need you to watch your fucking mouth," the touch of his fingers on your arm nearly made you jump, his hand grazing up and over your shoulder. "I need you on your knees begging for my forgiveness," the pads of his fingers grazed your collarbone, and before you could even comprehend it, his large hand clasped around your throat, the other finding the small of your back as he pushed you up against the desk. "And then, I need you swallowing my fucking cum like the good little whore I know you are."

Without wasting a single second of time his plush lips attacked yours, his tongue delving past your teeth with a passionate urgency. You were painfully aware of Mattheo's manipulative tactics, understanding that he was using your vulnerability to his advantage, and the rational part of your mind screamed warnings at you, reminding you of the toxicity in his actions.

Yet, beneath the surface; as his hands roamed your curves, his tongue explored your mouth; an unsettling, exhilarating feeling lingered, a strange sort of affection for the very dominance that should have repelled you.

The awareness of his exploitation only intensified the rush, a twisted form of affection blossoming amidst the wrongness of it all. It was as if the knowledge of being used had become entangled with your desires, forming a paradoxical bond that you couldn't sever. In the midst of the moral turmoil, a dark, irresistible thrill coursed through your veins, leaving you helplessly drawn to the very thing you should have despised.

"You've been a very naughty girl, Raven..." his lips fell to your jawline, hands groping your curves, bunching the fabric of your uniform within his battered fists. "You've been swearing far too much...you were late...and now you want to act like you have power over me?" When he sunk his teeth into your earlobe, you yelped, flinching as he tightened his grip on your hips. "Don't get it twisted, princess...I hold the fucking power here...look at what I do to you..."

Your entire body was tingling, your fingers latching onto the fabric of his white button up dress shirt for dear fucking life.

"Mattheo-"

His lips fell lower, rough hands gripping your hips and shoving your ass back onto the desk behind you, parting your legs on either side of his strong body as he pulled you against him.

"This is what I do to good girls like you...I turn them into naughty little whores..." he purred, licking a flat line up the side of your throat, your lids involuntary fluttering shut at the breathtaking sensation. "...naughty little whores who take my cock and swallow my fucking cum."

His hands slid up your sides, taking the fabric of your skirt along with them, and you gasped as you felt it hike dangerously high up your thighs, trembling fingers tugging it back down to keep yourself covered.

Mattheo huffed, releasing the fabric. "You're not used to being bad though, are you, princess?"

His teeth sank into your collarbone, creating a tantalizing blend of pleasure and pain that sent shivers down your spine. Strands of his tousled hair caressed your cheek, the faintest whisper of a touch sending tingles across your skin. Your lips parted involuntarily, releasing a soft whimper, while Mattheo's response echoed in a deep, guttural groan that reverberated through the air, intensifying the charged atmosphere between you.

One hand gripped your jaw as he pulled back, meeting your eyes. "Answer me when I ask you a question."

Your breath hitched, flames roaring in your veins. "No, Mattheo...I'm not..."

"Mm," he purred, wetting his lips as he stared. "Do you know what happens to bad girls, Raven?"

Your stomach twisted as he tugged you closer by the hold on your jaw, his eyes darkening with desire as they darted across your face, seemingly examining your features as though they were precarious and new.

Your voice trembled. "No..."

"They get fucking punished."

Before you could respond, Mattheo shifted his hand, shoving two rough fingers between your teeth, reaching for the back of your throat and forcing a gag. Your eyes watered, beads of salty fluid threatening to spill down your cheeks, but he was unyielding, gripping the back of your neck with his other hand to force himself further down your throat--holding you in place while he did.

Your entire body was in flames, your thighs begging, fucking screaming in a need so disgustingly dirty you'd never experienced anything remotely close to it before.

Mattheo groaned, low in his chest, his dark eyes watching every single ministration of your face as you gagged on his fingers. The hand behind your head relented as he brought it to his crotch, palming the insistent bulge in his trousers as he watched you; seemingly not having blinked once.

"Unbutton your shirt," his voice was a hoarse whisper, laced with primal desire. He pushed his fingers deeper, clearing his throat. "Seal those filthy lips around my fingers, and unbutton your fucking shirt, princess..."

You cursed the fact that his body was separating your legs because all you wanted, more than anything on the face of the planet, was to squeeze your fucking thighs together--to give your cunt any sort of friction possible. Every word from his lips was doing inexplicable things to your body, and the need between your thighs was growing so insistent it was almost painful.

Following his commands, you sealed your lips around his fingers, swirling your tongue and bobbing your head painfully slowly as you teased him, trembling fingers moving to the buttons on your blouse and undoing them one by one until your chest was entirely exposed to him--your lungs stalled, pussy clenching as you watched his eyes darken with desire while they scanned your chest covered only by your navy laced bra, the hand on his crotch moving more insistently now.

"My fucking God, Raven," he breathed, jaw tensing so tight it looked painful. "I can't believe you've been keeping all of that hidden this whole time..."

You mewled involuntarily as he grazed your chest with his free hand, pushing his fingers deeper down your throat with enough intensity to make you cough as his demeanour switched and he palmed your breast with enough force to illicit an exasperated groan. He was possessed now, something swarming his pupils that made your entire body convulse with unfamiliar and unabashed need; you were almost certain there'd be a pool of your desire on the desk between your thighs at this point.

Without warning, he abruptly removed his hands from you. Your lips, parted in anticipation of a breath, yearned for air before his mouth enveloped yours once more. In a frenzy, his hands hurriedly reached for his belt, driven by an almost desperate urgency as you both inhaled sharply through your nostrils. Your lips meshed together in a way that seemed to consume each other, as if you could breathe in one another during the kiss.

Once he'd successfully freed himself, he pulled back, shoving his fingers back into your mouth and yanking you off the desk, his throbbing length pressing against your belly as he shoved himself against you; fingers forcing another gag from your chest, watching you with a primal fervour in his eyes so intense it was intoxicating.

Pulling his fingers from your mouth again, he cupped his hand out in front of you. "Spit."

Your brows furrowed in confusion, your brain buffering in attempt to process his words until his free hand shot into your hair, tilting your head until your lips were parallel to his palm.

"Spit, Raven," he repeated. "Spit into my fucking hand."

Your stomach contorted with a mix of disbelief and unfamiliar desire, your entire being thrown off balance. Each word that fell from his lips felt like a jolt, causing your heart to stutter in your chest. His eyes bored into you, searing your skin into flames, and without another moment's hesitation, you gathered the saliva he had coerced from you and spat it into his hand.

"Mm, that's it...good little whore..." He purred, bringing it down to his cock, rubbing it into his shaft as he stroked himself, eyes never once leaving yours. "Now, get on your knees for me, pretty girl."

Your breath caught in your throat. He, of all people, had just called you "pretty," and you were certain your ears were playing some sort of trick on you. It was a compliment you never expected from him, someone you had never imagined would see you in such a way. Pulling your lip between your teeth, you did as he said, squeezing your thighs together as you situated yourself in front of his feet.

Mattheo's hand remained in your hair, firmly gripping a fistful as he stroked himself. "Hands behind your back, Raven..." he muttered. "Let me see those delicious fucking tits of yours."

Your entire body shuddered, immediately clasping your hands together behind you without a second thought.

"That's it...fuck-" he was stroking himself faster, the veins in his hands tensing with every movement. You weren't sure who was enjoying this more, him or you. "You want this, princess? You want this cock in your dirty little mouth?"

Your throat was drier than the desert, each swallow a struggle against the arid emptiness within. Fingernails dug into your own flesh with a fierce intensity, the pressure threatening to break through the skin, mirroring the internal turmoil that gripped you. Holy fucking shit.

"Yes..." your voice was a pathetic whisper.

"Don't be so modest, Raven," he sneered, slowing his pace, twisting his wrist as he stroked his shaft, eyes never once leaving yours. "Beg for it."

Your stomach was in your throat. You'd never done anything like that before, you weren’t even really sure how. "I...um-please, Mattheo..."

His eyes fluttered shut for the briefest moment, a flicker of amusement dancing across his features before he locked eyes with you once more, his arrogance wrapping around the room like a suffocating cloak.

"Bloody hell, I said beg for it...does the prissy little princess not know how to fucking beg?" his voice was a hoarse growl, his vocal cords strained with lust. "Tell me how bad you want my cock, Raven, tell me how much you need it."

You couldn't believe your ears; the turn of events in your life felt utterly surreal. Never in your entire existence could you have imagined that this is where you'd find yourself right now--merely a few months away from graduation, on your knees for the most suffocatingly arrogant delinquent in the school who was making you beg to suck his fucking dick. A man who only last year wouldn't have paid you an ounce of mind, who probably didn’t even know you existed.

Your cheeks burned, but you fought through it, the arousal in your lungs fuelling your words. "Please, Mattheo...I want your cock so bad, I want you in my mouth, I want to choke on it, I want you to fuck my throat until you cum-"

His grip on your hair tightened, simultaneous with the grip on his cock as he cranked your head back, leaning down to meet your eyes; his lips hovering mere inches above yours.

"My God, you're a dirty fucking slut, aren't you?" He purred, smirking so wide it reached his eyes, his fingers bruising your scalp. "A dirty fucking slut whose sole purpose is to let me use her mouth whenever I want, yeah?"

You swallowed, wincing as he jerked your head back further, fucking into his fist faster, harder. "Yes, Mattheo..."

He sneered, clearly loving every fucking minute of this. "Imagine if anyone saw you like this...fuck-you're fucking filthy..." his voice was breathless, if you didn't know any better you'd think he was about to make himself cum before you had the chance to suck him off. "Apologize for being such a nasty little slut and I'll let you swallow my cum."

Your thighs clenched in need, your wetness seeping through your panties at this point. Gods, you wanted him so fucking bad you thought you were going to die.

"I'm sorry," you pleaded, eyes wide as you peered up at him, nearly-speechless. "I'm sorry for being a nasty little slut."

"That's right..." he purred, directing the head of his cock toward your mouth, groaning as your pressed your lips to it. "Good girl...fuck-so good for me..."

Your entire body was in flame, hands still clasped together behind your back as both of his thrust tightly through your hair, absentmindedly sealing your lips around his shaft, revelling in his skin's heat, dragging your tongue along the throbbing, pulsing underside. Riddle growled, bucking his hips, and you took him further into your mouth, gagging as his tip slammed the back of your throat.

"You take me so well, Raven..." he breathed, head falling back on his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut as his hands urged your head along his length. "Can't believe a mouth that annoying can feel this fucking good."

You groaned in assent, sucking hard at his cock as he slowly started to fuck your throat. You were both struggling to breathe, both losing control, both lost in an ocean of primal, urgent carnality. Pleasure was straining your seams, ready to explode inside of you, drool dribbling in globs from your chin, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you tried to hold the boundaries of your sanity together.

"Mm, fuck..." Riddle's grip was crushing your skull. "I changed my mind…I'm gonna' cum on those perfect tits, princess..."

Your bones almost liquefied at this--but you steadied your knees, gagging as he started fucking into your throat faster, thrusting deep, your eyes disappearing into the back of your head as you allowed him to use your mouth as a helpless hole for him to fuck--singlehandedly loving every fucking second of it.

"Shit-" he groaned, eyes squeezed shut. "Fuck."

Your thighs clenched, brain fogged by a hurricane of lust, but when he pulled out, abruptly, your cognition returned--your vision clearing to an image of Riddle, red-faced, fucking his fist. Snarling, he jerked your hair, and choked on his moan, the sound stuttering while he shot the hot loads of his cum onto your chest and neck. He sucked down air in long, heavy breaths, waiting until the end of his release had dissipated, and then dropped you, stepping back to marvel at his masterpiece. You swore steam was wafting off your skin.

"Beautiful," he murmured. He pieced himself back together, buckling his belt. "Tell me how I taste."

Every inch of you tingled, chest heaving, jaw slack in an open pant. Keeping his stare, you brought a trembling hand to your chest, swiping his sticky cum off your tits and trailing it past your lips, slowly sucking it off your first two fingers. The taste melding with the mere prospect of what was happening elicited a low moan from your chest, and you shuddered, trapped in his gaze until you were finished.

"Salty." You teased, smirking up at him.

"Salty, huh?” He huffed, a devious grin on his face as he helped you up to your feet, rough palm grasping your forearm. "Important mineral for a balanced meal, yeah?"

You chuckled, heat swarming your skin as you stammered up to your feet, meeting his darkened eyes as you began buttoning up your shirt, taking in his newly flushed features--curly brown hair slightly sticking to his forehead before he ran a battered hand through it, brushing it back.

“Smartass,” you grumbled, turning toward the desk. “Next week we have an exam, so there won’t be a tutor session, you know that right?”

He released a breath, throwing himself into the usual creaky wooden chair beside yours. “Guess that just means you’ll have to do that again before the nights’ over,” he said. “You know, to compensate for next week.”

You rolled your eyes, failing to hide your smirk. “In your dreams, Riddle.”

“Oh, definitely not, princess.” He breathed, glimpsing you briefly. “In my dreams you do a hell of a lot more than that.”

——————

Chapter four->

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[hayatheauthor]

Crafting Authentic Child Characters: From Toddlers to Tweens

When it comes to writing captivating stories, it's not just about the plot or setting—it's about the characters that bring your narrative to life. Among those characters, child characters hold a special place. 

Child characters, when done right, can hold a special place in your readers’ hearts. Think of YA series like Harry Potter or Percy Jackson- these books featured eleven and twelve year olds but their captivating tales and realistic characteristics drew us in. However, when done wrong, child characters can often ruin immersion and make readers feel annoyed due to their unrealistic representation. 

In this guide, I’ve decided to explore the different pubescent age groups you often see in literature alongside tips to help you craft authentic child characters. 

Understanding Toddler Characters

The toddler years—a phase characterized by tiny tots exploring the world with wide-eyed wonder. Writing toddler characters can be a delightful yet challenging task. These pint-sized adventurers, typically aged 1 to 3 years, are bundles of curiosity and emotion.

Characterizing Toddlers

Toddlers are known for their limited communication skills. Their vocabulary might consist of a few words or adorable gibberish. They often express themselves through gestures, facial expressions, and body language. Embracing their simplicity is key when bringing them to life on the page. Toddlers view the world with fresh eyes and uncomplicated hearts, finding joy in the little things like chasing butterflies or playing with bubbles.

Portraying Toddler Dialogue

When writing dialogue for toddler characters, simplicity is the name of the game. Toddler speech is basic and straightforward, often composed of short sentences or one-word responses. Capturing their enthusiasm is essential. Toddlers can be highly expressive, so use exclamation marks and enthusiastic language to convey their excitement. It's all about experiencing life's wonders, one small step at a time.

Writing toddler characters offers an opportunity to explore the world through innocent eyes and infuse your story with their unique brand of wonder and emotion.

Toddlers In Flashbacks 

I would like to quickly mention that people don’t retain most of their memories from their toddler years, so if you’re trying to create a plot point surrounding a situation your character witnessed as a toddler it is important to consider whether a child that age would realistically even remember such an event. 

Capturing the Essence of Children (4-7 years)

Children aged 4-7 are often brimming with creativity, curiosity, and a penchant for storytelling. Think back to times when you used to mix up shampoos in the bathroom to make ‘potions’ or create weirdly intricate plots for your ‘house’ games. 

Characterizing Young Children

At this stage, children are developing rapidly, both physically and cognitively. They have an eagerness to understand the world around them, which often leads to a vivid imagination. Their capacity to believe in the extraordinary—whether it's magical creatures, talking animals, or hidden treasures—creates a wonderful opportunity for storytelling.

Young children are naturally curious and possess a boundless well of energy. Their interests can be diverse, ranging from dinosaurs and superheroes to fairies and space exploration. To capture their essence:

Highlighting Imaginative Play: Young children often engage in elaborate make-believe games. These imaginative adventures can be a goldmine for character development.

Embracing Curiosity: Encourage their inquisitiveness about the world. Show characters asking questions, seeking answers, and discovering new things.

Crafting Dialogues and Actions

When crafting dialogues and actions for children aged 4 to 7, it's important to consider their evolving language skills. Unlike toddlers, who may struggle with pronunciation, characters in this age group can typically speak properly. This means they won't say "sowwy" for "sorry" or "wuv" for "love."

Embracing Storytelling: Children this age love to narrate their adventures and dreams. Use storytelling within your story to reflect their imaginative nature.

Curious Questioning: Show characters exploring, asking "why," and expressing wide-eyed wonder. Utilize their questions and observations to drive the plot or reveal new information.

Navigating the World of Pre-Teens (8-12 years)

Many captivating young adult series begin with characters in their pre-teen years, allowing readers to witness their growth and development throughout the books. This is because writing characters in this age group, typically aged 8 to 12, offers a unique exploration of budding independence and the influence of peer relationships.

Your characters are no longer seen as little kids but at the same time don’t have the freedom associated with adolescence. 

Characterizing Pre-Teens

Pre-teen characters are in the process of discovering their identity. They're developing a sense of self and often begin to assert their independence from parents or caregivers. While their childlike innocence remains, they're also exposed to a wider range of experiences and emotions.

These characters may show an increased interest in friendships, hobbies, and their expanding world. To capture the essence of pre-teens:

Embrace Growing Independence: Pre-teens may want more autonomy in decision-making. Explore their budding independence as they take small steps toward self-reliance.

Peer Relationships: Friendships become more critical during this stage. Show characters navigating the challenges and joys of making and maintaining friendships.

Crafting Dialogues and Actions

When crafting dialogues and actions for pre-teen characters, consider their evolving perspectives and emerging voices:

Balancing Childlike Wonder: While they're growing up, pre-teens still retain their childlike curiosity and wonder. Don't shy away from showcasing these traits.

Beginning Adolescence: Pre-teens may start experiencing pre-adolescent changes. This could include minor mood swings, increased self-awareness, and curiosity about the world's complexities.

Tweens: Balancing Innocence and Growing Up (13-14 years)

As we move forward into the world of tweens, we encounter characters aged 13 to 14—the age where innocence meets the beginnings of adolescence. Crafting characters in this age group offers an exciting opportunity to explore the challenges and interests of this transitional stage.

Characterizing Tweens

Tweens are on the cusp of adolescence, and their experiences reflect this delicate balance between childhood and growing up. They're often navigating the complexities of middle school, peer dynamics, and a burgeoning sense of self.

Tweens may still possess a childlike wonder, but they're increasingly exposed to more mature themes. To capture the essence of tweens:

Emerging Independence: Tweens may desire more autonomy and may challenge authority figures as they assert their individuality.

Peer Influence: Friendships take on even greater significance. Characters in this age group may grapple with peer pressure and the need to fit in.

Crafting Dialogues and Actions

When crafting dialogues and actions for tween characters, consider the delicate balance they strike:

Retaining Childlike Charm: Tweens often have endearing quirks and moments of innocence. Don't lose sight of these traits.

Exploring Pre-Adolescence: As they begin to encounter the complexities of growing up, characters in this age group may exhibit curiosity about more mature topics while still experiencing occasional moments of youthful naivety.

Writing tween characters allows for a captivating exploration of the liminal space between childhood and adolescence, where they teeter on the brink of exciting self-discovery.

Creating Memorable Child Characters

Now that we've explored the unique characteristics and development stages of child characters, it's time to discuss how to craft memorable and well-rounded child characters, regardless of their age.

Developing Distinct Personalities

Each child character you create should have a distinct personality, just like any adult character. Think about their likes, dislikes, fears, and dreams. Are they adventurous, introverted, mischievous, or kind-hearted? Consider how their personalities align with their age group.

Character Growth and Development

While child characters start with a certain set of traits, they should also experience growth and change throughout your story. Whether it's learning important life lessons or maturing in their outlook, character arcs are just as relevant for children as they are for adults.

Examples from Literature

To better understand how to create memorable child characters, let's turn to some examples from literature. Take, for instance, Scout Finch from "To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee. She's curious, brave, and compassionate, making her a beloved child character who evolves throughout the novel.

Or consider the character of Matilda from Roald Dahl's "Matilda." She's an exceptionally bright and resilient child character who learns to harness her unique abilities.

These examples show how well-crafted child characters can leave a lasting impact on readers.

Crafting Authentic Child Dialogue: Dos and Don'ts

Writing dialogue for child characters can be both challenging and rewarding. It's important to strike the right balance between authenticity and readability. Here are some dos and don'ts to keep in mind:

Dos:

Capture Their Perspective: Remember that children see the world differently. Describe events and surroundings through their eyes. Use simple language when necessary to reflect their understanding.

Embrace Authenticity: Children may use slang, colloquialisms, or unique phrases. Incorporate these sparingly to add authenticity to their speech.

Show Growth: As your child characters mature throughout the story, their speech should evolve too. Gradually introduce more complex vocabulary and sentence structures.

Reflect Emotions: Children express emotions openly. Use dialogue to convey their feelings, whether it's unbridled enthusiasm, innocent curiosity, or the occasional temper tantrum.

Don'ts:

Avoid Stereotypes: While children may display certain traits based on their age, avoid falling into clichéd stereotypes. Each child is unique, so give your characters depth beyond typical traits.

Steer Clear of Exaggeration: While child characters can be quirky and funny, be cautious not to make their dialogue overly cute or exaggerated, which can become grating to readers.

Limit 'Baby Talk': Especially for older child characters, avoid excessive use of baby talk or mispronunciations unless it's essential to the story.

Don't Oversimplify: While simplicity is key, don't underestimate your young readers. Children can understand complex emotions and ideas if presented in a relatable way.

By keeping these dos and don'ts in mind, you can create dialogue that feels authentic, engages young readers, and adds depth to your child characters.

Crafting authentic child characters can be a fulfilling journey for writers. Whether you're depicting the innocence of a toddler, the imaginative spirit of a young child, the evolving personality of a tween, or the budding independence of a pre-teen, these characters can add depth and heart to your stories.

Remember, each child character is a unique individual with their own quirks, dreams, and potential for growth.

I hope this blog on Crafting Authentic Child Characters: From Toddlers to Tweens will help you in your writing journey. Be sure to comment any tips of your own to help your fellow authors prosper, and follow my blog for new blog updates every Monday and Thursday.  

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Are you an author looking for writing tips and tricks to better your manuscript? Or do you want to learn about how to get a literary agent, get published and properly market your book? Consider checking out the rest of Haya’s book blog where I post writing and publishing tips for authors every Monday and Thursday! And don’t forget to head over to my TikTok and Instagram profiles @hayatheauthor to learn more about my WIP and writing journey! 

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[cindylcuwho]

¡ purely nonsense , prologue ♥︎ !

“ ⭒.‧ i don’t even know , im talking nonsense ‧. ⭒ “

01 — 02 — more to come 🥥

* ⋆ . · ⋆ y/n laid on her stomach, her left thumb mindlessly scrolled through tiktoks, occasionally doubling tapping to heart entertaining videos.

after seeing the fifth edit of herself, which used similar clips to the ones before, she closed tiktok and opened twitter in hopes of better entertainment.

always wanting to be in touch with her fans, she regularly viewed her mentions and right now was no different. many fans were tagging her in late album reviews, random photos and mindless tweets, the occasional hate tag, and some begging for a collab with varies of different artists.

one mentions caught her eye. well, multiple, actually. the first three began the in similar ways, “ @ y/nsmusical omg ?!! “ . she refreshed the page, thinking that twitter was just glitching and showing the same tweet over and over. though the mention didn’t go away, in fact more popped up.

she clicked on the top one and it led her to a 45 second clip of three random strangers that shared the same face.

. ⭒ ☆ ━ ☆ ⭒ .

“growing up, i had the fattest crush on marge from the simpsons” the guy wearing a sky blue hoodie with ‘fresh love’ printed on the front joked.

the camera switched, showing off the blonde version of the guy before, except he was wearing a plain white shirt. “can we be honest? homer would be a huge sma—“

the other two began bursting out laughing, not letting him finish the sentence. the blonde giggled along with them, “what, i thought dad bods were in right now?”

“nick, no!” one of them cried out, still laughing. “as if any of your celebrity crushes are any better?!” ‘nick’ defended.

the one wearing a backwards pink trucker hat moved his mic closer, staring nick dead in the eyes. “are you calling mine –who is a grammy nominee and an it girl since childhood– as bad as a yellow cartoon?!“

“yours hasn’t changed since you were eleven, chris! its time to move on, buddy!” blue hoodie guy snorted out. he looked at the camera with a shrug, “he’s been obsessed with y/n carpenter since.. i wanna say a little before girl meets world and that ended, what? 2017?”

chris jumped up and down his seat, “why’re we name dropping?? matt, stopp!” he exclaimed. “damn, not even gonna deny the allegations, christopher?”

chris looked down at the table, a rosy blush creeped on his cheeks as he thought of the words.

“there’s nothing to deny.. y/ns influence is probably the reason i’m the man that i am, and you know what? she’s still doing great things and thriving.”

nick gasped, “oh!,” he tapped on the table, reminded of something, “she’s supposed to be releasing an album hella soon– are you gonna be streaming?”

chris smirked, “of course, anything to support my girl.” nick and matt let out an ‘ooo’ at their younger brothers sudden boldness.

“your girl?” matt scoffed, challenging his brothers attitude. chris nodded, arms crossed. “y/n doesn’t know you exist, kid.” he reminded.

“she will, and then we’ll get married and i’ll star in the reboot season of girl meets world. that’s been the dream.” chris listed off his plans. “marriage before the first date is crazy,” nick stated.

the three began changing the subject, which was when the clip ended.

. ⭒ ☆ ━ ☆ ⭒ .

y/n exited the video tab, a small smile rested on her face. she knew there was definitely fans that stuck around from her younger acting years, fans that were other influencers, and definitely fans that believed they could steal her heart, but the cockiness from this ‘chris’ guy was undeniably kind of attractive.

‘who is he?’ she wondered. though intrigued, y/n was too lazy to go on another deep google search about someone so she stuck to what would have the best and quickest response.

tweeting out to her fans.

her thumbs tapped for a minute, before hitting ‘tweet’, knowing there was no turning back.

. ⭒ ☆ ━ ☆ ⭒ .

within seconds people were already responding with numerous answers.

↳ @ y/nsemails : OH MY GOD WHAT

↳ @ nessabarrett : your future husband apparently ⁉️ ↻ @ynsmusical : damnit thought i had a chance to relate to ylm

↳ @ sturnstar : which one of yall snitched 😭

↳ @ beybayboo : search sturniolo triplets on youtube !! ↻ @ynsmusical : finally a real answer 😻😻

↳ randomuzer : oooo chris is in trouble 😮‍💨

↳ user123 : pls don’t lower your standards to some youtuber 🤢🤢 ↻ @ chrissbaby : calm down she was just asking who he was ..

↳ @ lilnasx : industry baby reference 😌 ↻ @ y/nsmusical : ofccc ur always on repeat ❣️

↳ @ grlm33tswrld : WAIT OMG WE NEED A SHIP NAME ↻ @ lo0kingaty/n : no we do not !!

↳ @ billieeilish : did we just find whose house your sock is at ?? ↻ @ y/nmusical : shh you’re leaking my music thats illegal 😞😞

. ⭒ ☆ ━ ☆ ⭒ .

sturniolo triplets. well yeah it made sense they were, they had the same face how did that not click?

youtube was immediately opened, the display showing off their channel that already had a pretty decent amount of subscribers.

somehow, innocently wanting to know who this random guy is turned into binge watching his and his triplet brothers youtube videos.

y/n wouldn’t deny, they were definitely funny– and quite loud. chris’s energy in the 20 minute long videos matched hers, partially confirming that her influence truly did influence the man he is today.

she was laughing at whatever nonsense chris was saying, nick and matt obviously did not care with the expressions on their face. the moment got cut short when her phone began to ring, her good friend billie calling.

“hey!” she spoke. “hey, would you mind coming to the studio real quick? it’s for the album.”

y/n sat up on the edge of her bed, praying nothing was wrong with it. it was supposed to come out within the following month. what if all the files were deleted? or even worse, what if songs were leaked.

“i thought today was my day off?” she rested her phone on her white nightstand, putting it speaker on so she can slip on a random pair of socks.

“it is- but don’t worry, we just need to record some extra vocals, nothing too big and we’ll be out of there within 20.” billie reassured.

she nodded, already walking out to her car. billie had already hung up, letting y/n hook the bluetooth from her phone up to her car to play music.

her right hand rested on the stick shift, her left currently swiping through apps. she was about to swipe up on instagram, but something told her not to.

she had to be in the studio within ten minutes, this would only take a couple of seconds, right? typing in the search bar, his account was the first to pop up.

y/n debated with herself in her head. there’s no real point in doing this, this puts him in a 50/50 spotlight and could cause rumors on top of rumors.

rolling her eyes and ignoring the doubtful thoughts, she pressed the button and exited the app, going back to spotify to play her favorite playlist as she drove.

‘ y/nsmusical began following christophersturniolo ‘

— ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ dedicated to , and idea created by @freshloveee :)

— ꒰ 💭 ꒱ was so excited to write this- sorry that the ending kind of drags on, i didn’t know how to end it lmaoo! how we feelin’ though ? (comment if you wanna be added to a taglist- i might do one for this)

#matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets #nick sturniolo #matt sturniolo fanfiction #matt sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo snaps #matthew sturniolo #matt x reader #matt sturniolo series #christopher owen sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo x reader #chris x reader #sabrina carpenter #nonsense #emails i can't send #sturniolo #sturniolo triplets x reader #christopher sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo smut

[abeautylives]

Times I Remember Well

(and Some That I Don’t)

Part 1

author’s note: I’m really excited to have something to share with you guys. It’s written from a diff POV than I usually do, but my main character girly pop has a lot of personality 😘 Big big big thank you to bff @samkiszkasfacialhair for all the help, the ideas, and the motivation 🤍

pairing: female!OCxkiszkas (just read it, you’ll figure it out)

time frame: 2010-2014

word count: 5.7k this part

warnings: language, illicit substance use, rampant teenage emotions and delulu, kissing, josh 🥺

I don’t actually remember the day I met Sam Kiszka.

Not the date, or even the day of the week. I do know what year it was, because it was the year my mom moved us to this quaint (read: weird) little town. Charming, but weird. And boring.

Boring, until I met Sam.

Eleven-year-old Sam was a menace, but twelve-year-old me was bored. So obviously, we became the best of friends. He taught me how to light a firecracker, I had an endless supply of Barbies to blow up. He showed me how to slip out of my bedroom window without making a sound, I told him how to impress girls without grossing them out. In our early teenage years, he introduced me to drugs and I taught him how to unclasp a bra. Chill out, it was weed, and I wasn’t even wearing the bra.

My mom just loved that I’d made such a great friend.

The first time I was allowed to play at his house I met his sister, who was closer to my age, but it was too late. Sam and I were already attached at the hip, though mine sat an inch or two higher than his for a couple of years, until a growth spurt and puberty eventually left him with the height advantage.

That was when he stopped calling me by my name, and started calling me Tiny. Like I said, a menace.

“You’re the coolest girl I know, even if you’re vertically challenged.”

Please note: the first time he said this to me, he had finally just surpassed me in height by half an inch.

Then of course, there were the twins. You’d think the eldest siblings would not have become a big part of my life, but they were just always around, and actually liked hanging out with their baby brother. Close knit family and all that. It’s weird, right? At the wise and worldly age of twelve, the two fourteen-year-olds terrified me. Josh and Jake were both scary in their own way to a pubescent girl on the cusp of teenager-dom. Jake was pretty quiet, but his ego was not. He was hot, okay? In like, a Justin Bieber-y way but also kind of a jock-y way, but a jock with a guitar. Whatever, I’m only human.

Josh was… well, Josh was Josh. Unlike anyone else I’d ever met, and not necessarily in a good way. He was loud, like, all the time. He never seemed to stop talking and ended most of his sentences at an eardrum-piercing decibel level. Fortunately, or not, he didn’t get hot until I was old enough to obsess over it.

I’m sure I didn’t speak a coherent word to either of them the entire first year of my friendship with Sam.

I have a million memories of the time I spent with Sam and his family, but I have no recollection of the day I fell in love with Josh Kiszka.

But once I did, it was a deep, obsessive kind of love that only a teenager can achieve. One day he was my best friend’s eccentric older brother and the next…

Well, the next he was a rockstar.

I mentioned the whole jock with a guitar thing that Jake had going on, and that really hadn’t changed, but somewhere along the way Josh had transformed from a loud, annoying theater kid to a genuine, full blown vocalist. I mean, for a while he was both.

When they first started playing together, I only gave a shit because they’d roped Sam into it too and it took up way too much of his time. I’d watch them play, and they weren’t… bad? They weren’t good either. My time could have been better spent watching R rated movies (scandalous) or, I don’t know, doing my homework. But nope! We were in a band now.

They practiced, a lot. It felt like all they did was practice, for at least a couple years. And I just watched dutifully, every weekend of every month of every year. They did get better.

But here’s the thing. I was there for all of it. I was there the day Jake ran into the living room and snatched Sam up by the back of his shirt. Come on Sammy boy, we need you on bass. I was there the day their buddy Kyle sat down at the drum kit and completed the ensemble. (I was also there the day he got replaced.) And of course, I was there the day Josh pushed his voice past the instruments and the amps, and went from a weak imitation of a rock singer to something else all together. Something totally and completely him.

That’s not the day I fell in love with him (I would’ve remembered), but it was the first time he had ever… impressed me. And not that I cared, but Jake was impressed too. I saw it on his face.

It was cute. In like, a sweet, brotherly way.

Okay, anyway! The combination of Jake’s skill and Josh’s raw talent got them noticed. (Sammy’s talent would develop over time, I didn’t forget about him. Sam, you’re the most talented one in the band.) And then they were playing actual gigs. I wasn’t allowed to go to most of those early ones, because for some reason these dive bars were permitting these pint sized, teenage Zeppelin wannabes to perform at them. Old people like our parents loved that shit. The locals went crazy for it.

They played Fischer Hall a couple times, right there in town, but around their third or fourth gig there, Josh had unbuttoned the flowy, floral, women’s blouse he was wearing and took to the stage with it hanging open, beaded necklaces draped down his bare chest and curly hair wild.

Why was he sort of… ripped? How had I never noticed? Were his pants always so tight? And low cut? I was sweating. I didn’t even know he was literally cosplaying Robert Plant.

Did I fall in love with him that night? Of course not, I already told you I don’t remember the day that happened.

The Saturday after my sixteenth birthday, I left my house around 8:30 to head to Sam’s. To my mom, this was an average Saturday night - I spent nearly all of them at Sam’s house, where his parents were always home. Ya know, or so mine thought. Whether the Kiszkas were actually home or not, we hung out in the garage.

That’s not as weird as it sounds, it was a really cool garage. With furniture and everything. And their instruments, a lot of them. I don’t know how every one of these guys knew how to play every instrument packed into that room, but they did. And by the time I was sixteen, they were really almost good at it.

(Jake was good. Very good… I told you he was hot.)

This particular Saturday though, this was going to be the Saturday that changed my life. And I wanted to dress the part.

In hindsight, I wore something I’d probably worn a hundred times. Then why had it taken me so long to get ready? I changed my jeans twice, my shirt at least ten times, added a sweater, threw it back on my bed, added a flannel, tossed that to the floor. Picked it back up and shoved my arms in, made sure it hung off my shoulder just so. Shoulders are sexy, right? Do guys like shoulders? Oh shit, what do guys even like?

Anyway, I left the house looking exactly as I always did.

I rode my bike slowly that night, already hyper aware of the sweat under my arms.

So I slowed my pedaling even further. When the house came into view, I hopped off the bike and walked it up the drive before tossing it to the grass outside the garage.

Okay, knock twice and just go in.

That’s what everyone always did, what I always did. Just knock twice then lift the door. Everyone was always welcome, come on in!

So go in, idiot.

Look, I did it eventually. Just like always, knock knock, lift the door enough to slip underneath, let it close behind me. Except when it rolled back to the ground, I lost my nerve and stood frozen there for a few seconds too long.

Sam called me out, because he’s a menace.

“The hell are you doing, Tiny? We started without you.”

I moved farther into the space, eyes bouncing between my options through the soft haze of pungent smoke that already hung over the room. There was my usual spot - on the floor, next to the spot where Sam sat cross-legged, his long frame folded and bent, his sharp elbows resting on his knees as he waited for the joint to make its way back to him.

Not tonight, I’m on a mission.

Jake sat to his left, in a well-worn, floral print wingback chair. It was comfortable enough for one person, decades of weight softening the strength of the cushion’s springs before it ever came to live in this particular garage. Jake’s body was slung over it, legs thrown haphazardly over an arm while his own were wrapped around an acoustic guitar. Typical. He tipped his chin at me from under the brim of a bucket hat, then nodded towards the floor beside him. Holy shit, does he want me to sit by him?! I think my fingers lifted in a barely-there wave but I’m not really sure they were functioning correctly.

Okay focus, he did not. Does not. Not in this lifetime.

Still without his next hit, Sam glanced up at me over his shoulder and patted the threadbare throw rug next to him. “Sit down weirdo, you’re making me paranoid.”

Nerves that I’d never, never, felt before in this room fluttered through my stomach, I let my gaze meet Sam’s before continuing the search for a place to plant myself.

There was really only one option left - the couch - and both ends were already occupied. Our friend Danny (Kyle’s replacement, sorry Kyle) was in the process of melting into the corner closest to Jake, his eyes glassy and already tinged pink when he looked up at me. Only his eyebrows lifted in greeting before he mirrored Sam’s offer to sit next to him, tapping the cushion beside him.

This is fine, totally normal! Danny was Sam’s other half. Well, his other male half. I guess we were in thirds. A trio.

I accepted the offering, stepping around the coffee table, scarred with years worth of “art” - drawings and carvings, a few discreet dirty words etched into the surface in between - to drop to the middle of the couch. One of Sam’s brows tipped up when I met his eyes again, his expression asking, “Dude, what gives?”

“Hey, you’re here!” He noticed me, finally. Silvery smoke crept from between his lips as he grinned, and I watched transfixed when they pursed together and he blew a cloud toward the ceiling. My stare was broken when he leaned across the table and passed the joint to an impatient Sam, but to the delight of the butterflies going nuts in the pit of my stomach, he leaned back into the cushions and threw an arm over the back of the couch behind me. EEEEP!

“Hey-“ It was a humiliating and unsexy croak, and I quickly cleared my throat and tried again. “Hey, Josh. Hi.”

His long hair was pulled back, his entire face available for my viewing pleasure. Things were going perfectly.

I joined the rotation, the weed easing the flutters caused by sitting so close to Josh, but amplifying the feeling that the other three were watching and wondering why I was acting so strange.

They were not. They were high.

Aside from the stray curious eyebrow from my BFF across the table, they actually acted like nothing was abnormal about my seating choice, even when I started to scooch imperceptibly to my left every time I adjusted the way I was sitting.

Pulled my legs up under me? Scooch.

Dropped them down so my sneakers met the cement? Scooch.

Crossed my left ankle over my right knee? Scooch.

It was totally subtle.

“I’m gonna grab a pop, you guys want anything?” Sam startled me out of a pleasant reverie as he jumped up from the floor, but my freaking knee was touching Josh’s knee! No I don’t want anything, I have everything I need right here!

It turned out Sam was a huge knee blocker. He gripped me by an elbow and peeled me from the couch as the others murmured at our retreating backs about needing Doritos. He pushed me out the side door and towards the house and had me in the kitchen before I could even tell him he was ruining everything!

Even through bleary, hooded eyes, his death glare was brutal.

“Saaammmmm, what are you doing?!” “What the hell do you think you’re doing, T?”

More glaring. He broke the glare-off first, jerking his head to the side to flick his hair out of his eyes and turning to open the refrigerator, but once his face was inside it, he called me out again.

“Why are you being so weird with Josh?”

I love him, I need him!

“Whaaa.. I don’t know what you mean. You’re just super high.” Yeah, I really thought that would work. Sue me!

Straightening to his full height (seriously, like two inches taller than me… maybe three), he spun to face me again. He actually looked down his nose at me.

“Do you like, like him? What the fuck, Tiny?” He whispered that last part, as if his parents were lurking around the corner waiting to bust him for cussing.

“Look, you wouldn’t understand Sam. I’m much older than y-“

“You’re not even an entire year older than me.”

“Eleven months is basically an entire ye-“

“That’s not the point!” That part was like whisper yelling. I swear it looked like he was yelling, but it sounded like he was whispering.

“Okay!” Yeah, I whisper yelled back. “Sammy, I like him… I’m sorry! I don’t even know when it happened but I woke up one day and I realized that he’s perfect! He’s funny and nice and he’s so… so… cute! Okay? He’s so cute I wanna die and I love him!”

Sam’s eyes were wide, as wide as they could be under the circumstances, and he stared at me like I’d grown another head. With a horn coming out of it.

“You love him. You realize how dumb you sound right now?”

Dumb? No no, this was serious. I pleaded with my best friend for forgiveness. And his help. “Sam… please. Don’t be mad at me, I- I don’t know, I can’t help it! That’s just how I feel, and I want him to like me back!” That’s when it hit me, I needed a wingman for this plan.

“Can you help me get him to like me back?” I gave him my best puppy dog eyes, bottom lip stuck out and everything. As if that had ever worked in the four years we’d known each other so far.

“Fuck no.” His eyes moved side to side, looking for sneaky parents again I guessed. “Definitely not. Why do you have to like my brother, dude? That’s sick, it’s like incest or something!” He stomped his feet a little, and I couldn't help but think it made him look like a child. He was a child! This was serious, grown-up shit and I didn’t have time to play games.

“Ugh, if you’re not gonna help me then at least get out of my way.” I pushed past him and headed back out of the house and into the garage. Not much had changed when I got there, but Danny must have left while Sam and I were gone. The entire couch was empty aside from Josh, still sitting cross-legged in one corner. Damn it!

I flopped into the spot that Danny had vacated, just as Sam hustled back in through the side door, arms full of sodas and bags of chips. My cheeks were warm when I looked up at him, and then they burst into flames.

“Scoot over T, I like the corner spot.”

He’s helping me! Oh shit, he’s helping me. Move your ass!!

Fumbling for a grip on reality, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Sam’s. He lifted his brows and tilted his head in Josh’s direction. I suddenly remembered why I wasted all my days with this kid - he’s my ride or die. And now I owed him, big.

As soon as I stood to shift to the center of the couch, Sam’s elbow snuck out and made contact with my shoulder. My feet tangled with each other and, balance lost, I tumbled. Right into the arms of my beloved.

Okay okay, that’s a reach. But I did land on him. Sam had nudged me just hard enough to send me toward the opposite end of the couch and I landed ass-first on Josh’s leg, still folded and crossed under the other.

Through the mortification, I heard Sam’s distinct snickering as he placed himself gently on the other cushion. Then, through the popping of soda tabs and crinkling of chip bags, I heard the sweetest, most beautiful sound ever.

“If you wanted to sit next to me so bad, you could’ve just done it, T.”

I quite literally had to extract myself from his lap, but Josh just giggled as I clumsily moved off of him. To my extreme delight and disbelief, I didn’t make it too far. He slung an arm over my shoulders and kept me at his side. We are sharing a cushion. ALERT ALERT - OUR THIGHS ARE TOUCHING.

His hand wrapped around the ball of my shoulder and squeezed. Not once, but twice. I felt like I was gonna puke, but I risked turning my head and meeting his eyes. And he. Fucking. Smiled.

“You good, Tiny?” I should’ve laughed. We were the same exact height, I could be calling him tiny. But this wasn’t funny, because he was still smiling at me and he’d lowered his voice to speak directly to me and I felt it all the way to my toes. Somehow I managed to smile back.

“I’m good.” I was soooooo good. Even when Sam shoved a bag of Doritos at me, I was good. Because Josh reached into it and pulled a few out for himself. He reached into my lap! For chips!

Risking a sideways glance at Sam, I found him eyeballing Josh’s hand that was still resting lightly over my shoulder. I gave him my best “holy shit holy shit holy shit” expression, to which he rolled his eyes and shrugged. Before turning my attention back to the love of my life, my gaze drifted past Sam and landed on Jake. Oh, he was still here? Hadn’t noticed.

Except I was noticing. And he didn’t look pleased. He locked in and held eye contact, absolutely scowling. He was pissed. At me?! I must not have hidden my surprise well, because after a few more tense seconds of the longest eye contact we’d ever held, he blinked away and flung the guitar he’d been cradling all night over the arm of the chair.

Look, he didn’t throw it or anything. The stand was right there and the guitar landed safely, if not a little roughly, in its place. But then he tossed the open bag of Lay’s to the table, swung his legs around and stood. He caught my eye again, his hair doing that flippy thing over his eyebrows as he shook his head.

“Whatever. Night, guys.”

Just like that, he was gone. Two down, one to go. GTFO Sam!!

The next hour or so passed in a blur. Sam kept hitting the joint long after Josh and I had turned it down, and by the time he’d deposited the roach in the ashtray he could barely keep his eyes open. I watched his head fall back into the cushion and pounced on my opportunity.

Leaning away from Josh’s loving embrace (shut up, I was in heaven okay?), I slapped Sam’s chest with the back of my hand.

“Sammy… Sam!” He snorted as his head whipped up, swiped a hand over his mouth and looked at me. I was still leaning toward him, my back to Josh, and I spoke to him telepathically. Or with my eyebrows.

Get out of here right now or so help me God.

He answered verbally, like he couldn't even read my mind. “Huh?”

I withheld growling at him like an animal. “Why don’t you go to bed, man? You’re toast.” Go. NOW.

His eyes tried to focus on me, they really did, before he shook his head and tried again. “Shit. Yeah, okay. Are you… do you wanna stay on the couch tonight?”

Yes. This couch. Allll night long.

“Yeah yeah, I will, but I’m not tired yet. I’m just gonna, um, chill here for a little bit longer?” At that, I turned my head and risked a glance at Josh. Thank God I did, because he was already looking at me, and he grinned. EEEEEEEP!

“I’m not tired yet either, we can listen to some music.” I doubted I could hear music at that point, not over the blood rushing in my ears. But then, oh then, he looked up at Sam and said, “I’ll make sure she makes it to bed, I mean, the couch. Downstairs, I’ll make sure she makes it downstairs.”

“Fine, whatever.” See? He’s my ride or die. “See you in the morning, T.” And then he was gone.

We were alone.

HELLO? WE. WERE. ALONE.

Sure, I’d been alone with Josh before. I’d been hanging around his house nearly every day for four years, we’d definitely been left in a room together at some point. But not while his arm was draped loosely over my shoulders, not while our legs were touching, not while my heart was about to beat out of my chest.

But now that we were alone, I had no effing clue what to do. Then Josh stood up. My heart dropped into my stomach, but he walked over to the stacked milk crates that housed a small part of their family’s record collection and crouched to skim through them. He found something he liked and set it on the turntable, the needle bringing the crackling beginnings of a song to life.

When he turned back to face me, I thought for sure he’d sit in that ugly wingback chair. Or at the other end of the couch. Instead, he circled the coffee table and sat on the opposite side of me than he had been all night. And now his other thigh was touching mine!

I’m pretty sure my throat closed up because I had to clear it rather unattractively to speak. “What, uhh, ha, um, who is this?”

Sexy, right?

Didn’t matter, his smile took shape right in front of my eyes and all I could see was the little barely-there gap between his front teeth. I wanted to know what it felt like on my tongue. Would I be able to tell? If I kissed him right now, would I be able to feel that little discrepancy in the perfection of his teeth? I lifted my eyes to meet his and realized he’d spoken, and I’d missed it.

“Sorry, uhh… what?”

His head tilted and his eyes searched my face for… something. “Wilson Pickett. Sammy hasn’t played this for you?”

Sammy? Who is Sammy? Ohhh right, best friend.

“Um, no, I don’t think so. But maybe? There’s always music on, he’s probably played this.”

He just nodded, at first in response to my rambling and then in time with the song. When it ended, he just… looked at me, for what felt like forever but was probably only a few seconds. I was once again hyper aware of my underarms. Sweating. So I slipped the flannel off of my shoulders, keeping my forearms in the sleeves but giving me some airflow to the pits. Josh’s eyes dropped from mine and landed on the now exposed skin. Yes! Guys like shoulders!

The realization slapped me in the face, so I grabbed it and ran. I slid my arms out of the sleeves and tossed the flannel past Josh and onto the chair, thanking God that I’d worn a tank top. He gulped. Like a full-blown gulp.

Omg I’m making him nervous!!

Confidence boosted, I shifted even closer to him, until our bodies were tucked tight against each other. I’d never been this close to him, aside from that one time we’d been crammed in the back seat of his mom’s car with Sam and Jake, their sister sitting pretty in the front seat. But then I had been a scrawny kid, only thirteen (and a half) and he had been a really weird fifteen year old, not yet having grown into his features. I hadn’t wanted any part of his stinky, sweaty, farty body near me and I’d squeezed myself so close to Sam I was practically in his lap.

But on this night? This Saturday after my sixteenth birthday, I was no longer a kid. And he was no longer weird. He was beautiful, and my face was really close to his face. I could feel it when he whispered, his breath actually touched my lips.

“Wha- what are you doing, T?”

He was looking at my lips, waiting for my answer. I licked them because I was freaking parched, but he watched. And I watched him gulp, again! My tongue slipped out and wet my bottom lip a second time.

“Josh?” Whispering is sexy, it’s seductive. I was sure of it. He did it back, just my name - my actual name - lilting at the end in question.

“Do you.. wanna… kiss me?” I leaned over him, placed my left hand on his chest and felt his collar bone under my fingertips through his t-shirt. Holy shit holy shit holy shit.

I saw the panic widen his eyes, then they darted around me, looking at anything but me. It was really so cute how nervous he was. He was eighteen, for Christ sake! And I was making him nervous!

“Kiss me, Josh.” His eyes snapped back to mine, slipped down to my mouth again and then back.

And then. He. Freaking. KISSED. ME.

In a split second that felt like hours, I watched his eyes close and perfect lips pucker. My eyes stayed open at first, I didn’t want to miss this.

Leaning further into him, I settled my lips against his and slid the hand on his chest up the side of his neck (his pulse was out of control, by the way), and then cradled his jaw. My fingertips were in his hair right behind his ear. I pulled his face closer and ramped up the pressure of our lips pushed together.

He put his hands on me. I swear to God, he really did! One reached for my hip and the other came up to rest against my cheek. My eyes fluttered closed and my body took over. Not a coherent thought left in my pretty little head. Especially when our mouths separated, and then he pushed them back together.

With a mind of its own, my other hand came up and gripped his shoulder. Then my leg swung over his lap and I. Was. Straddling. Him.

It wasn’t my fault. My brain had gone haywire, my body moving on instinct. I’d quite literally never done this before. I’d kissed plenty, I even kissed Sam once (barf), but this felt different. This felt mature. Probably a little more mature than I was ready for but like I said, it was not my fault.

A lot of blame fell on Josh, a whole mountain of it, when the hand on my cheek dropped to my other hip and gripped hard, pulled me flush against him. And his lips coerced my mouth open. And the tip of his tongue swept out and touched mine.

Oh, I was in way over my head. But this was Josh, the boy I loved, and he was loving me back!

A sound I’d never made before crept up my throat. Instant embarrassment heated my already toasty cheeks and climbed up my neck, but then. Ohh then. The same freaking sound came from somewhere below me. Josh groaned. Because of me.

My animal brain completely took over. My tongue was already sliding against his, and my hips decided to follow suit. With zero finesse, they rocked into his. Just once.

He broke the kiss and dropped his head back to the cushion.

No no noooooo, you like this! You love it!

I could feel the proof that he loved it. I was sitting on it. I could see it, his chest heaving.

So I leaned forward and pressed a kiss against his throat.

“Stop, T.” His hands fell limp and landed on my thighs. My brain scrambled to catch up. Stop? Go! His fingers spread across the denim on my legs. Go go go!

But then he pushed. I leaned back to see his face, find an explanation, but his eyes were still closed as he pushed me off of his lap. Helped me swing my leg back over. Kept his hands on my thighs until they were planted back on the couch and closed. Firmly. Then they left me, and I felt their absence like a knife to the heart.

“I… wow, okay.” It’s the best I could manage to formulate, but my brain was running in overdrive.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let that happen.” He rubbed his palms, the ones that were just holding me, over his knees then leaned forward and dropped his forehead into them.

Okay, maybe he just thinks we were moving too fast!

“Josh, it’s okay. I want this! We can just kiss, I’ll stay over here and you stay there and-“

It was so quiet, but it stopped my words on my tongue and slammed my lips shut.

“I can’t.”

Okay. Okay. Okay.

It’s because Sam’s my best friend.

It’s because I’m too young.

He thinks I’m still a kid.

Like his kid sister.

Fuck!

Anger rolled through me. “Why? Is it Sam?”

He scrubbed his hands over his face and turned to me. Looked at me, finally.

“No, I-“

“Am I too young for you? You’re not that much older, Josh and we’ve known eachother forever, it’s not that big of a de-“

“It’s not that, Tiny.” His eyes closed again.

“Don’t call me that!” He’d offended me, I was o-ffen-ded. “I’m not a little fucking kid!” Okay, I was pissed! I was a grown ass woman!

(I wasn’t.)

Both of his hands reached forward and he pulled mine towards him. Held them there. Opened his eyes. Was he gonna cry? Why are his eyes wet?! Shit, am I crying?

“It’s not you, T. It’s me.” Oh please. “I- well, I um, I like someone else.”

Back to angry! “What?! Then why the hell were you kissing me?!” What a scoundrel, what a snake, what an asshole!

“It’s not like that-“

“What the fuck is it like?!” I didn’t normally curse much at that age, but when I tell you I was mad? Hurt? Embarrassed? I couldn’t stop it from happening.

Shit, his eyes were definitely wet.

“It’s a guy.”

He whispered it, and it wasn’t sexy, it wasn’t seductive. It was sad. Scared. Defeated. I snatched my hands out of his.

There was a long silence. Uncomfortable. He stared at his empty hands and we processed.

“What did you say?” His posture shrank, like he was trying to disappear. “Josh, it’s okay. Talk to me.” It was my turn to take his hands. I held them in mine and squeezed once.

“I’m so sorry, I- I just don’t like you. Like that.” His eyes found their way back to my face, “I really like him.” They went wide and I’m pretty sure mine did too. He seemed shocked that he’d said it out loud, right before panic spread across his features again.

“Please don’t say anything, T. I haven’t- no one knows that. No one. Please.”

“No, I would never Josh, I swear. I just… why were you, ya know, kissing me?” Touching me, pulling me in. He pulled his hands away from me this time.

“I just wanted to feel normal. I wanted them to think I was normal.”

I couldn’t help it. I threw my arms around him and held on tight.

“You are.” Normal and beautiful and perfect. And not mine. A heavy sigh slipped from between my lips. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

He stayed silent, so I did too. I kept my arms around him for a few minutes before finally letting them slip free, rubbing a palm between his shoulder blades.

“I guess I should go… Are you okay?” Look, I was not okay, but it didn’t seem like that was important anymore.

“Aren’t you gonna stay downstairs tonight?”

Definitely not. “No, I think I should go home…” Probably won’t show my face over here for a goooood long time.

“Let me walk with you.”

I did. He walked on the other side of my bike while I walked it by the handlebars. When we reached my driveway, I left the bike propped against the side of the garage and turned to him. And just like in my dreams, he moved close and pecked a kiss into my cheek. Then he pulled me into his arms.

“I’m really sorry… I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, ya know?” His voice was soft and low, his breath tickling my ear. It should’ve been a literal dream come true.

A half step back and I rubbed my hands up and down his arms. “It’s really fine. I’m sorry for…” Humiliating us both? “Everything.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I mean it,” he emphasized when I shook my head. “Just… please don’t say anything. Even to Sam. Especially to Sam. I’m gonna tell them all when I’m ready, I think.”

Huge, massive sigh. “I won’t. I promise.”

And I never did. Not really.

#greta van fleet #gvf #greta van fleet fan fiction #greta van fleet fic #gvf fic #sam kiszka fic #sam kiszka fanfiction #sam gvf #sam kiszka #jake kiszka #jake kiszka fan fiction #jake gvf #jake kiszka fic #josh kiszka #josh kiszka fanfic #josh kiszka fic #josh gvf #greta van fleet fanfiction

[futbol16]

She’s Not Done!  • Fridolina Rolfö

Request: “Can we please get one for rolfo, she’s such a protective and comforting player I love her. Maybe during training Jona and the technical team went too hard on her, she looks defeated every single training match and game. Rolfo and the girls try to tell her its alright but R gets a bad panic attack on the pitch after she keeps hearing all the screaming and orders“

Not sure how this one turned out but I hope it’s good enough!

Word count: 1,2k

Jonatan would be away for the week and substituted by Aldo, the assistant coach’s assistant, a trainee. Aldo was a young man, somewhere around your age but he held no sympathy for you. 

The first two training sessions with him were interesting, he chose a different approach for everything you’ve done before. The team seemed to be challenged by that, but you adapted almost immediately and they watched in awe as you smoothly completed each and every drill. 

However, as much as you weren’t admitting it, the girls knew this only angered the man. It was stupid from him, the girls knew. 

He was a trainee and as someone wanting to be coach his goal shouldn’t be to exhaust and bring down players until they’d break. But they couldn’t do much, after all, Jonatan wasn’t here and their complaints fell on deaf ears.

You were panting more than you’ve ever had before, you knew you were completely spent but you needed to perfect your skills for the second match of the week and according to Aldo, you still had a lot of work to do. 

Frido and Aitana watch with sorrowful looks on their faces as Aldo shouts at you to start again. The team were currently on a water break but Aldo hadn’t let you go insisting that you had to do the drill again. 

The girls were utterly confused as you go at it for the eighth time, each time doing the job without a mistake.

Sandra is the first to move and she makes her way towards the trainee, muttering to him about how she thought you had done enough.

“She’s not done until I say so. If you want to quit now I won’t allow you in the second half!” The last sentence is directed to you as he shouts and you give him a nod, almost swallowing the bead of sweat that rolls down your face.

Once training is done you’re kept upright by Patri who helps you walk to the locker room, still breathing heavily. The girls sigh slowly at the defeated look on your face. 

You looked so tired, so fragile.

Fridolina stands up from her seat and you’re gently transferred into her arms and you relax in the blonde’s hold a relieved smile making its way onto your face.

“Kära this can’t keep happening. With this rate you won’t even be able to stand for the lineups!” she exclaims and you quickly shake your head, moving away from her in favor of getting changed.

“No, no, I’m good. He knows what he’s doing, I need to be ready for the match.”

“But that’s the thing! He doesn’t know what he’s doing Y/N/N!” she says and you see Mariona and Aitana nodding along.

“Well it’s whatever, Jonatan will be back in a few days anyway.” you dismiss her worries with a wave of your hand before pulling off your sweat-soaked jersey.

“I don’t know if she’ll hold out for that long.” Aitana whispers to which the blonde can only shake her head as she watches you get dressed.

It’s matchday and as you read over the starting eleven your shoulders relax when you spot your own name. In reality Aldo didn’t have the power to make those decisions as a trainee, but you still feared that he could have any influence on it.

First half of the match went by fast, your team leading 3-1 as you had assisted and also scored a goal. 

You’re happy with your performance but Aldo doesn’t seem to share the same feelings because as you walk off the pitch you catch his eyes glaring your way.

Frido is quick to pull you with her and she tucks you into her side as you walk to the changing room for team talks.

“You okay?” she mutters into your hair and you hum back at her, one arm around her waist.

As the game resumes the first thing you hear after the whistle is Aldo’s screaming. Aldo screaming at you. He’s shouting with such power that even the other team looks at him confused.

It’s how the rest of the game goes by. Every time the ball would be at your feet he’d be shouting at you and pointing towards the goal acting as if you didn’t know your job. 

And then every time the ball was elsewhere he was screaming for you to get it with an angry look on his face, one that you were starting to get annoyed with.

It’s after a sloppy tackle from the opposition where you end up on the turf when everything becomes too much. 

The player takes pity on you and pulls you up in front the ground as you steady on your feet and she looks over at the trainee with furrowed eyebrows as he keeps yelling.

She barely moves away before your body falls into hers again and your shaking hands clutch the sides of her jersey as she gently lowers you back on the grass.

Frido is quick to get to you as she sprints from her position, the referee finally blowing her whistle.

She nudges the player away from you as she kneels next to you, carefully peeling your hands from your face. 

She holds onto your shaking hand and guides your head into her chest. You inhale deeply, trying to get as close to her as possible while also trying to even out your labored breathing. 

You just wanted to get away, go home and cuddle up to the blonde.

As the referee gets to the two of you she leans down, putting two fingers to your neck. Blowing her whistle she sends you off the field and looks at Aldo with a disapproving look as he screams for you to stand up and continue.

Frido and Aitana lead you to the sidelines where Aldo immediately starts arguing with the three of you but you can barely hold up your own weight. You listen as your girlfriend argues with him back and forth before she forces him to sub her off.

As the man finally sits back down with that usual frustrated expression, Fridolina holds you by the waist as she guides you to the locker room.

 She quickly sits you down, filling a bottle with water and she gets back to you.

“Come on kärlek, drink up.” she holds the bottle to your lips, one hand cupping under your chin in case the water would spill.

After she makes sure you’re okay, she sits your exhausted body in her lap and holds you close to her. You stay like that till the end of the match when the rest of your teammates arrive in the room and you get a kiss on the cheek from every one of them.

Your girlfriend watches with a fond smile before giving you her own kiss and she softly laughs when you furiously blush at her.

The next day when you get to the training facility you’re informed that Aldo would no longer be continuing his training as coach and that Jonatan had fired him stating that “no one could treat his players with such disrespect, especially not a young boy.”

You look to the side to see Frido with a mischievous smile and you kiss her shoulder affectionately, her arm naturally wrapping around your waist.

#fridolina rolfo x reader #fridolina roflö x reader #barca femeni x reader #woso one shot #woso imagine #woso x reader #futbol16

[yourfriendlygryffindor]

gold rush

word count: 1339 - jegulus, Hogwarts au, teen rating

Regulus was eleven when he first met James Potter. He was being dragged by his brother to meet his friends who he had already decided he hated. All summer, it was all James Potter this, James Potter that. He was tired of it and couldn’t wait to hate him to his face. 

That was…until he saw James. 

He was beautiful even for a twelve-year-old. Nothing about him was awkward. His brown curls stuck up in a way that on anyone else would’ve looked horrid but on him looked effortless. 

That instant he realized he would never be able to hate James. 

That was also the instant he realized he was attracted to boys. 

It was a lot for a little first year to process. 

Now, at seventeen, he watched James from across the Gryffindor common room with annoyance written clearly on his face for all to see. 

Gryffindor was having a New Year party, the last New Year party that Sirius’s group would be hosting before they all graduated that spring. 

James was beaming from ear to ear as he stood atop a table, pouring drinks for people who raised their glasses and dancing when everyone was busying themselves. 

He was magnetic. Intoxicating. Inviting. Luring. 

“Oh my, Merlin, you’re obsessed, Ruby!” A Hufflepuff snickered next to him to her friend. 

“He’s so beautiful! Look at him!” Ruby responded. 

“Don’t get your hopes up, James hasn’t shown interest in anyone since he gave up hope with Evans.” 

Regulus rolled his eyes and moved to get another drink from the refreshment table. 

James was a gold rush. 

Everybody wanted him. 

It was irritating. 

Regulus was just one of the many. 

He grabbed a fresh cup of Firewhiskey and started sipping away at it. 

That was…until he turned around and saw James winking at someone, giving them his dazzling smile. Quickly, he downed the rest of the drink. 

“Wow, Reg.” Barty appeared next to him. Regulus glared at him as he tossed his cup in the bin. “What’s got your panties in a twist?” 

Involuntarily, his gaze shifted to the boy dancing on a table. 

“Ah, your massive crush on Mr. Sunshine and the fact that you want to climb that beautiful golden wizard like a tree.”

Screw his inability to control his face when he was drinking. 

“What did he do this time?” 

“Nothing.” 

“So, is it a general dislike for what he’s doing, the attention he’s gaining, or is it how you can’t control what you feel around him?” 

Regulus huffed and turned his back to James. “He’s so effortlessly beautiful.” His thoughts flowed out of him now that the alcohol was sufficiently doing its job. “It’s not fair. I put effort into everything I do, but he’s just…there, existing and perfect. I don’t like anticipating the flush of my cheeks when he deigns to smile. Everybody wants him and I’m just here. There’s no way I’ll ever stand a chance.”

Barty’s brows furrowed. “Do you want him to notice you? I was under the impression that you didn’t want to act on the feelings.” 

Regulus looked over his shoulder to stare at James grinning at his brother. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

James’ gaze shifted from Sirius to Regulus across the room at that instant. His eyes twinkled as he grinned, waving at Regulus. 

His eyes were pools of honey, it was so inviting. He wanted to get lost in them. 

Regulus continued to stare at James, not waving back but not turning away. 

James’ smile turned into a smirk like he was accepting a challenge, he handed Sirius his bottle of alcohol and hopped down from the table without looking away from Regulus. 

“He’s coming over,” Regulus warned Barty. 

“Got it, good luck,” Barty understood the sentence for what it was and left. 

“Hey, Reg,” James’ smooth voice broke through the music. “How are you?” 

“Fine.” 

James grinned and let his eyes wander over Regulus’ figure. “Good. You look great tonight.” His voice dipped low, luring him out to sea. 

“Just tonight?” Regulus played along, testing the waters. He wanted to jump in and drown himself in it.

James chuckled and leaned in, mouth hovering above his ear. “You look good every day but you look especially pretty tonight, is that what you wanted to hear?” 

He swallowed thickly and leaned in toward the warmth of James Potter. “Yes.” 

“Hm, good to know,” James spoke deeply and pulled away, taking the warmth with him. “Do you want to dance?”

Regulus blinked in surprise. He looked around at all the people already staring at them because of his proximity to the Sunshine boy of the school. 

James’ hand cupped Regulus’ chin, turning his head to look back at him. “Don’t pay attention to them. Do you want to dance with me?” 

Regulus’ mouth went dry. “Yes.”

James laced their hands together before he was tugged into the crowd. They stopped near the center of the dance floor. His anxiety rose thinking about everyone surrounding them. He didn’t want them watching, touching him. 

“Eyes on me.” 

Regulus snapped his head up and stared into that pool of honey he so desperately wanted to jump into. 

“They won’t come close enough to touch you, I promise.” 

Something about the way James spoke made Regulus believe him. 

James took Regulus’ arms and wrapped them around his own neck before wrapping his around Regulus’ waist, tugging him close. 

“Just focus on us,” he said in his ear. He swayed his hips, using his hands to help Regulus sway with him. 

He watched as slowly everyone on the dance floor was looking over at them as they danced. 

James really was a gold rush. Everyone watched him. 

I don’t like a gold rush…but I can’t look away from him. 

“Reggie,” James spoke gently. “Do you want to leave?” 

His arms tightened around James on instinct, hands slipping into the hair at the nape of his neck. 

A deep chuckle buried itself in Regulus’ bones. 

“Okay, love. Tell me if they’re too much?” 

Regulus nodded. It was too much now, but he didn’t want to break the moment. 

James’ hands spread across the small of his back as they danced. 

He couldn’t believe this was happening. 

As the song went on, Regulus became more confident despite the stares. 

He tugged on James’ hair lightly, earning a delicious groan from the wizard. His lips curved up with a slight smile as multiple witches narrowed their eyes with jealousy. 

Regulus wasn’t sure if this was a one time occurrence but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to make a claim. 

He caught Barty’s gaze on the edge of the dance floor with Evan hanging off him. 

Barty gave him a thumbs up and mouthed, climb him.

Regulus rolled his eyes but still slotted a leg between James’s. 

“Aren’t we jumping a few steps, love?” James asked with a chuckle. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Is everyone watching?”

“Of course they are, James Potter—golden boy of Gryffindor Tower—is dancing with Regulus Black—heir to the Black fortune and Slytherin’s arsehole.” 

James’ shoulders shook with his laughter. “So, you’re saying if I were to do this—” James bit his earlobe lightly, “—everyone would see?” 

“Yes,” he said breathlessly. 

James hummed. “Good.” 

They continued on this way, slowly teasing each other to stake claims on one another. 

What would it be like to be with James? Would it be like this? How would it feel to be loved by him? 

He wanted to kiss him. 

But did he have enough in him to be loved by a gold rush? 

Would he survive this? 

He blinked and suddenly James had pulled back to look him in the eyes. 

“Regulus?”

He glanced at James’ lips and back up to his honey-filled eyes. 

Slowly, he leaned in, mouth hovering so close they shared a breath. 

His eyes twinkled with depth in those hazel pools. He was drawn to them like a human would be to a siren. 

So inviting, I almost jump in. 

#marauders #jegulus #james potter #regulus black #dead gay wizards from the 70s #jegulus fic #based on a taylor swift song #wrote this on a whim #I didn't think this needed to be a whole one shot so here you go

[haveyoureadthispoll]

She was known to the world as Emily Doe when she stunned millions with a letter. Brock Turner had been sentenced to just six months in county jail after he was found sexually assaulting her on Stanford’s campus. Her victim impact statement was posted on BuzzFeed, where it instantly went viral–viewed by eleven million people within four days, it was translated globally and read on the floor of Congress; it inspired changes in California law and the recall of the judge in the case. Thousands wrote to say that she had given them the courage to share their own experiences of assault for the first time. Now she reclaims her identity to tell her story of trauma, transcendence, and the power of words. It was the perfect case, in many ways–there were eyewitnesses, Turner ran away, physical evidence was immediately secured. But her struggles with isolation and shame during the aftermath and the trial reveal the oppression victims face in even the best-case scenarios. Her story illuminates a culture biased to protect perpetrators, indicts a criminal justice system designed to fail the most vulnerable, and, ultimately, shines with the courage required to move through suffering and live a full and beautiful life. Know My Name will forever transform the way we think about sexual assault, challenging our beliefs about what is acceptable and speaking truth to the tumultuous reality of healing. It also introduces readers to an extraordinary writer, one whose words have already changed our world. Entwining pain, resilience, and humor, this memoir will stand as a modern classic.

#book: know my name #author: chanel miller #genre: memoir #genre: feminism #genre: true crime #year: 2010s

[therumpus]

Writing Beyond the Bars: A Mini Interview with Geneva Phillips

By Cass Lewis

Geneva Phillips is currently an incarcerated writer completing the end of a prison sentence in Oklahoma. She writes about a broad range of topics and has been actively involved in a writing program called Poetic Justice in addition to PEN America’s Prison Writing Mentor Program, which pairs more than 300 working writers on the outside with close to 300 incarcerated writers. She and I were paired about a year ago, well after she wrote these award-winning pieces. It’s called a mentorship program, but it has prompted me to think about how it’s really a partnership, as we both exchange writing advice and build community.

Phillips’ short memoir piece, “Holding,” received Honorable Mention and was just published in PEN America’s 2023 Prison Writing Awards anthology, Thank the Bloom. Her award-winning work was also included in the PEN America Prison Writing Awards anthologies, The Named and The Nameless (2018), and Variations on an Undisclosed Location (2022). She is the author of the memoir, Disappearing in Glimpses (Mongrel Empire Press, 2020). 

I was delighted when she agreed to share her thoughts on writing and community through an interview conducted via letter and telephone.

***

The Rumpus: When you think about your writing community, how would you describe it? 

Geneva Phillips: I would describe it as a constellation of hopefuls. We write together inside to find our voices and perfect them. We write with the hope of being heard. Though the distance of our confinement makes it challenging, those outside keep us buoyant with ideas, opportunities, feedback, and encouragement. I think it all culminates into a reciprocating microcosm. We hope together, with each other, for each other. We write, we listen, the confinement loses some power. 

Rumpus: While writing is a solitary activity, I’ve found there is something potentially transformative about a group of people all responding to the same prompt and sharing our work. How has writing in groups impacted your work as a writer?

Phillips: I’m definitely a better writer for the writing groups I’ve had the privilege to grow with. The relationships and community make writing a transformative activity.

Rumpus: Do you have any favorite writing prompts you’d like to share?

Phillips: One of my favorites was to open with the line, “Something happened,” and that one line produced a wealth of good material in our writing group. Also, we recently tried some unorthodox story writing where we used a selection of words and random sequence writing to produce short stories. I’m going to send you the directions so you can try it.

Rumpus: Thank you. I’m always looking for new prompts. Who are some authors you admire?

Phillips: Tanith Lee, Sandra Cisneros, Joy Harjo, N.K. Jemisin for the bottomless depths of beauty of their words. Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson for limitless imagination and the sheer scope of their world building.

Rumpus: When did writing become a central focus for you?

Phillips: I discovered writing poetry when I was eleven or twelve. It was a way to capture complicated feelings and experiences in words and helped me to process them. After I was incarcerated, I had a lot more time to write and I utilized it to practice other methods.

Rumpus: Recently, in the PEN America newsletter, “Works of Justice,” the Prison and Justice Writing Mentorship Coordinator, Jess Abolafia, and another award-winning incarcerated writer named Leo Paul Carmona discussed your memoir piece, “The Hard Part.” Carmona wrote, “Geneva Phillips’ piece hit me to my very core…It resonated so much, because I have lived and continue to live every word of what she wrote… Much like Geneva pointed out, we form friendships and bonds as we all go through the struggle of what it is to live in captivity. I have found that our bonds with others are solidified and strengthened when we face the same struggles together. Geneva speaks to the trauma of having friends ripped from you, or for us to be ripped away from them.” When you see the impact your work has on readers, how does this add to your sense of community and how does it align with your intentions as a writer?

Phillips: With my nonfiction work, essays, and memoirs, I wanted to expose the parts of being incarcerated that no one thinks to talk about. The emotions behind the injustices. The humans having human experiences inside the boxes where people believe only monsters exist. To have confirmation that others find commonality in experiences I write about just proves to me the importance of writing about these things.

Rumpus: When you’re writing, do you picture a specific audience for your work? 

Phillips: I really don’t. Mostly, I just wonder how it will land with my writing group. They’re the thermostat I use to gauge the success of a story.

Rumpus: Where do you find inspiration for your writing?

Phillips: The strangest places. A misheard sentence. Happenstance and serendipity. Inspiration is everywhere.

Rumpus: You have written poetry, memoir, short stories, and other forms. When you write, do you know when you first start working on a piece what form it will take, or is it a surprise or does this process change each time?

Phillips: With poetry, I usually know the tone I’m looking for in a piece. With my memoir, it was a little different. I had an idea, but found the individual pieces fit their own tone. I have found short stories to be a surprise from the beginning to the end.

Rumpus: What are you working on now?

Phillips: I’m writing a genre-crossing collection of fictional short stories.

Rumpus: One of the things I love about your work is how it is haunting and raw but with a refined beauty, like a controlled burn. How do you maintain that balance between revealing what is harrowing while recognizing the universal humanity and even offering what could be interpreted as hope?

Phillips: Well, first of all, thank you. I’m going to save that description forever. I think that it’s really just the truth about life that reveals itself when I write. Life is terrible. Life is beautiful. In the midst of the beautiful, we hurt. And in the midst of the terrible, we hope.

Rumpus: If you were going to share some advice with someone who just started writing, what would you tell them?

Phillips: Write. Practice your craft. Hone your skills. Read. Read things you don’t want to read. And find other people who also read and write to be in community with.

Rumpus: What is some helpful advice you’ve received about writing?

Phillips: Probably the most helpful words of advice anyone has ever given me were “go with your gut.” That was you! It was so helpful when I was revising. And at the end of the day, you have to go with what’s right for you.

Rumpus: Well, thanks. I’m glad it was helpful. It’s hard when different readers give different feedback and it’s all so subjective. I’d like to share a passage that really stuck with me from your poetic memoir, Disappearing in Glimpses: “So, she’s trained her eyes to not-see. Not see the trees. The wooded hills. The fields. The road leading away. She only sees the fence. The razor wire. This is reality. This is where reality is contained. A few square acres. For all intents and purposes, the rest of the world does not exist to her just like she does not exist to the rest of the world.” Can you talk a little bit about how you decided to write this story in a close third-person perspective, and how this poetic memoir came to be?

Phillips: The whole idea for this was inspired by The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. I had never encountered a book written in the form of vignettes. Once I had, my immediate thought was, I could write a book in this style. The POV was a decision I made so that the book would be not just my story. It is my story, but it is also archetypally all our stories. We, women of the locked boxes.

***

Cass Lewis is an award-winning writer, currently working on a memoir that explores mental health, mass incarceration, and the climate crisis. Connect with her here: www.CassLewis.com.

#writeblr #lit #therumpus #interviews #creative writing

[cas-kingdom]

Erik Lehnsherr and sister reader for the 5-line-fanfic challenge. The 1st sentence: 'Mutations are a bitch.'

A/N: Set the moment the elevator doors open in DOFP. OC!reader has 2 mutations (can control metal like Erik, and stopped aging at around 16–the latter of which was discovered in their time apart).

Mutations are a bitch.

If there was one thing you had learnt in the unconventional years you’d been alive, it was that. Mutations, whatever they happened to be, were a bitch. It didn’t matter if you could use it for the good, or you could hide it from those less accepting. Mutations meant abnormal. You were abnormal.

The elevator doors opened. Charles punched Erik. Erik saw you as he nursed his jaw.

“Y/N?” Confusion passed like a wave across his face, and pain washed over yours. It had been years. Years since the day on the beach, and the moment you had decided you’d rather live a life in relative peace with Charles than continue to seek vengeance with Erik. Years since you’d learnt the truth of your mutation. That controlling metal wasn’t all.

You swallowed back a swell of emotions. You had expected to feel something, of course. Once, you and your brother had been all each other knew and loved. In the time away from each other, both of you had grown—and hadn’t—in unimaginable ways. 

“Hi, Erik,” you said, your voice quiet and trembling. One part of your ached to run to him and hug him, if only to make up for lost time. The other needed to stay back, just to gauge his reaction. Because it had been a long, long time.

“You…you haven’t changed.” He stepped out of the elevator. Everyone was silent. Charles, his fists balled, moved to stand behind you, his eyes fixed on Erik. He’d been your brother for the past eleven years, there to help you harness your powers, there to comfort you when you missed Erik, there to support you through the discovery of your second mutation. The mutation that stopped your growth.

“Mutations are a bitch,” you said. There was no hint of cockiness or sarcasm. Nothing to suggest you were at all angry at him for not being there. Which you were. But it had needed to happen. 

“Alright,” Logan said, his voice hesitant. Charles had spilled the basics of the situation between brother and sister on the plane over, but there was a lot the Wolverine still didn’t know. “We need to get out of here.”

Charles took your hand in his own and began to tug you away. Erik’s frown deepened and he rapidly shook his head, moving quickly forward and snatching up your other hand. “Why haven’t you changed?” He looked at Charles. “Why does she look the same, Charles?”

“We can talk about this on the plane,” Charles said firmly. He turned at the sound of men filing into the room, but you and Erik remained locked on each other, years of unspoken agony flowing between you. He seemed ready to argue against Charles’s words, too focused on you to recognise the danger you were all currently in, but you took your arm from his grip and clasped his hand before he could open his mouth.

“It’s okay, Erik,” you spoke quietly, squeezing his hand. “I’m okay. I’ll tell you everything, but right now, we need to get out of here alive.”

Erik’s jaw tensed. His eyes flicked to Charles, to Peter and Logan, and then back to you. He rolled his shoulders back and nodded. “Alright,” he said.

Abnormality had no room for smooth sailing.

X-Men Masterpost

send me the first sentence of a fanfic and i’ll write the next five, except i don’t know when to stop writing so i guarantee there’ll be more than five

#x men #x-men #Erik lehnsherr #magneto #Erik x reader #Erik lehnsherr x reader #magneto x reader #wolverine #Logan #logan howlett #Charles Xavier #professor x #sister reader #sister!reader #reader #reader fic #teen reader #teen!reader #mine #baby fic #Drabble #Charles x reader #Charles Xavier x reader #professor x x reader #Logan x reader #wolverine x reader #Charles x Erik #Erik x Charles #Logan howlett x reader

[effortandmore]

the lucky ones | knj x reader (18+)

🌿 summary: you never thought of yourself as particularly lucky until you met namjoon. you keep telling your roommate, seokjin, that your whirlwind romance feels like it must be too good to be true, and maybe it is. or, you fall in love with the right person at the wrong time

🌿 pairing: namjoon x f!reader

🌿 genre: love at first sight, smut, angst, right person/wrong time

🌿 warnings: smut, implied unprotected sex, drinking, swearing, a cigarette appears, angst, unhappy ending (i know, sorry), namjoon is bad at communicating

🌿 word count: 17.4k

🌿 a/n: i've never written unhappy ending before, but margot challenged and i delivered (i think). i'm already noodling on a pt2 where they can be happy cos that's just how my brain is. thank you to @ugh-yoongi and @the-boy-meets-evil for reading this over for me, i appreciate you! crossposted to ao3 here if that's your thing.

It’s a despicable feeling, the aching in your chest when you want so desperately to say something… to say the right thing, but the words catch and hook in your throat and refuse to come out in a way that helps, that heals. 

He needs to apologize, to make things right, to fix the hurt he’s caused—it’s selfish, really, because the tears spilling down your face are the one thing that can break him. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does he is reduced to something smaller, something less. 

Even if he’s not the one who causes them, but especially when he is. 

So, he knows he needs to say something… And he has no idea what will be the thing that changes the mood, that begins your healing. He’s been grasping at straws, fumbling over syllables and sentences that don’t quite set things square to rights. It’s not working. Nothing is working. It’s time for something new, because Kim Namjoon will not let himself fail. Especially not at this, at you. 

(He won’t fail, not exactly, but this was never going to end well, and he knows that). 

Crouching on the ground in front of you, he reaches up carefully and brushes a tear away, then another, letting his hand linger on the soft skin of the face he loves too much. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead and whispers the simplest thing that comes to mind. 

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

It’s not what you want him to say. Because he doesn’t really have anything to be sorry for. Not when you think about it hard or let yourself sink past the despair of the present moment into something deeper that feels more like embarrassment and frustration. 

Yesterday, you were happy. Last month, too. The month before, as well… and the four before that. It had been the strangest and best six months of your life. But now, sitting on a small bed in your small room, in your small apartment, you can’t stop the tears that leak from your eyes—a pathetic attempt at saying what you wanted had gotten you here: a crying heap on a shitty mattress in your shitty apartment with your very not-shitty boyfriend—that is what he is to you, right?—who is completely bewildered by his inability to comfort and coax you out of this crisis of feeling. 

🌿🌿🌿

six months prior

🌿🌿🌿

Your friends all think the idea is idiotic. “A book club?” Seokjin questions. “Do I look boring to you?” 

If you didn’t know him better, you’d think he was teasing. But he isn’t. Not entirely. And he’s not wrong either, because he looks anything but boring, and while you don’t think a book club sounds boring, you could see why he wouldn’t want to spend a Friday night talking about books when he could be out getting laid by… well, anyone. 

“But I’m so boooorrreed,” you whine. Seokjin and Yoongi roll their eyes at you. You know you’re preaching to the choir. Everyone is bored. It’s month… You actually can’t even remember what month of lockdown it is. Ten? Eleven? Feels like seven thousand. Those two at least have hobbies that they can still partake in. Yoongi is a music producer by trade and hobby, and it’s all he ever does, really, and having an excuse to be holed up in his room alone is like his dream come true. Or so he says. You know that deep down, he likes that you and Seokjin are in his “bubble,” that you’re his safe space, and that when he gets lonely and won’t admit it, he can pad down the hallway and reap the benefits of Jin’s hobby—cooking. 

While you (and a lot of people) have given up a lot during lockdown (friends, visits to family, birthdays…), Jin has thrived. His cooking hobby turned into cooking videos, which are actually quite funny, and now advertisers and sponsors are proverbially knocking down your door to get to him and he’s become basically something like a YouTube sensation just by being his silly, unbelievably (and unfairly) handsome self while you record him because you have nothing better to do. Of course he has. A magnet for good luck and good things—your roommate is unstoppable. 

And then there is you. A graduate student who is trying to grow accustomed to teaching and learning online—no real goals except to make yourself a little bit better everyday, and no real hobbies except volunteering at the hospital. Which you can’t do anymore. That’s not to say you don’t like fun: you and Seokjin like to go to amusement parks when you both have time on the weekends, you like doing karaoke with strangers at 2am in some dive he’s dragged you to, you like riding your bike around the Hudson Bike Loop early in the morning before it is safe and also before it is crowded. You like museums, libraries… quiet places, mostly. And also the Very LoudTM places where there is so much happening that you have no choice but to turn inward to find something centering and there’s so much chaos that suddenly even your most confusing thoughts begin to make sense. 

But these things are in short supply lately. Museums are closed, the library is virtual, amusement parks are dormant… Your life feels stagnant. But wallowing is unproductive and counter to your goal of becoming a little bit better every day. So, you put your uninspired brain to use and you think about what you like and what you can do and what would be engaging, and you decide that you should start a book club. It’s a good idea(!), no matter what Seokjin says. You love books, and you can read alone, safely. You can meet over zoom or skype or facetime or whatever the tool of the moment is. It’s a good idea. A great one, even. There have to be other people who like to read who would be looking for connection. You’re sure you’re not the only one. 

Yoongi can roll his eyes, and Jin can laugh, but you’d bet your takeout budget that both of them will join without telling you. 

It’s with that in mind that you set the book club up. You text your book-ish friends a link to the chat and you let them know that you’ll pick the first book in a week or so. It’s important to you that there’s a good discussion—one with a lot of viewpoints—so you tell your friends to invite their friends, or at least pass the info along, and before you know it, you’ve got forty-odd people in a chat all excited to meet one another and start this book club. 

Everyone uses pseudonyms (you find your own particularly punny), so you can’t really tell if Seokjin and Yoongi have joined, but you do notice that your copy of “Norwegian Wood” goes missing some nights and then magically reappears the next day in a similar (but slightly different) place in your living room. You think you like Murakami, but “1Q84” is so freaking long, you’ve never been able to focus long enough to get through it. You’ve read it in fits and starts and it has been staring at you, judgmentally, from your bookshelf for months. So, you pick another of Murakami’s novels to begin your book club. Sort of an homage to things you might never do, you think, as you start this thing that somehow feels very brave, even if it’s behind the veil of the internet. 

It’s an unusually hot morning in May when you get the first message from him. 

Pride&Prejoondice: There’s a lot of sex in this book

You’re not sure what to say to that. You’re not even sure who this person is with the username that you don’t recognize and the true, but unnecessary observation about Murakami’s novel. 

JungForever: Yes… That’s true. If it’s a problem, you can always pick up with next month’s book 

Pride&Prejoondice: No. Not a problem. Just an observation. 

How can they sound judgmental over the internet, you wonder. But they do. It’s the punctuation, you decide. Or maybe you’re just insecure because this is your first time doing something like this, and you want everyone to say what a good choice it was and how much they’ve enjoyed it. 

JungForever: Oh, well... Hope you enjoy the book, then

Pride&Prejoondice: I did. Very much. 

JungForever: You’re finished already? 

It’s not that you don’t believe this person—a week is more than enough time to finish the book. But… you had this idea in your head that you would be first to finish. 

Pride&Prejoondice: Yes. If that’s a problem, I can always read next month’s book, too. 

Is this person mocking you? You can’t help but snort as you try and take a drink of your coffee, which ends up coming out of both your nose and your mouth onto the desk in front of you. Onto your copy of the book. Serves Seokjin right, you think, for not buying his own. Now he’ll have to touch your nose coffee. You laugh again as you reply to the stranger. 

JungForever: Funny. I thought it was a book club, not a comedy club

Pride&Prejoondice: Why not both? 

And then they are gone. For a while, anyway. You don’t hear from them for another week. Then they’re pestering you to see if you’ve finished the book yet, if you’re ready to discuss it with them. You have, and you are, but you tell them you want to make sure everyone’s included, so you should wait one more week. 

Which they do. Almost exactly. As in, to the minute. Then they message you again, asking if it’s time yet, like an excited kid about to get a haphazardly earned reward.

And when you bring the conversation to the group, this stranger is still funny, and surprisingly insightful, and shares some of your more (what you think are) controversial opinions, and the group conversation just ends up being the two of you bantering back and forth until far past when you should be in bed. And then you get a dm from them.

Pride&Prejoondice: I’d like to meet you.

And your heart stops. Because you think you might like to meet them, too, this funny stranger who has for some reason occupied your thoughts off and on for the better part of a month and likes the books you like and has some of the same opinions you do (and some wrong ones) and is punctual and articulate and… a stranger from the internet. 

Before you can even type, “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” they’re apologizing profusely for making things weird, and letting you know that it’s just now occurred to them that you are a stranger from the internet, and so are they, and how could they be so careless, and of course you don’t want to meet them and they are very, very sorry. 

Their wall of text for some reason makes them more endearing. You know how they feel—tripping over your words and saying things before you’ve thought them out is sort of your thing. You’ve been lucky, because it’s usually worked in your favor, and you’ve managed to surround yourself with people who also find it endearing (Seokjin) or pretend to ignore most things you say unless you’re offering food (Yoongi). 

So, instead of doing the wise and responsible thing, you type the words that end up changing your life a little bit for the better.

JungForever: No, it’s okay… I’d like that, too

The response is almost immediate. 

Pride&Prejoondice: Really? 

JungForever: I’ll change my mind if you ask again

Pride&Prejoondice: Okay, right. When can we meet? 

You didn’t think that far ahead; you always assume other people have the plans because you’re so used to being a companion to Seokjin and going along with whatever he’s doing that’s invariably more interesting than anything you’d be doing on your own. There’s a coffee shop you know is open by your old office—it’s also close to a riverside park and it’s Manhattan so at least if this stranger tries to pull something you’re sure someone will be around. 

It’s so easy to send a pin and a time, and they’re enthusiastic when they respond with a tea emoji and an exclamation point. And it’s done—You have a plan to meet this person in two days, and you almost let yourself be excited. 

But the day after you make the plan, you panic. Seokjin laughs at you and enlists Yoongi to laugh at you, too, as you slowly lose your shit in the kitchen. It’s a stream of consciousness ramble of all the reasons this is an utterly terrible idea, and a series of you opening and closing your laptop dozens of times, always on the verge of calling the whole thing off. 

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Seokjin asks, an eyebrow lifted playfully. 

Sighing, you close your laptop one more time.

“Murder,” Yoongi replies, straight-faced. He’s not looking at either of you, and he has headphones on, so you didn’t even realize he was listening. Does he wear those just to make you think he’s not listening? You may never know, you think. 

“Yes! Murder. That could happen. At the very least, a mugging!” you exclaim, nodding and pointing at Yoongi for emphasis. 

“Or, at the very least, you go on a nice date with someone who likes at least one thing you like and you talk about books like nerds.” Your roommate shrugs and turns his attention back to the stovetop, where he’s perfecting kimchi jjigae. It smells fucking incredible. You say a silent prayer that he left the pork out, but you know he didn’t or it wouldn’t smell so good, and you know you’ll probably eat some anyway because it’ll be worth it. 

And then it hits you. 

“Wait. You think this is a date?” 

Even from where you sit across the room, you can see the side of Yoongi’s mouth quirk up in amusement while Seokjin tries and fails to suppress more laughter. 

What you don’t know then (but will be relayed to you weeks later over beers in your apartment), is that somewhere on the other side of the city, Kim Namjoon is having the exact same realization as you—at the exact same time—and his roommates are laughing at him, too. 

So, you show up for the not-date with the sort-of stranger at the vaguely familiar coffee shop and you notice him immediately. As promised, he has a tattered copy of Nature by Emerson sitting on the table beside his tea—it’s the next book you’re reading for the book club. You can only see part of his face behind his mask, but the part you can see is beautiful. Smooth skin, curious eyes, hair falling into them as if he can’t be bothered to brush it away. And he notices you too, those curious eyes squeezing with his grin when you hold your copy up against the glass. The moment you share then is inexplicable—and it’s etched into your memory even today (especially today). You lock eyes and watch one another, silly smiles on your faces under your masks causing wrinkles in your foreheads. Slowly, he brings long fingers up out of his lap and wiggles them in a wave, a timid gesture that makes you laugh. Then he laughs too, a whole body laugh that causes him to instinctually cover his mouth in embarrassment, even though it’s already covered. He grabs his phone and shortly thereafter, yours pings with a message:

Pride&Prejoondice: So, are you coming inside?

With a nod, you do come inside. You order your coffee, and as you wait for it, you make futile attempts not to swivel to catch a glimpse of him. He’s broad-shouldered, his skin is golden, and his hair looks soft… Your thoughts drift to what it might be like to run your fingers through it. And then you shake it off with a smirk to yourself. This isn’t a date, it’s not like that… right? Although, a little part of you wonders if it is like that after the flittering your nerves were doing while you watched him and they way they’re still doing it even now as you practically feel his gaze on your back. 

You text Seokjin: This is a date, I think.

Seokjinnie: of course it is, hope u have condoms

You: Wow, really?

Seokjinnie: that’s how my dates always end 

You: Yeah, so I hear

Seokjinnie: but i also pay attention to my dates 

You get the not-subtle hint and slide your phone back in your bag as the barista calls your name. 

Coffee in hand, you swallow down your nerves and make your way toward his table. More than anything, you wish he could take his mask off so you could see what the smile you know he’s making looks like—you wonder if it mirrors what you’ve already built it up in your head to be. And then he grabs his tea and he does just that, slips one loop off of his ear and lets it drop, revealing something even better than you’d imagined: a wide, brimming smile with ocean-deep dimples showing. It’s perfect, you think. 

Three things become abundantly clear to you: 

You are in over your head. 

You are head over heels. 

You’ve not even said a single word to each other. 

“Hi,” you say quietly, hand waving of its own accord without you realizing it. 

“Hello,” he replies in a devastatingly deep voice. 

You exchange pleasantries and names. Kim Namjoon is his; you repeat it back to him only so you can get a sense for how it feels on your tongue and lips… Light and melodic, and you want to leave your lips pursed in a drawn out “oo” shape for as long as possible. You don’t know why. That shape suits him: curved and attentive, like he could break out into a melancholy whistle at any moment. You wonder if he can whistle…

“Can you whistle?” you ask, distracted by your own thoughts. 

The look he gives you is confusion and amusement, but he whistles as a response, a melody you haven’t heard.

“Can you?” he asks. 

You shake your head. “No.”

“It’s okay. I’m sure there are other things you’re good at.” 

You can’t tell at first if it’s innuendo (you know him well enough now to know that it probably was, but he didn’t mean for you to realize it), and you kick yourself internally for raising an eyebrow at his words and causing his cheeks to flush, but then you both laugh and he gestures for you to sit across from him, so you do. 

What happens in the next hours is (at its cheesiest and best) magical. 

(It’s not love at first sight, exactly, because you are prone to thoughts like that, and you know what they feel like, how they sound cutting above the noise in your loud mind). 

This is different. Talking with him, you feel like an explorer finding a treasure. He is unexplored territory and the map of him is laid out just for you—more rewarding with every new thing you discover. 

So, no, it’s not love, but something more like learning, because he’s not only laying down thin and new roots in your heart, but in your mind, too. 

Maybe because of how you met originally, you skip the small talk. He asks you about your username and you dive into a conversation about individuation and Jung, which leads to talk about Switzerland, which launches you into a discussion on all the places you most want to travel in the world and why you’d want to go to those places, specifically. And you like that with him, you are both aware and unaware of sounding pretentious—he doesn’t for a second make you feel like these ideas are too big for you or too irrelevant to waste time on. Instead, he makes you think more deeply—asking questions about why and how and with whom (the correct response, the undeniable truth, you know even then, is him), and in this short time, you have answers to questions you hadn’t thought of asking and new insight on ideas you’d been letting gather dust on the shelves of your brain.

Neither of you notice that around you, freelance workers and pairs of friends are packing up and leaving the shop, and tired baristas are tapping their fingernails on the countertops—too polite to just tell you to leave because they’re closing. 

You don’t notice because of him. He is captivating, and you’re sure he’s completely unaware of that quality in himself. He’s animated when he’s passionate about something—long arms flail about and his long body rocks back in his chair—as if all of his thoughts and ideas are threatening to burst out of him if he doesn’t move, doesn't give them some small release points to escape his body. 

You are entertained, engrossed, infatuated a little bit with this man. When you meet people online, there’s a chance that the bubble will burst in person. People seem to never quite live up to your expectations, to never match the image of them you’ve drawn in your head. 

But he is different… He matches. 

The bubble grows. 

It will grow for a long time (even though it feels short) for the two of you before it is burst into a messy detonation of your deepest feelings and fears. 

When you finally get the hint and leave the small coffee shop, drinks long forgotten, you walk side by side into the park. At his full height, he is taller than you’d imagined him. It’s a weeknight, and while commuters rush past the park to get home, inside the green square it is quiet. You walk together, and talk a little, but mostly you just observe each other. It should feel awkward, but it doesn’t. At one point, you explain what you like most about being in the city: the idea that so much is happening around you but you can also be anonymous. 

There’s a freedom in being closed in like that, you tell him. You like being forced to be within yourself—it’s uncomfortable and it is hard, but you think you are sometimes a better person for it. 

(He tells you days later, out of nowhere, sweat-glistening skin hovering above your own—biceps straining to hold his momentum back just long enough to speak—that he likes being within you and it makes him hard, too, and you both laugh until you can’t breathe while he fucks you silly… Namjoon has both the best and the worst timing for these kinds of things). 

He nods, dimples showing, and doesn’t say anything, but takes your hand in his tentatively, not putting any pressure there until you smile up at him in return. Then, he gently squeezes.

It is a date, then, you decide. The best you’ve ever had.

A while later, when you tell him that over food (in a typical oversharing moment), he pauses mid-hotdog bite and his eyes pop open in surprise. 

“Oh shit,” you mumble. “I thought… Oh no… I’m so sorry.” You bury your head in your hands and laugh at your own presumptuous nature until you feel a hand on yours, gently pulling it away from your face. 

“The best?” he asks, the bright smile on his face enough to blind you.

You nod slowly, heat blooming on your cheeks. 

“Good,” is all he says, not letting go of your hand as he props an ankle up on the opposite knee and leans back against the bench you’re sharing. “I think so, too.” 

Walking to the subway, fingers still twisted together, you finally hit the small details. You are both graduate students: you in biotechnology, him in anthropology. You live literal miles apart, and he makes a face when you tell him you don’t live in Manhattan. 

“What’s that for?” you ask, feigning insult. 

His voice is low when leans in close to your ear and replies, “Just thinking about all the time I’m going to spend traveling to see you.” 

It is the first of countless times he will make your whole body shiver when he’s not even trying.

🌿🌿🌿

There are two more dates after the first in quick succession. Luckily, your school schedules line up somewhat and neither of you mind spending time on the subway, so you find one another twice more that week. The first time, you head uptown to him and he shows you around his pristine neighborhood. It crosses your mind that you can’t believe someone your age can afford to live in a place like that, but before you can ask, he answers. 

“Scholarship.” 

“Ah… You’re smart, then?” 

At first he looks a little perturbed, and then he notices the satisfied, teasing smirk on your face. Because of course you already know that he is smart—it’s quite literally the first thing you knew about the man beside you. 

“I’m lucky,” he says sheepishly, lips pulled tight and head bobbing slowly, like he’s considering the choices and absence thereof that led him down the path that he is on. 

(You will slowly grow to hate those words. 

He will say them time after time as a mantra that braids itself into what sounds an awful lot like an excuse).  

But on that day, you think his humility is endearing. It’s one more thing that cements you to him. And in a physical manifestation of the feeling in your chest, you nudge him with your shoulder and lace your fingers with his—he’s too handsome and you’re too infatuated for an existential crisis on your second date. 

You walk his upper west side neighborhood until you can’t feel your feet anymore; you drink all the tea, you look at all of the art, you eat all of the street food, and then you sit on the stoop of his building and play “backstory.” Together, you decide what brought all of his neighbors to this place at this time, and you laugh at the especially absurd ones you both create. 

“What’s our backstory, then?” You ask this mostly as a joke, but a little bit to fill the silence, because after a day of watching his lips twist around laughter and songs and words, all your brain will willingly do is think about what it might be like to feel them on yours. 

Namjoon hums softly in thought, his fingers mindlessly tapping on the stoop between you, brushing the side of your thigh on the upstrokes. 

“I don’t know,” he finally says, voice rumbly and vibrating through the air straight into your chest. “But I know the epilogue.” 

It’s not what you expected him to say. Both online and in person, he never says the thing you expect him to say—it’s always something more and bigger and better and you take it all in, as much as he will give you, and you still want more. You are smiling in anticipation of what is coming on offer when you ask, “Oh, do you? And what is it?”  

His face is serious, brow furrowed in concentration, but it softens when he turns to you. “It says that we have had a great love.” He starts to smile at your smile (which is so wide now, you think your cheeks could crack like plaster), and he continues, “It’s always been bigger than we’ve known what to do with, and we could never contain it… We never really wanted to.” 

“Namjoon?”

“Yes?” For the first time since you’ve met him, his voice is wispy with anticipation—it has not escaped your notice that he’s staring at your lips and his fingers are no longer rapping at the concrete, but pressed into it tightly, all of the energy in his body focused outward, toward and onto you. 

You lean in and let your lips brush his warm cheek, just at the corner of his mouth. You too, are tempted to kiss him fully and wholly right this instant—it’s been consuming your thoughts since before you even saw the violin curve of his lips. “That is quite the line for a second date…” 

And faces still touching, he breaks out into silent laughter, lips stretched wide—his cheeks pinch up to show his devastating dimples—and head falling forward, further into yours. 

“Did it work?” he finally asks when he stops laughing. 

“Depends on what you were hoping to get.” 

It shouldn’t be a surprise, what he says next—not coming from this man who you are discovering is simultaneously somewhat clumsy in his body and incredibly dexterous with his words. 

But it still takes your breath away. 

“Everything,” he says, face still dangerously close to yours. “I want everything you’re willing to give.” 

So, you give. 

(Has anyone ever denied him anything he’s been brave enough to ask for? You are very sure the answer is no. Even now, even as the broken and stumbling version of yourself you are today, after having the gift of him you know the answer still. 

Anything for Namjoon. 

Anything he would ask for, you would give again and again). 

You turn enough to barely touch your lips to his and you can’t be sure which of you actually changes that whispering touch to something louder, but it’s not long before you are kissing him (or he is kissing you or you are now just one being whose only mission of survival is to kiss), not long before his fingers that had been gripping the step under you find their way to the round of your hip. 

And unlike the way he assaults the concrete, he holds you pensively, softly, like something he could crush. 

Someday later on, both of you will discover that he was right, he can crush you indeed.

🌿🌿🌿

“Lucky,” he sighs out, seemingly to himself, before turning onto his hip to face you, thumb marking his place in the book you’re reading side-by-side. “I am so lucky.”

You think it’s sweet, the way he looks at you after this third date. Is it after? You’re not quite sure, because he is here, in your apartment. So maybe it’s during… But you are lying on your bed reading the way you picture you might in forty years. 

(And you don’t need Yoongi here to inform you that you are getting way ahead of yourself—you know that already, it’s part of the fun of something new—and you’re probably setting yourself up to fail, for Namjoon to not meet your expectations sometime in the future when they get too big. 

But on this third date, or after it—or wherever you are in this abstract timeline—whatever is beginning to form between the two of you feels invincible, and you know the Yoongi voice in your head is wrong. Or you hope he is). 

You’re not actually on a date, you are in something with him. Comfort, maybe? Companionship? But if Seokjin knew you two had spent the day together stealing kisses on the sidewalk, letting your hands wander under one another’s shirts, and laughing into each other's mouths only to cap it off with a chaste and quiet reading session, he would tell you that you were losing your mind. 

And your charm.

“You’re thinking so loudly,” Namjoon observes. 

“Sorry… Trying to decide if we’re still on a date.”

“Why?” His thumb comes up to tug at your bottom lip, which is pushed out under the effort of your pointless, meandering thoughts. 

“I’m not sure.”

And fuck, you love the way he nods as if you’re being totally reasonable when both of you know that you are being anything but in this moment. You love the way he leaves his hand where it is and feels as well as hears your speech. 

“Well, I’m still here, and we’re still reading, so it seems like we still are to me.” 

You hum, pleased at the reminder that he is not intent on leaving any time soon. “It feels like more.” 

At that, he (shamefully, you think) sets his book down on the bed between you—it’s cracked open, spine straining. “It can be.”

“Can be what?” You ask, distracted by his dimples and his fingers and his lips and the very idea of him.

“More.”

“Stay with me?”

He smiles at you and pinches your lip which has been moving against the pad of his thumb throughout this whole conversation. Then he picks up his book and rolls over, returning to his back. “Okay.” 

If going back to his book when you’ve just asked him to stay the night is his version of hard to get, you can play along. You follow suit, returning your attention to your book. Or at least pretending to, because you notice the smirk he’s sporting and the way he keeps looking at you from the corner of his eye while you’re doing the same to him, and you also notice that the constant buzzing in your brain and veins you’ve felt since you met him is picking up steam and pairing up with the flipping in your stomach to make the anticipation almost palpable. 

When you’ve finished your chapter (which you will have to reread later, anyway), you resist the overwhelming, too-domestic-for-a-third-date urge to peck him on the cheek before you slide off the bed. “I’ll be right back. You need anything?”

He shakes his head and you leave, praying that your roommate is still awake, feeling generous, and not in the mood for teasing you.

Because the universe needs balance, and you owe something for the gift of the painfully hot man in your bed, you are only granted two of those wishes.

“You want what from me?”

“You heard me, Jinnie, please?” You put on your best pleading face, your widest eyes, and you tug lightly on his sleeve. 

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“I’ll make it up to you, I swear.” 

“No.” He shakes his head vehemently and then lets out a squeal as his character dies on the screen. “See what you’ve done? You’re distracting me.”

“All I’m saying is, if you think this is distracting, imagine how you’ll feel in an hour.”

Seokjin freezes and drops his controller into his lap. “You are disgusting,” he says. 

You lean down and whisper in his ear. “You have no idea, but you’re about to find out.” 

“Ugh! Fine. Give me ten minutes.” You can’t tell if he’s annoyed with you or just teasing when he huffs and mutters under his breath as he texts Yoongi to let him know he’s coming over to sleep on the couch. 

“Thank you, Jinnie… You are the most handsome and benevolent roommate and I will owe you forever. I’ll clean the bathroom for a month.” 

He rolls his eyes when he replies, not turning to look back at you as he heads to his room to put some necessities in a bag. “You’ll do no such thing. You wouldn’t even come close to meeting my standards and you know it.” 

“No one meets your standards,” you say to placate him. 

When he comes back out to the living room, he announces, “You do owe me, though.”

“Anything you want.” The anticipation that you thought couldn’t get more consuming continues to grow as he gets ready to leave—you are about to be alone, truly alone, with Namjoon. 

As Seokjin leaves, he peeks his head back through the door and smirks. “Send me a nude,” he says. 

“You absolute pervert, I would never,” you hiss. “You’re like my brother.” 

“Of him.” 

And before you can reply, the door closes, and he is gone until morning. You’ve bought yourself ten to twelve hours at least. Your knees almost buckle under your nerves and the thought of how much you could accomplish in that time. 

You’re practically in a daze as you brush your teeth and lay out a clean washcloth and a spare toothbrush for him in the bathroom. Maybe he’ll stay, maybe he won’t, but you want to be prepared. And something in your gut tells you he won’t go. 

More time must pass than you realize while you’re in the bathroom, because you’re zoned out and deep in your head about things when you hear a rapping on the door and that bass line voice calling softly. “Baby? Everything okay?” 

And if you thought you were weak for him before, you certainly are now. 

You open the door. “Baby?”

He smiles sheepishly. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be, I liked it.” 

“Good to know,” he says. “Where’s your roommate?”

“He realized he had someplace to be,” you reply. 

“Unrelated to the begging I heard you doing out here?” One perfect eyebrow lifts, like he’s either teasing or testing you. Maybe a little bit of both. 

You scoff, but your grin betrays you. “I don’t beg. I would never.” 

Taking that as a direct challenge to skills you’d never spoken about him possessing, it’s less than an hour later that Namjoon makes a liar out of you.

“Please, Joonie… I need you… I can’t…”

“You can’t what, baby?”

“Can’t fucking think… please…” 

You don’t even really know what you’re begging for as you pull at the sheets and at his hair—although at this point, you think pulling at his hair is just egging him on if the moaning he’s doing against your cunt is any indication. It’s fine, you don’t actually want him to stop, you just want. 

He slides a finger inside you, he moves it at a pace that matches the strokes of his tongue and is also too slow. You’d like another, you’d like him to move faster, you’d like his cock, you think. 

You’d like anything he’s willing to give you. You’re starting to wonder if this is what he’d meant on the stoop of his building when he said those words to you earlier in the week. 

But instead of asking for what you want, because you’re trying to not be the beggar that you really, truly now think you were meant to be, you just stop thinking altogether. You’re only barely still breathing when he adds another long finger inside you and brushes against your g-spot. You hardly notice when his lips leave your clit and find one nipple, and then the other. 

You are all sensation and moans and warmth and tingling—not really even sentient. 

Above you, he is a tease, he is too much, and you both despise him and think you fall a little in love when he smirks at you and asks you if what he’s doing feels good. 

Because you both know it does. 

His mouth treads a slow and steady path back down your body, pausing to kiss, to whisper how into you he is, to take your skin between his teeth and then soothe it over with his tongue. There isn’t, you think, another feeling in your body other than anticipation. Every single millimeter of you is waiting for him, still wanting. And oh, the way he doesn’t disappoint. When he reaches your core again, fingers still sliding in and out at a punishingly slow rate, he truly begins his work. A man on a mission. You don’t think time exists anymore, not really, but you’d wager it’s less than sixty seconds before your back arches and you come hard on his hand and his tongue. 

As you breathe and shiver a little and try to regain your sense of the world around you, he doesn’t move. His head stays between your thighs, and he breathes softly against you, fingers still inside you, and he smiles each time you contract around them. Finally, slowly, he withdraws his hand and slides up your body to kiss you, the taste of you on his lips and tongue. 

He lies beside you and pulls you into his chest, just letting you relax until he says, “So, you do beg.” 

You smile through your grumbling, and tilt your head up to look at him, his mouth still glossy with the evidence of his success. “Sorry,” you reply. Although you aren’t. 

“Don’t be sorry... I just can’t wait to see what else you do.”

And he doesn’t have to wait long. 

🌿🌿🌿

It’s a routine at this point. Twice a week, Namjoon comes over after school, and you both work or read or study until Seokjin makes dinner for all of you, and then your roommate and Yoongi retreat out of the apartment, leaving you and your maybe-boyfriend alone. 

Six weeks ago you met in the tiny Manhattan coffee shop, and you’ve practically been inseparable since. It happened without either of you really deciding, you think. Almost like it was predetermined—once you knew each other, there was just no going back to life without each other. It’s a quiet kind of thing, one that sneaks in and takes hold of you and you don’t really notice until you realize you couldn’t possibly imagine your life before it. 

You know you love him. It’s silly and too soon and all of the things that your older cousins and friends always warned you about. “How well do you really know him?” they would point out. “What if he has a secret life or something?” they will ask. 

But it doesn’t matter. You know you love him when you’re reading together, your back pressed to his chest, his legs sprawled out around you as he rests his chin on your shoulder and listens to you tell him a story. You know you love him when he takes an interest in what Seokjin and Yoongi are doing solely because they are important to you, so they’re important to him now, too. You know you love him when he tells you how much he thinks you would like his sister and that he very much would like for you two to meet one day. 

You know you love him when he tries to cook for you and fails miserably, but has already ordered delivery because he knew how it would turn out—he just thought it was important to try. 

So, it’s on one of the days when he isn’t around, his schedule too full and too incompatible with yours, that Seokjin decides to force your hand. 

“I’m just saying—fuck!” he exclaims as his character dies again. He is uncharacteristically bad at whatever game he’s playing tonight. Telling you that you’re barrel-rolling down a hill of mistakes seems to be impacting his ability to focus. “I’m saying he’s here all the time.” 

“He’s here twice a week.” 

“That’s what I said.”

“It isn’t,” you retort matter-of-factly. 

Yoongi chimes in (of course he’s been listening from his perch on the arm of the sofa). “You need to take your roommate back full-time. I can’t live like this.” 

“He can be here any time he likes—I only asked him to leave the one time.” 

Seojin looks at you with feigned horror, a dramatic hand to his chest. “You think I deserve to sit here and listen to the depraved things you do in there?” He gestures toward your bedroom. 

“No.” You stick your tongue out. “I think you should wear headphones like Yoongi’s and mind your own business. It’s what I’ve always done for you.” 

He throws himself flat on the sofa, letting out a loud sigh. “Yoongi, do you hear her? She’s choosing him over me.”

You know he’s being dramatic on purpose, you know he doesn’t really think that… But the defense of your actions tumbles out before you even have time to think about it. The slip-up is classic for you: there are so many things you’ve said to Seokjin that he will never let you forget. 

From your desk behind him, you say quietly, “You need to get used to it, Jinnie. I think I love him.” 

The response you get is loud and triumphant, and not at all what you were expecting. “Ha!” Seokjin shouts and pumps a fist as Yoongi lets out a long sigh. 

“What?”

“He owes me $20.” It’s all the explanation you get, and you don’t really know why they’ve been apparently betting on your feelings for Namjoon, but it’s not exactly a surprise, either. You wonder if Seokjin actually cares that your sort-of-boyfriend has been coming over twice a week or if it was all some elaborate plan to get you to tell them something you should have kept private for at least another six to twelve weeks. 

“So, you don’t need him to stop coming over?” 

“Of course not,” your roommate replies. “We like him and he makes you happy. Plus, he’s nice to look at.” 

The conversation ends as abruptly as it started, and you stare at the computer screen in front of you where you’d been in the middle of your work before you got played. There’s a teeny, tiny part of you that’s relieved. Your neighbor and your roommate are a lot of things, and observant is one. If they’ve seen you together, and they know how you feel, and they’re not staging an intervention… Well, maybe it will all work out. Maybe some of Namjoon’s luck is making its way to you. 

As if he can sense you’re thinking about him, a message pops up, disturbing the blank space in front of you. 

Pride&Prejoondice: Hey. How’s work going?

JungForever: Slow, tbh… you? 

Pride&Prejoondice: Same. Want to get together and talk about books? 

JungForever: Want to get together and not talk? 

Your phone is ringing almost the second after you send the message, and you pick it up to the sound of his voice. “Fuck, baby. You can’t say things like that unless you mean them.” 

The giggle you let out is both unlike you and unrestrained. It’s nice to be the one teasing him, even if you hadn’t meant it as a tease. “Why do you think I didn’t mean it?”

He lets out an audible groan. You can picture the face you think he’s making—the way his jaw tightens and he fits his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Because we’re both busy and at least an hour away from each other.” 

“We could change that?”

“Unbusy ourselves?” He laughs a little, huffs out a breath of disbelief. You know him a little now, and you know he will work until he can’t; far past when he should and past when he’s taking care of himself and making good choices. You’re not sure if you’re a good choice or not—your intentions are good, at least. 

“More like… un-distance ourselves… We could meet somewhere in the middle and suffer together?” 

“With clothes on.” And you’re not sure if he’s asking or telling you; not sure if he sounds disappointed or relieved. 

It’s your turn to laugh. “At first anyway, yeah.” 

“Okay. Let me shower first and then I’ll meet you at our spot.” 

You can’t help the way your breath hitches when he says it. It’s not even something you’d ever discussed, but you know exactly what he means, anyway. The cafe where you went on your first date. Your spot. The satisfaction and warmth you feel is instant.

“Okay,” you say softly, nodding along even though he can’t see you. “Our spot. See you there.” 

“You really are fucked up for him, aren’t you?” Behind you, Seokjin is amused as you end the call, but you’d forgotten he was even there. 

“Yeah…” you agree. 

Because you are, and it’s honestly not a bad way to describe how you feel. There’s a fine line between “in love” and “fucked up,” and you’re not sure which side of it you’re on. Both, maybe. 

Sometime later, when your back is pressed up against a cafe bathroom sink, your shirt hiked up, bra snapped open, and your jeans pulled off, you decide that you’re probably a little past whatever love feels like and into something closer to: “would do desperate and formerly implausible things to be with him.”

He folds his long body just enough so that he can pull one of your nipples between his teeth, his cock buried inside you. He bites and licks and rocks into you, mutters against your skin about how good you are, how he loves the way you look when he’s fucking you, that he never wants to stop. And you don’t want him to either. He’s been drawing this out for a while now, slow and deep and you feel like you could come at any moment. It’s glorious and also frustrating, because he refuses to move faster, to fuck you like he means it. 

And then he stops completely, pulling out of you slowly, his breath shallow and lazy… He’s staring at you like you’re the nicest artwork he’s ever seen, whispering something that sounds like a cross between lust and reverence across his plump bottom lip. 

You, meanwhile, can barely breathe, have been on the edge for what feels like forever, and you’re pretty sure you look like a mess. 

You’re also pretty sure he really likes that. 

“You need to see this, baby,” he whispers, pulling you off the edge of the sink by your hips and turning you around so that he is pressing you into it again, but this time you can see yourself in the mirror. When he uses his knee to spread your legs open, you whine—it’s anticipation and longing and just sheer fascination with how well he already knows your body, how after such a short time he seems to be able to give you exactly what you need. 

But it makes sense. If there’s anything you know about Kim Namjoon, it’s that he’s an excellent student. He pays attention, he listens, he observes things… observes you. He likes to learn everything there is to know about certain things. It’s only rational that you would be included in that list. The idea that he thinks of you as a thing to study just makes you like him more. You like it even as a flat palm between your shoulder blades pushes you closer to the mirror, and another one tugs your hips higher up in the air. You may like it even more than usual just then, you decide. 

His hand slides up your neck and around to your jaw, and you can feel the slick head of his cock pressing against your ass when he pulls your chin up, forcing you to watch yourself in the mirror. He was right, it is certainly a sight to see—his eyes are darker than normal and fixed on you firmly, his lip is tucked under his teeth. He looks like a dream.

And there, in the same frame, is you. You, under him, with your warm face and swollen lips and a pleading look on your face that does all your begging for you. 

He rolls his hips forward and slides himself across you, but doesn’t push back inside, doesn’t give you what you need. “You need more?” he asks, smirking just enough for a dimple to appear.  

You nod as much as you can with his fingers still wrapped around your jaw and he gives you a full smile in return. It’s soft and sincere, and he tells you how much he loves to take care of you as he pushes back inside of you. 

It should be rough, the position is perfect for it. You’re expecting him to pull almost all the way out and snap back into you, you expect to have bruises on the front of your hips from the sink you’re collapsed over. 

But it’s something so different from that. It’s loving and slow, and suddenly what you thought you had needed from him (harder, deeper, rougher) slips away and what he is giving you instead is as close to perfect as you think anything could be. In the mirror, you watch as he kisses up the side of your neck, as he moves two fingers to your bottom lip. You open your mouth and take them in, and you get to watch his eyes widen as you suck on them, tongue mirroring the things you would do if it were his dick in your mouth instead. 

It should feel dirty, you think, getting fucked in front of a mirror in a cafe bathroom in midtown. There’s something about it that should feel cheap or tawdry. But it doesn’t. It’s strangely romantic when he tells you that you’re beautiful, tells you how much he needed to see you, how he just wants to make you feel good, that he wants you to come on his cock, that he thinks it’s the kind of miracle he doesn’t believe in that he met you… He won’t stop talking—frenzied and almost nervous as he rambles, and you’re very glad his fingers are pushed into your mouth when you finally come, when he comes inside you and whispers that he loves you—if they weren’t there to keep you quiet, you think you’d yell his name so loudly they’d hear it in Hoboken. 

You also think it’s a good thing his fingers are still pressing on your tongue when you swallow around them, swallowing the urge to say it back. It’s too soon, and you know it. 

It’s all very soft when he pulls out of you and helps you clean up. It’s cute when his cheeks flush with embarrassment and his dimples dig deeply into those cheeks as he realizes he might have said too much in the moment, or more than he meant to, anyway. 

“I hope that’s okay,” he says shyly while he’s carefully buttoning your jeans for you—the ones he not-as-timidly almost ripped off of you a half an hour before, his large hands suddenly clumsy against your skin. 

“Yeah, it’s okay.” 

“You… don’t have to say it back.” 

“I know,” you say. “It’s all really fast. I… I don’t not, though.” 

He flashes his killer smile again, this one bright and hopeful, and he digs his fingertips into your sides and pulls you tight to him. “You don’t not love me?”

“Mmhmm,” you murmur, trying to stifle the giggle that’s threatening to escape. 

You know he means it when he says, “I don’t not love you, too, baby.”

🌿🌿🌿

By the time the summer ends, you and Namjoon have moved past double negatives and are fully into admitting you’re falling for one another. In fact, you’ve sort of moved into territory you’ve never really found yourself in before: you are the irritating, too-in-love assholes who make it hard for the decent people of Manhattan to avoid how desperately into one another you are. You are kissing against the sides of brownstones in the middle of the day. He is riding the subway for almost an extra hour a day just so he can sit next to you on your way to your campus. You are gliding through a park sitting on the handles of his bicycle and laughing so hard you think you might throw up. 

You have been in relationships before. You have been in love before. But you have never been in this uncontrollable, giddy, ridiculous state with anyone else. It’s a dream. Each day, you tell Seokjin that you think it’s got to be too good to be true, and each day he responds that it might be, and Yoongi tells you in different words that you should be more careful with your heart. But it can’t be helped. Namjoon is a part of you now. A kind, thoughtful, and far too smart for his own good part of your very being. 

There are crisp early-autumn days with long walks in the park, there are cozy nights on your couch where you listen to Seokjin grumble about what a better job he could do at playing the main character in whatever movie you’re watching than the actor who actually plays the role. Days pass with large mugs of coffee and long talks about the world and your feelings and your families, and then nights end with bourbon and books and the occasional video game with your roommate. You watch contentedly from the kitchen while Namjoon and Seokjin become something that looks an awful lot like close friends. 

Over that time, you feel like you come to a place of really knowing each other (or you think so anyway, in most of the ways that count). Your heart still thumps when he comes into a room, you still feel like you might actually dissolve at the sight of his dimples, but you know how to get a grin from him, you know how to calm his busy thoughts, to reassure him just enough that he can accept it. He is brilliant, and he worries a lot, takes a lot on his plate. There are times when he will get so deep in his own mind that it is difficult to get his attention, difficult to get him to focus on something external. In moments of letting his guard down, he shares that he worries he isn't a good enough son, brother, friend, partner, lover, human… 

He is never not trying. It almost makes you exhausted to watch. In this way, you are very different people. You want self-improvement, but you think sometimes that can come from the quiet things: the self-reflection, the unwinding, the giving yourself space to settle into the you that you currently are. He is always wanting, always moving, always wondering if his best efforts are enough. 

And then he tells you that with you he feels calm. That those things don’t worry him as much. That you make him think that there is hope and good in the world, and that he is working hard enough, trying the best he can. 

You bring him peace. 

He challenges you to try. 

It’s a good combination, and good is an understatement. It’s unlike any you’ve had before—it’s one you now know you should have tried a lot harder to hold onto. One you should have yelled from the rooftops about and sent out search parties for. Instead, you let it slowly slip into the bright night lights of the city, an unnamed passenger in an unmarked taxi. You’re pretty sure you’ll never have the pleasure of something like it again. 

You’ll never know someone like him again. 

And that is a truth you accept long before you realize that what you have with him won’t last forever. In the autumn (the beginning of it anyway), you still believe. You decide if you’ll never know someone like him again, you want to know everything one could possibly know. It’s when you ask him, one afternoon, naked and tucked into him, pressed close close close (but not close enough—you’re not literally one with him yet and you think even then, even if you were, you’d still need more). You whisper, “When can I meet your roommates?” 

It’s not a big question. Not compared to all the Very Big questions the two of you have asked and answered with each other (about the universe, about poetry, about love—love is corndogs, you’re both sure of that). So this, wanting to meet the people that he used to spend all of his time with before you, this is not a big deal. But for some reason you think it might be to him, because you have never even been in his apartment. He says yours is cleaner, he likes Seokjin and Yoongi, you have a bigger bed… 

He’s not a dishonest person, you’re fairly confident. So, you never assume he’s hiding something from you. It all seems reasonable, true… There’s no reason to think anything except exactly what he tells you. Logically then, you decide if those are his only reasons, you don’t particularly feel bothered by any of them and you want to see where he lives. His space. His people. You want to touch his things and bury your face in a pillow that smells like him, to see the little touches that are surely around this place that are unmistakably him. 

“It’s complicated,” he says, almost sighing it out. 

“What?” You get a little defensive, rolling over so you can face him. “Is it really, or are you making it that way?”

This causes him to make the face you shouldn’t love, but you do. He grinds his jaw a little with his cheeks sucked in. He’s irritated, but you know it never lasts. It’s the length of an inhale, and he exhales out a perfect dimpled grin. 

“I’m probably making it that way.” 

“Don’t you like them?” 

“I do.”

“And you like me?”

“I don’t not like you…” he teases, running his fingers down your side, lower lower lower until they trail around to your hip and dig in, pulling you closer to him. His lips hit your jaw; they’re soft and warm and you almost forget what you were about to say when they dip to your neck, when he rests them below your ear, against your pulse. 

He is devious.

“No,” you say, pushing him back a little with a hand against his chest. “You’re not changing the subject.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” he says in his most innocent voice, which somehow never actually sounds like he’s innocent of anything. 

“Exactly.” You pout. It’s not a thing you like to resort to, but sometimes it’s a necessity. “Do you not want me to see your home?”

“It’s not that…” You can hear the resolve wearing down in his voice. “They’re… a lot. My roommates.” 

You don’t believe in fate, but it feels something like it when Seokjin’s shrieking from the living room interrupts your conversation. There aren’t any words needed. Namjoon laughs and tucks his head into your neck as you shoot up an eyebrow as if your point has been made for you. 

“Okay,” he concedes. “Come over to my place tomorrow? We can go from here after breakfast.”

Once more, you push your bottom lip out. “The morning? That’s so far from now! What’re we gonna do to stay busy until then?”

And when he rolls atop you—pinning your wrists up near the top of the bed—he’s half-hard already, pressed against your hip, whispering, “I’m sure that’s not going to be a problem, baby.” 

No, you think, it won’t be a problem at all. 

In the morning, you both shower and then you cook breakfast for the four of you while Namjoon and Yoongi share a pair of headphones at your desk, listening to whatever Yoongi’s newest project is. They look like they’ve known each other for a lifetime, and it at the same time fills your heart and makes you nervous to meet his people—you want them to more than like you. You want them to care for you the way that your people care for Namjoon. They might not say it, they might tease, but you can tell by the way Seokjin makes the food Namjoon comments is his favorite, by the way that Yoongi listens to his advice about music (Yoongi never listens to your advice about music… Which is probably a good thing, but still…). They love him, too. 

It’s a lot to live up to. 

You’ve never thought yourself particularly endearing; it can take you time to warm up to people. The three men in the room with you have been glaring exceptions to that. And you want to try for him. You love him so fiercely that you can’t picture not also loving the other people that he loves. 

It’s just short of terrifying. 

But meeting Jungkook and Hoseok is actually fine. Better than fine. They’re both kind and funny—and it’s very clear that they care for Namjoon. They’re welcoming to you, they tell you they’ve been bugging him to meet you for a month at least; that they saw you on the stoop together on your second date and since then, Namjoon’s been happier than they’ve ever seen him. 

They are a lot, just like Namjoon had told you, both excitable and enthusiastic in a way that complements Namjoon’s more precise ways. You know right away that they would love Seokjin and Yoongi, too, and as the three men talk, you let yourself get carried away, picturing how your groups will start to mesh together. There’s got to be a way to get everyone in one room, you decide. Maybe for the holidays? Who knows which of them is leaving town though. Just because you, Seokjin, and Yoongi always stick around the city doesn’t mean that everyone does. 

“So,” you start when there’s a break in the conversation, “do you know yet if you’re going home for winter break or if you’re all sticking around here?” 

Jungkook is quick to answer before the others. “Hoseok doesn’t go to school, so he’s staying here with me.”

You don’t notice the mildly panicked look on Namjoon’s face when he says it, or how that look gets more intense when Jungkook adds, “We really need to start looking for a new roommate.”

“Oh,” you chime in, “you have an extra room?” 

“We will when Joon leaves,” Jungkook says matter-of-factly. 

It’s odd, because you nod along at first, not realizing exactly what those words mean. When they start to sink in a little, you finally notice Namjoon, whose skin has gone about five shades paler than normal, and Hoseok, who wears a pained expression as if he knows that there is something that Namjoon has not told you, something he probably wasn’t planning on you finding out from his roommate. When it finally hits you that Jungkook has implied that Namjoon is moving out, moving… somewhere… you just stare at your boyfriend in silence. What are you supposed to say? There are so many questions that start tripping around in your head, and they’re so loud in the otherwise oddly quiet living room of the boys’ apartment. 

“Well, it’s a nice place,” you choke out. “You shouldn’t have a problem finding someone.” 

Without skipping a beat, Jungkook launches into telling you about how roommates are harder to find in the winter and that they got lucky the first time around because Hoseok was local and not a student, so he wasn’t on the July move-in schedule that almost everyone else seemed to be. While he speaks, you and Namjoon are quiet, only looking at each other. You don’t even hear what his roommate is saying; you don’t notice when Hoseok ushers him out of the apartment with an apologetic, tight-lipped smile. You don’t hear the door shut behind them. 

You hear your heart pounding in your chest and the voice in your head that’s telling you not to panic, that this must all have an explanation, that he would have told you if he was leaving leaving because you’ve been seeing him for three months and surely if he was planning on leaving the city in another three, he would have mentioned something by now. Or conversely, he would have said less, wouldn’t have told you he loves you. You don’t tell someone you love them and also fail to tell them you’re skipping town. Maybe he’ll even move closer to you, you think. But none of that explains the twisted frown that has his brow furrowed and his jaw tight. None of that explains the next thing he says. 

“We should talk.”

No shit, you think. But what you say is, “Probably.”

“I’m really lucky,” he says quietly. And that is the first time those words leave a sour taste in your mouth. 

“Lucky how?”

He lets out a long breath before he answers. Summoning courage, maybe. “I got a job offer. Research… Really interesting field work, actually. With people who are excited to have me. A really good team—” 

“Congratulations,” you say flatly, cutting him off. It doesn’t sound at all like you mean it, even though you sort of do because you know how much he cares about what he does, how much attention he puts into everything, how uncompromising he can be when it comes to things like this. If he’s excited, if he thinks it’s a good opportunity, it really must be. 

“Thanks.”

Your patience is growing a little thin. And it’s not him (it’s kind of him, but you really don’t want to fight), you’re just nervous. None of this feels like it’s going well, like it’s going to be what you want to hear. “Well, do you want to tell me about it?”

He can’t even look at you properly when he comes out with the next part. “It’s in Nigeria.” 

“Nigeria?”

“Mmhmm. Yes. Researching normative theories of media.” He’s picking at a thread on the hem of his shirt, anything to avoid making eye contact with you, it seems.

“In Nigeria?” You repeat it, just to make sure you’re both on the same page because this can definitely not be correct. Not at all. 

“Doctor Larkin is the best,” he says. “The most prominent researcher in the field. There’s… there’s so much to learn.” Finally, he looks at you, and he’s got his pleading face on; like he needs you to understand or accept or tell him something like he’s doing the right thing. 

And he probably is. 

But he should have fucking told you. 

“How long have you known?” you ask quietly. 

His face falls and he doesn’t have to say anything for you to know it’s been a while. Maybe the whole time you’ve been dating. 

Maybe before that. 

“I applied late in March, found out for sure that I got the job in June.” 

“When we met.” That part is spoken more to yourself than to him, and isn’t really a question, but he answers you anyway. 

“Actually, the day I asked you out. Which probably makes this worse? I don’t know… I didn’t think… I didn’t know you would be… you. I was so excited, and it was such a good day, and I thought, why not, you know? You were so funny and interesting and I had no idea what this would be.” He gestures between the two of you. “I thought, ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’’’

Of fucking course. 

“Well,” you say, “now you know, I guess.” 

You realize you’re crying when you see a tear stain appear on your lap, and once you see it, you can’t stop it. It turns into a full-on sob, your shoulders shaking and lip quivering as you show Namjoon a side of you that you’d so far managed to avoid: the ugly cry. 

Next to you on the sofa, he doesn’t seem to know what to do. His hands hover near you like you’ll snap if he actually touches you, and he opens and closes his mouth, but doesn’t say anything. And you, as much as you hate it, as much as you want to be mad, you let yourself slump into his chest, taking whatever comfort you can get. 

Even if it’s only marginally comforting knowing he’s the one that’s got you crying in the first place. 

After you sniffle in his arms, after he places soft kisses to the top of your head, after your tears start to dry up, you say what you should have said when he told you. The words are muffled when you speak them into his shirt, but you know he hears you. “I’m so proud of you, Joonie.” 

“You’re not mad?”

An interesting question, for sure. You aren’t, not really. But you’re confused, and you’re more than a little sad, and you know that even if by some miracle he would ask you to go with him in three more months, you wouldn’t do that—it’s too far away from home and (repeating the words to yourself that you aren’t aware Namjoon is tired of you saying) it’s too soon. 

So, what hits you all of a sudden is that this love you feel, that you talk about, that you both say you have for each other… it has an expiration date. Or at least your ability to act on it does. 

“I don’t know what to think,” you say honestly.

“I love you.” 

“I know. I love you, too. It sucks.” You let out a quiet, wry laugh when you say it, and he laughs, too. It’s melancholy and hollow and you hate it. But it’s marginally better than crying again. 

“We still have time,” he says. But it sounds more like a question than a statement, as if he wants your permission (or maybe just your agreement) to keep going down this dead-end path. 

Without a response, you lift your head to kiss him, deeply and slowly and with every unspoken feeling passed from your lips to his and then back again. He’s got one arm around you and one hand to your face to brush away the tears still collecting on your cheekbone. 

It isn’t long before you’re almost frantically moving to his room (the one you’re about to see for the first time, and the irony isn’t lost on you that your first time here is really a beginning of an end for the two of you. It would be poetic if it weren’t just so fucking sad), your sadness temporarily replaced with a kind of urgency. You need to touch him, to feel him, to have that physical connection overwhelm the emotional turmoil you find yourself in. Fortunately, Namjoon seems to be on the same page: eyes pleading, hands roaming, dick already hard as he leads you down the hall. 

Whoever decided that makeup sex was the best kind probably hadn’t ever been told their relationship was going to end in three months and then started fucking immediately afterward. In short, it’s the best sex you’ve had with him, sitting on the top of an already pretty impressive list. 

(As he kisses down your torso, leaving bite marks like cairns on the paths of your bones, you imagine this is a little bit what it would be like to know when you were going to die and have the physical and mental capacity to use your remaining time to cross off everything on your bucket list. 

The way he is touching you, the deep and vibrating moans he makes when you touch him, the perfect pressure you feel as he slides into you… This is your skydiving, your photo at the top of the Eiffel Tower, your visiting the Parthenon. 

You can’t be patient, you can’t bide your time. Not anymore).

You dig your fingernails into his back at the first sharp thrust he gives, and in return, he wraps large hands around your back and pulls you up so that you’re sitting in his lap, foreheads pressed close as you adjust your knees at his sides and begin to ride him. It’s deep, deep, deep like this; a fitting metaphor for how you feel, maybe. 

He doesn’t stop kissing you, and impressively, he doesn’t stop talking either. You’re all tangled tongues and he gives messy pleas for you to not stop, to use him, to cum on his cock. It’s so hot when he begs like this, when you can affect this literal genius of a man to the point that he’s rambling and incoherent, telling you how fucking hot you are, how good he wants to make you feel, that he loves fucking you and moreover, he fucking loves you. 

If you weren’t so close to coming, you’d be laughing with affection for him, dopey with that feeling that you are so, so perfect for one another. But as it stands, he’s got one hand making circles on your clit and one tugging into your hair to give him access to kiss and lick stripes up your throat and you aren’t even coherent enough to speak, let alone laugh. All you can do is whimper and focus on getting him to his orgasm so he can arrive with you, so you can get the timing right for at least this one thing.

You move your hips a little as you seat yourself on him and the groan he gives you in return is heavenly. It must have done something to him, because he bites down hard on the skin just below your ear and uses core strength you didn’t know he had to start fucking into you with a purpose. And as soon as your eyes start to roll back a little, his lips are on yours again, bringing whatever few thoughts you have left back to him, to how much you like him, to how good he truly is in most all meanings of that word. 

And that thought, of how much you simply fucking care for him, has you squeezing around him and moaning out his name as you cum, pulling him along with you as you feel his thighs tense below you. 

It’s loud in the room with your combined heavy breaths and your thoughts and your love as you slump into each other, spent. There isn’t much to say you think, except for this, which you might regret later. “I think we should make the most of it.”

Namjoon smiles at you, soft but broad, and tightens his arms around you. “That,” he says, “I can do.”

🌿🌿🌿

So, you do your best to do what you promised in a post-orgasmic haze of delirium. You try to make the most of the time you have left with him. Both of you are busy busy busy with dissertation work, but you do it together. Side-by-side in the library, stolen moments in the hallway outside of your lab, late nights spent either at his place or yours, and sometimes you even go out with all of your roommates when you’re feeling particularly irresponsible. 

The few months that have passed since you promised to try to have a good time—to not worry about him leaving, to love him regardless of whatever heartbreak you know is coming—have truly passed in a blur. 

Time flies when you’re having fun, and apparently also when you’re drawing near to the end of something bigger than you. 

(Time flies when you’re running out of it). 

You want to pause everything around you except him. You want to give yourselves endless moments stretched out as everything else stands still and bears witness to what you’ve built. It’s something that should be timeless and beautiful, but instead is prefaced with an hourglass running dangerously low on sand. 

But today is one of those carefree nights out, and you’re at a bar on your side of the river with the whole little family you’ve built: Seokjin and Yoongi sitting across from Jungkook and Hoseok, you across from Namjoon, and Jungkook’s school friends who never seem to actually go to school, Taehyung and Jimin, blocking all of you in, pressed tight together at the end of the table. Around you, everyone is laughing at a story Tae is telling about something cute Jimin did. 

Everyone around you is laughing (even Yoongi with his cheeks pulled up high) except for you and Namjoon. 

It’s not quite what you wanted, it’s not the world freezing around you to let your moment stretch, but the opposite: you feel weighted with the whiskey you’ve been drinking and the fact that while everyone around you keeps talking and laughing (Tae’s hair flopping into his face as he speaks for “added effect”), you and Namjoon are frozen. Your ankles are tangled together under the table and your fingers are twisted on top of it, and you don’t think you’ve taken your eyes away from his save the one time you got up to use the bathroom. You are frozen and heavy and the world whirls around you while you watch each other carefully, faces soft in opposition to your limbs. 

Because for all the talking, nobody is saying the one thing that you’re afraid to acknowledge, the actual reason you’re all out in this fucking bar to begin with. Until Tae, in all his drunken excitement, finally does, snapping you out of whatever fantasy you’ve been weaving about you or Namjoon being the Iceman of your generation. 

“Congratulations Dr. Kim!” he exclaims, raising his negroni glass, reminding you that one: Tae drinks exclusively old man drinks and wears exclusively old man clothes, and two: your boyfriend Kim Namjoon is now officially Doctor Kim Namjoon, oral defense of his dissertation complete on the coldest December day you can ever remember. 

The others follow, one by one until finally, you raise your glass, too, clinking it gingerly with Yoongi, then Namjoon (paired with a smile that you hope says both “I’m happy for you,” and “I feel like my organs are being shredded, heart first”), and then finally Seokjin, who gives you the saddest grin you think he’s capable of, downs his drink in one thick swallow, and tucks his free arm around your shoulders protectively. 

As if he can save you from what’s coming. As if he can save you from yourself. 

For weeks, he’s been trying to help you land softly from this fall you’re pretending isn’t going to happen. Trying to coax you into spending more time with him and Yoongi, reminding you not to leave more clothes and toiletries at Namjoon’s apartment. It doesn’t work, of course. You’re strong-willed and in love, and he cares for you enough not to push; knows it’ll have the opposite effect of the one he’s intending.

It’s not much later, less than thirty minutes maybe, that Hoseok and Jungkook are discussing their potential new roommates across from you and you feel the tug of Seokjin’s arm, guiding you out of your chair before he threads his fingers with yours and pulls you out the front door. Neither of you speak when he offers you a cigarette and you silently decline, knowing you’ve had enough to drink you’ll already feel like shit in the morning without adding nicotine to your list of sins. 

“You okay?” he asks gently. 

“I’m happy for him.” It’s an automatic response—the same one you’ve been giving to a multitude of questions, but you know it’s not quite an answer to the one your roommate asked you. Because of that, your obvious deflections, Seokjin rolls his eyes at you as he flicks ash on the ground. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Another something?” you chide, nudging him in the side, the whiskey and the familiarity of the conversation allowing a small smile to pop across your face just for him. 

“Why are you still doing this? Why didn’t you stop when he told you?” He doesn’t meet your eyes when he asks; it’s the most direct he’s approached the subject. It’s the most direct he maybe has ever been with you. He adds softly, “It’s going to make it so much harder… The time is, you know?”

You nod. You do know. The extra time you’ve had with Namjoon is going to make his departure this weekend worse. It’s also been the best few months you’ve ever had. You hum, trying to figure out how to explain it to Seokjin so that he’ll understand… Maybe a little to explain it to yourself, too, because when you’d decided to make the most of the time you had, it hadn’t even really been a hard decision. It was a given. 

“I think… I think it’s like if I told you I only had three months to live, kind of. You wouldn’t kick me out of the apartment and tell me it’s been nice being roommates for years. You’d want to make it the best three months, right?” 

Seokjin takes a drag from his cigarette and as he blows the smoke out, replies, “Guess it depends on how good your health insurance is. And if I’m in your will.” 

You shove his shoulder and groan, but he just catches your waist and pulls you into his side, his chin resting on top of your head. “Okay. That makes sense,” he says, mumbling into your hair. “But we’re only giving you one full week of ice cream and Hallmark channel in your room. Then we’re going to force you to face the world again. I’ll do what I did to your ice cream supply after your last breakup.” 

You gasp in fake shock. “You would never.”

“Yoongi suggested it this time.” 

“Evil.” 

“I know, but he likes mincho.” 

You tilt your head up as Seokjin pulls away, your grimaces matching before you both burst into laughter. 

“Thank you, Jinnie. I love you.” 

He shrugs and turns to head back into the bar, calling back to you over his shoulder, “Who wouldn’t? And think about that will thing, okay?”

Back inside, you shrug off your jacket and slide into the chair next to Namjoon, automatically lacing your fingers with his on the table. He doesn’t need to ask out loud if you’re okay, just squeezes your hand and pushes a drink toward you as he leans in to kiss your temple. He’s been quieter in the last week; maybe reflective, maybe he just doesn’t know what to say. Endings are hard—you know that as well as he does, and if you really think about it, you’ve been the same. There are moments when it just seems easier to say nothing at all, even though you know once he’s gone there will be a million things you wish you’d told him, a million more moments you wish you’d been able to steal. 

It could be a good thing he’s leaving. A sort of ‘quit while you’re ahead’ situation. Not enough time for things to go stale, for the sex to get boring, for you to run out of things to talk about, for one of you to be impatiently wondering what the next step might be while the other is comfortably oblivious. 

No, it won’t be a death by natural causes. Not for you. 

Yours is the story of something taken too soon, picked ripe at the height of its beauty (you think, anyway), and all you’ll be left with are good memories, a comforting lullaby of what could have been, a romanticized version of him and you and everything between you. With only a day left, you’re determined not to let a single moment be less than wonderful, not to dig your thumbs in and put any blemish on the flesh of what’s shaping up to be a perfect memory. 

“Baby…” His lips are almost on the shell of your ear, and you feel his hand untangle from yours and slide to your leg to get your attention. 

You turn to face him, and he is, just as he was in your mind, something close to perfect. Fluffy hair, earnest smile bracketed with those dimples, eyes shiny with alcohol and affection… You’re so lucky you get to keep him like this, preserved without much fault. 

(You push out the other pieces of him, the ones you’ll never have to address since your time is cut short: his shortish temper, the way he plays off his accomplishments to be humble and avoid accountability at the same time, the differences in your upbringings that might make holidays and families more of a navigation than a celebration, the way he’s too competitive—you know that it’s not normal to sulk for a whole day after losing Mario Kart, you know that this side of him is one you’d have to tease out and unwind if you were gifted with any more time. 

So there are things about him, about this, that make his early departure almost easier—you’ll never have to work through anything except the feeling of missing him by your side—it will never be difficult for the two of you, and it’s a blessing, you hope, in some ways). 

“Hey,” you whisper back. “Ready to go, doctor?” 

He flushes and lets his chin dip, not yet used to the new title, but his smile widens and he nods. “If you are.” 

You say your goodbyes and make your way out of the bar to smirks and winks and catcalls from your friends (except Jungkook, who smiles politely, if a little shy, and tells you that you’re always welcome at their apartment. The unsaid ending of his offer is “even after Joon is gone,” and he doesn’t have to say it for you to know that’s what he means—it’s a kindness you didn’t expect and one you know you’ll never take him up on. It occurs to you right then, even in a thin whiskey fog, that this could be—probably will be—the last time you see him or Hoseok). 

The bar isn’t exactly a neighborhood one, but it’s close enough that you decide to walk back to your apartment instead of taking the subway. It’s funny how now that you’ve had a couple drinks and you have Namjoon’s mittened hand holding yours, the night doesn’t seem as cold as the day had. After a frigid morning walk through the snow to get to the building, doing your best to calm him before his defense, you’d sat in the back of the lecture hall and shivered as he answered question after question. The nervous and shy man who you’d walked to the room was replaced so quickly with someone confident and well-spoken and articulate once he was facing his superiors. You knew he would pass, you knew he would do more than that—would wow them, would make them see what you see: someone almost painfully passionate and intelligent—and he did. 

You’re shaken out of your thoughts as he tugs you into him, your chests pressing together and his lips finding your forehead. “We’re here,” he says, chin jutting out toward your building. 

“You’ll come up?” you ask, knowing the answer already. 

“Of course.”

It’s the last night for the two of you; you’d talked about this, you know he’s going to stay and then in the morning he’s got time for breakfast, maybe a quick fuck you’re both refusing to call a goodbye, and then he’s got to catch the train. Then he’ll have a night in D.C. before he catches some insane 2am flight to god-knows-where, the first of many layovers before he arrives in Nigeria. There’s barely even time to think, you whine to yourself as you unlock the door to your apartment and drag him in behind you. 

His lips are on your neck before your jacket’s off, hands seeking, moving up your sides and pulling you close close close. Gently, you put your palms on his chest and push him back. You want to at least pretend that you have time, you think. Maybe you can watch a movie, maybe you don’t need to sleep much, maybe you want to remember this night and you just need a few minutes to let the last remnants of your buzz from the bar fade away. 

“We have time,” you whisper. 

“Okay,” he replies, dropping his forehead to yours. “What should we do?” 

You shed your jackets and he picks out something on Netflix while you make tea. He’s got pajama pants in your dresser (of course he does, and no place to take them, so they will sit there for weeks after he leaves. It will be too painful to get rid of them and too easy to pull them out and slip them on with one of his t-shirts when you’re feeling especially low), so he changes and you do too, and both of you snuggle on the sofa watching a documentary you will never remember while his fingers rub circles on the back of your neck and yours shake with a nervousness you can’t quite pin down. 

Halfway through the movie, his hand wanders, and you know you can’t keep saying you have time. You definitely don’t. It’s tomorrow already, and you know he’s got to go before noon to catch his train, and you do need to sleep, and you do want to make a couple last memories with him that aren’t falling asleep to a nature documentary on the couch. 

You lean into his touch, eyes closed and lips dropping open when he finds your chest, fingertips skating over your nipples, over your clothes, the faintest of touches.

“I’m so lucky,” he whispers in your ear when he pinches a bud between his fingers, rolling it around as you whimper quietly. 

With your back pressed to his chest, you crane your neck back to steal kisses, one pressed softly to each dimple, one to the tip of his nose, the mole under his lip, then you find his lips, and it’s a gentle thing—neither of you want to move quickly, as if slowing your motions will slow time rather than use it up too quickly. 

Eventually, as the kiss grows deeper, you shift to face him, running your hands through his hair to the back of his neck, teasing at the top of his spine, dipping under the neck of his t-shirt and then dragging around to his collarbone. You pull the shirt down to give you access to the still somehow sun-kissed skin of his neck, tongue tracing along the column of his throat, feeling the moan he lets out as you nip at the skin before you hear it. 

It’s funny, you’ve never wanted to mark him before. Both of you teach, have to be on camera and in person in front of students, and while it’s winter in New York, it’s not like you can wear a scarf inside all the time without someone thinking it’s odd. But he is leaving, and you want people to know where he came from, that he has a home in you, that a little piece of him belongs to you just as part of you belongs to him. You suck a red blossom into his skin and smile at your work, and he watches you in wonder, not stopping you and not saying a word about it. 

Things between you grow heated, more of a simmer than the usual campfire sparks, but soon your shirt is off and his head is bowed to your chest as a prayer, each swipe of his tongue a blessing. It’s hard to know who moves first, but you’re in a stop-motion chase down the hall; he’s carrying your shirt and reaching for your skin, you’re pushing him against the wall and taking the things you want from him, capturing the groans and murmurs of your name with your lips on his. 

(In the background, you hear the documentary that neither of you bothered to pause or stop—the narrator talking about explosions in the sky—and you think, if he only knew…  as Namjoon pulls you tighter to him against the wall, fingertips surely making bruises in the skin of your hips, and the galaxies behind your eyelids light up like catherine wheels). 

Your memory of the night comes in fits and starts: you’re on the bed somehow, he’s hovering over you, reverently pulling your shorts off, whispering praises into the skin of your thighs, knees, calves, ankles. Then he’s naked, too, and you can’t remember now how it happened. You wanted so badly to preserve it, but instead of a full-length feature, it’s a highlight reel. The best of you and Namjoon and your last night together: his tongue and lips and teeth everywhere like a dream more than a memory, even though you see the bruises and marks and feel his mouth on you still. 

He maps down the planes of your body, and you wonder if this is a map he will travel with. Will he remember this on lonely nights in a borrowed house in a foreign land? Will he think of you when he needs direction? You can’t be sure, but the words he’s speaking into your skin feel more like promises than pleas and it’s borderline unfair. Words he’ll never be able to make good on: “I love you,” “I need you,” “You’re the best part of me…” 

When he finds your core (warm and slick and more ready than your brain or your heart is for what’s coming), he moans, then works for your pleasure: soft tongue against your clit before he tightens up: more pressure, more speed, more more more, and as his fingers move inside of you and his tongue and lips move against your clit, you get closer to your orgasm, and he pauses to tell you that you’re so good for him, that you’re incredible, that he loves the way you feel on his tongue. He is the one who moans on you when you start to come, your thighs tensing around his temples, and it is everything, the idea that he loves this as much as you do. 

As you catch your breath and he lays slick-lipped kisses on the insides of your thighs, you still want more. In so many ways. There will never be enough. 

“Want you inside me,” you say quietly, and he tilts his head up to smile at you. 

“Want that too, baby.” 

You’re tempted to overthink it: which way would be the best way to do this if it’s your last? But he doesn’t let you. He sits up, twines your hands together, fitted into one of his larger ones, and puts himself between your legs. The lengths of your bodies are as close as can be, and as he slides into you (a little pressure at first, and then it’s perfect—he fills you in all the right ways, full and tight and almost too much), he drops his lips and forehead to your own and kisses you long and hard as his cock moves deeper still. 

It’s a slow thing, still, long and languid movements and lazy kisses. If you don’t have the time, you can pretend, be impostors. 

“I love you,” he says, moving his lips against yours as he speaks. 

(It’s not the stuff of porn, although you will replay these moments for months after when you’re alone, fingers moving through your slick, wet heat, teasing at your clit and thinking of him, of how he loved you, of how he knew exactly what it took to get you to come again and again without fail). 

The hand that isn’t wrapped around your wrists finds its way between your bodies, and that’s the moment you know it’s almost over. He’s moving faster, trying to stay deep but not to fuck you into the headboard, chasing his own release and he wants you to find yours again. You’ve been in this spot so many times, but it’s not routine. It’s more of a comfort, knowing that he knows what you need, that you know each others’ bodies, that you will find ways to come together in all the ways that count except the one where he gets on a plane to go halfway around the world without you in less than 48 hours. 

“Don’t cry,” he says quietly, fingers finding your clit and eyes filled with worry, with the beginnings of his own tears. And you hadn’t realized you were crying until he said something, but there’s a sadness in this moment, something about the culmination of this moment standing for something else, for the culmination of all the moments you will ever have together. 

“I love you so much,” you say as you feel his rhythm falter, his movements become frenzied. 

There’s not a reply, just his lips pressing to yours as he chokes out a groan and you feel him come. You let your tongue move with his, try to make this one last thing last one more moment until he has you coming, too, thighs tensing again, stomach tight, toes curling into the sheets beneath you. 

You breathe into one another as he relaxes on top of you, neither of you willing to admit that it’s over for now. For a while. Neither of you moves any part of you except for his thumb, caressing your wrist where you know he can feel your heartbeat through the thin skin there. 

It’s the second time you say something after sex that you’re not sure how he’ll respond to. It’s the first time he has nothing to say. 

“I could go with you,” you whisper. 

The silence says enough. There are no words, just more breath, just hesitance. Just him, now unsure of what to say to you. Like you’re a trapped wild animal beneath him, he moves carefully, rolling off of you and pulling you into him, lips finding your shoulder, your neck, the back of your head, but he never replies. 

You know why, you know it’s impossible. You know, in fact, that you don’t even want that. But you want him to want it for some stupid, self-sabotaging, selfish reason. And because he’s been good through all of this, because he hasn’t given you a reason to hate him when he leaves, maybe you’re looking for one. Maybe you want something to be mad about so you’re not just left with the raw feeling of wanting someone who moved on. 

Sleep doesn’t really come that night. Instead, you listen to his breath which slows and speeds as he moves through the cycles of sleep. You feel the press of his hand on your abdomen; tighter during some dreams, loose and pliant during others. You breathe in his scent mixed with yours and you wonder if there’s anything more perfect than that in the world. 

And you think (at first, anyway) there will be a moment where things change. Where the unbelievable happens and the rom-com cliche climax of your dreams sets you on a different path. He’ll ask you to come with him, you’ll accept, the visa will drop in your lap magically, you’ll never get homesick in a foreign land and dream of the times that the two of you were right back here in this shitty apartment separating yourselves from the world. 

But it never comes. 

Instead, in the morning, he says he loves you while you cry the silent kind of tears. He kisses them off of your cheeks and your lips until you’re making love one last time and it goes precisely the way one would expect: it’s deep and slow with searingly painful eye contact—you try to brand the image of him into your irises, you try and will your fingertips to make stamps of the planes of his body so that you don’t forget. So that you can press the images into papers and on your own skin and the backs of your eyes… He whispers all the things he knows you love to hear and you feel a little bit closer to the god you don’t believe in when you both come. 

And there are the mechanical things that happen next—you shower in silence, he puts his clothes back on while you only don a bathrobe. He gathers his bag and your hands in his and he puts his forehead against yours and apologizes again for things neither of you can control. 

You don’t leave with him. 

You resist the petty, incredibly powerful urge to ask him if he still feels lucky.

He doesn’t rush back through your door ten minutes later with the realization he made a mistake and sweet promises it would be impossible for him to keep. 

He just leaves, and you’re just alone, and the moment that could change that never comes. 

The text he sends you from the airport the next day shatters you completely, leaves you broken for longer than anyone (except Seokjin, who will carefully pick up your pieces and help you put yourself back together) will ever truly know. 

It’s when you know it’s really over. 

It’s when he admits it for the both of you.

It’s your epilogue. 

Namjoon: Turns out I was right on our second date… We had a great love.

#namjoon x reader #namjoon angst #namjoon smut #namjoon fic #btswritingcafe #namjoon x you #bts fic

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hello M, hoping I made it in time! Sending you a request for Vampire!Maglor x reader with prompt 8 please? Thank you so much, hope you’re doing well and have a great day!

Awww! I am doing very well, actually! As for your request:

"Rescue"

Pairing: Vampire! Maglor x Reader (second person POV)

Location and time: London /Late 20th century England

Prompt 8: "I've got you, darling. And if anyone tries to hurt you, I will rip them to shreds."

Themes: Angst | Happy ending

Wordcount: 800+words

Warnings: Vampirism |  Some explicit language | Walking home alone at night | Being followed | Catcalling (nothing explicit or graphic)

Summary: After having to return home late at night, you find that you’re not walking on your own.

Minors DNI | You are responsible for the media you consume

A/n: this is for the @fellowshipofthefics October challenge.

Divider by @firefly-graphics

You looked at the time. It was eleven p.m., and the streets were empty save for the rare pedestrian. Picking your way past darkened streets and a labyrinth of alleys, you pull your jacket even closer. Whether it was to ward off the cold or to make yourself more inconspicuous, you could not say.  

Well y/n, this is what you get for losing track of time at the office.

There was no one now. At least there was no one you would stop to have a casual conversation with. A pervasive fog crept in, making the light from nearby streetlights look strange and almost magical. You could not stop to admire the scene, no matter how much you ached to do so. The fog grew thicker. It was now so cold that your very breath turned to mist before your eyes every time you exhaled. You shivered.

A bottle shattered nearby, forcing you to walk even faster as shadows formed and grew. Worry gnarled at you when those shadows grew and you slipped down another alley, this time a shortcut to your home.

“What’s your name?”

Fuck me. You ignored the question and pretended as if you could not hear. There were footsteps now, growing louder as more than one person followed you down the alley. It was so dark now; there wasn’t going to be any street lights to be found until you reached the other side, and the only light you had to guide was the dim light of a full noon.

“Come on, love, give us a name.”

Shitshitshit.

The alley seemed to stretch on forever. You threw a quick, nervous glance over your shoulder. There were at least three people—that much, you could say. You fumbled around in your bag for your phone, then cursed yourself when you realized the battery had died just as you were about to board the train. You could not call him, and he insisted on being called when you left your place of work. The footsteps grew louder and were followed by laughter. You kept your eye on the end of the alley, hoping and praying he could feel your dread through the bond you shared with him.

Breathe. One step forward. Then another. Breathe again.

The words repeated themselves over and over again, like a prayer. Someone drew near. In fact, it made the hair on the back of your neck stand up even as fear chilled your heart. You braced yourself, then shook when a sudden rush of cold wind brushed past your arm.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The question was full of confusion and thick with terror. You turned, your sight now blocked by a towering figure garbed in rich black velvet.

“The question should be, who the fuck are you?” Maglor drawled in that soft, angelic voice of his. “And more importantly, who the fuck do any of you think you are, following my lady like this?"

You looked around his arm. The man—at least it was a man—took a step back, startled. “We meant no harm,” he muttered quickly, and took another step back. “We just wanted to know her name and—”

Maglor growled—vicious and otherworldly. The walls around you vibrated from the power it held. “Finish that sentence,” he warned, “and it will be the last thing you ever say.”

He then bared his teeth. The others fell back, then turned on their heels and ran. Once the alley was empty of them, Maglor turned to face you.

“You are cold. Let’s get you home.”

“The others… they saw your…”

“My fangs?” Maglor chuckled. “No one will believe them. And they will not say a word, not unless they want to give themselves away.”

“But they could come back,” you protested. “They would be ready.”

“I will take care of it,” he vowed under his breath.

“Maglor.” You stopped and looked back the way you came. Then you looked at him. His fangs were gone, but his eyes still shone with a strange, reflective light. “You promised not to harm anyone.”

“I am not going to harm them, little one.” Maglor leaned in, his eyes now bright with mischief. “I will simply glamor them into behaving. Then anyone who walks this way will be safe.”

He laughed when you rolled your eyes and stomped the rest of the way. “I envy that, being able to flutter your pretty eyelashes and glamor someone. Alright. Glamor away.”

The walk home was pleasant after that, but the experience left you shaken. Maglor questioned you, bit his tongue when you told him about the phone, then made you swear to call him once you were ready to leave work, so he could accompany you and keep you safe.

“You do not have to do all of that,” you contested. It may endanger him. Someone may see him for what he truly was. A vampire. “Really. You don’t need to—”

"Let me do this for you. It would honor me if you did."

"Alright. And thank you for saving me from them. I don't know how to even thank you."

"I've got you, darling. Alright?” Maglor drew you into a loose embrace. “And if anyone tries to hurt you, I will rip them to shreds."

“Maglor!”

His laughter did a great deal to throw off the chills that had gripped your heart. You finally felt safe. 

#fotfics #fotfics trick or treat #maglor #maglor imagine #Vampire! Maglor #maglor x reader #x reader #reader insert #reader insert request

[nordic-language-love]

Mini Speaking Challenge!

My Norwegian tutor's away for the next two weeks (boo) and I'm left without a lot of opportunities for speaking practice. So! I've come up with a mini speaking challenge. If anyone wants to join me, feel free!

Official start date: Monday 13th June (I'm actually starting today because it's the start of my two weeks without my tutor, but I'll post everything a week late so it feels like I'm doing the challenge with you!) Of course you can join late or do this any time! It’s 15 days long, so it will end on Monday 27th June.

To take part:

Do the daily tasks

Upload or don't upload the recording - it's up to you! (You don’t even have to record yourself if you don’t want to, but it can be useful!)

If you do post the recording, let people know if you want feedback/corrections or not

Make a short summary of what you did/how it went/how you felt

Use the hashtag #langblrminispeakingchallenge

Like and leave kind/encouraging comments on other people's posts

Remember that the rules are more like guidelines, and you should absolutely do what works for you!

The Daily Tasks

Day One: Free Speaking

Introduce yourself or talk about your day or maybe some thoughts you have. Just go with the flow. This day is for you to see how you feel! Write down how you felt while speaking and what areas you think you need to work on. Then, set yourself at least one specific goal to focus on (e.g. improve my pronunciation of X sound, learn to differentiate between sounds X & Y, stop making X grammar mistake.) My suggestion is to pick 1-2 sounds, 1 specific grammar point or 10-20 words you want to learn (or a combination, of course). Try to refrain from setting lots of goals as this will be overwhelming!

Day Two: Research & Drilling

Try to find information about the sound, grammar or vocabulary you struggle with most. (If there are multiple things, you can work on multiple things, but it's a good idea to start by focusing on just one or two.) Find/come up with some tongue twisters/minimal pairs to practise that sound or write some sentences with your target grammar/vocabulary, then practise saying them aloud.

Day Three: Describe a picture

Find a picture on any website (unsplash, pixabay, pinterest, social media, news websites etc). Try to describe it: say what’s in the picture, what you think it shows, whether you like it and why (not). If you're a beginner, look up some words and phrases such as "there is..." and "I can see..." and practise saying them. You can describe multiple pictures if you like.

Day Four: Drills

Practise the drills/sentences you came up with on day 2. Maybe come up with some new ones too if you want!

Day Five: Parroting

Watch a short video or listen to a podcast in your target language. Try to parrot back phrases, words or even just sounds (depending on your level). Pay attention to intonation and rhythm in the sentences!

Day Six: Retell a Story

Think of a book/TV show/film and try to summarise the story or the premise. If you’re still a beginner, learn some book/tv/film genres and say which ones you like/dislike.

Day Seven: Drills

Practise the drills/sentences you came up with on days 2 and 4. Remember to reflect on your progress!

Day Eight: Free Speaking

Talk about your day/week/thoughts/any topic you want. Reflect on your progress so far (there might not be much/any at this point, and that's okay!) and your goals. Make some adjustments to your goals if you want (e.g. add some new words into the mix, focus on a different grammar point or focus on a different sound).

Day Nine: Read aloud

Find an article, a book or some simple beginner sentences from a textbook/website and read aloud. Make a list of new words/difficult words to pronounce/examples of grammar you often mess up.

Day Ten: Drills

Practice the drills/sentences you came up with previously. Alternatively, practice the words/sentences from the list you made yesterday.

Day Eleven: Would You Rather

Go to this website. Translate the Would You Rather prompts given, then say which you'd rather do and why. You can do this as many times as you want! If you're still a beginner, look up useful phrases or verbs for giving opinions (e.g. "I think..." "I believe..." "In my opinion..."), or just try to translate the prompts.

Day Twelve: Practice mouth shapes

Watch a video of a native speaker speaking your target language (choosing something that’s your level will make this activity easier!) Pay close attention to the person's mouth. Video yourself saying some of the same words/sentences. Watch both videos back and compare your mouth shape. Repeat the exercise, trying to mimic the native speaker's mouth shape.

Day Thirteen: Drills

Practice the drills/sentences you came up with previously. Reflect on your progress and come up with new drills/sentences if necessary.

Day Fourteen: Choose a Topic

Talk about one of the topics from the Speaking in 20 challenge week 2 (or any of the other weeks, or choose your own topic). If you're still a beginner, learn some vocabulary/simple sentences related to the topic and repeat them aloud. If you're more advanced, try to talk about one (or more!) of the prompts.

Day Fifteen: Reflect

Talk about the challenge (if you’re advanced enough - otherwise just write some thoughts in your preferred language), reflecting on your progress and general thoughts/feelings. Were the exercises helpful? What did you struggle with most? Did you make progress in the areas you wanted to? What else could you do in future to help you progress?

#langblrminispeakingchallenge #langblr challenge #langblr #language blog #learning languages #languages #let me know your thoughts!

[monsterhunting]

Last Line Challenge

Post your last line of writing, whatever writing you want to consider, and tag as many people as there are words in the sentence.

I was tagged by the lovely and amazing @marypsue

my last line i wrote is technically dialogue but:

“Robin’s been trying to talk me off the ledge all day.”

The eleven people I’m tagging are: @miiyumei @lavenderstobins @lanfears-ex @rriverrgrace @dxnyarya @fabesrutter @folklauerate @pukner @deviantnation @galmance @anniebibananie but please don’t feel pressured to participate if you’re not inclined!!

#writing tag

[beardedmrbean]

UPDATED with statement from The Bail Project: A bail reform group, backed by celebrities including Danny Glover, John Legend and Richard Branson, has shut down its Las Vegas chapter after helping to release a man who went on to shoot and nearly kill a Las Vegas waiter.

Rashawn Gaston-Anderson, who had been arrested in November 2021 for burglary and theft, had been released by The Bail Project after it paid his $3,000 bail. Six days later, Gaston-Anderson allegedly opened fire in a Las Vegas restaurant, shooting waiter Chengyan Wang eleven times, nearly killing him. Wang is now suing The Bail Project, which denies that the closure was related to the lawsuit.

“The Bail Project closed its Vegas branch earlier this month but it had nothing to do with the litigation,” a spokesperson for the organization said in a statement to Deadline. “As an advocacy organization that is also a service provider, The Bail Project seeks to maximize the number of people we can help annually with our limited resources. We monitor the volume of people served by our local sites and periodically reassess the allocation of staff and bail capital across the country accordingly. As part of this ongoing recalibration, we closed our site in Vegas earlier this month.”

In October, Gaston-Anderson pleaded guilty to charges of attempted robbery with a deadly weapon and mayhem with the use of a deadly weapon, and was sentenced to seven to 18 years in prison.

On its website, The Bail Project says it “combats mass incarceration by disrupting the money bail system — one person at a time. We restore the presumption of innocence, reunite families, and challenge a system that criminalizes race and poverty. We’re on a mission to end cash bail and create a more just, equitable, and humane pretrial system.”

#nunyas news

[thinlinez]

First Lines Challenge

Thx to the wonderful @beardyboyzx and @brightgolden for tagging me to do this!

I am gonna ignore my old fics so I won't have ten fics (sorry not sorry hahhaha) I'm just gonna ignore the order too and post what I see first!

Here goes!

Bikestrike : Just when Harry had decided things couldn’t get any worse, a pigeon dropped a bomb on his book bag while he was eating at one of the picnic tables scattered around campus.

Lock On : “Oi, mate!”

Awaken As Mine : At the tender age of eleven, Harry was already convinced he had found his alpha.

Strap Up : “Here, let Daddy hold the flowers for you.”

I actually quite like to start with a dialogue sentence! I am tagging @marchessa @chai-hat-tea @imogenleefic @unreadablehandle @cyantific @neondiamond @guccistrawberries plz do this!

#tag game #first line #gogogogo

[mensahjacq]

The Legend That Was Lost Too Soon

I honestly am not a huge fan of Tupac. I do acknowledge that he is a legend in rap and hip/hop history but his music has never been anything I’d personally listen to. He still should be given his credit as one of the most influential artists of all time. However, he starred in one of my favorite movies from the 90s, which is why I dedicated this blog post to him.

Overview

Tupac Amaru Shakur, often referred to by his stage names Makaveli and 2Pac is regarded by many as one of the greatest rappers of all time in terms of success and influence. Shakur has sold over 75 million records worldwide, making him one of the best-selling musicians. Shakur's music has been recognized for tackling many of the modern socioeconomic challenges that inner cities face. Shakur was born in New York City to parents who were both political activists and Black Panther Party members. 

Controversies

Tupac’s legacy was not all sunshine and rainbows. He was arrested and sent to jail multiple times, and actually faced prison time at one point. 

He faced a trial in 1994 for alleged sexual assault of a fan. He and members of his entourage were charged with sexual abuse of a woman named Ayanna Jackson. Throughout the court procedures, the late rapper maintained that the encounter was consensual, and he even pled his case to the public by discussing it on The Arsenio Hall Show. He ended up being sentenced to 1.5 to 4.5 years. After serving eleven months of his sentence, he was released from prison on an appeal financed by Marion "Suge" Knight. 

An article by CBC, written by the CBC Radio, talks about how Tupac did not only release music with a societal conscious message. Shakur shifted away from positive and affirming political music and toward more profitable, but controversial, music when trends began to change. 

Acting Career

Tupac was a master of many cards, as he didn’t stick to just making music. He also pursued an acting career. One of his most famous appearances was in the movie Juice in 1992. This is one of my favorite 90s movies of all time! Tupac played the role of Bishop in the film. The plot foes like Bishop gets a taste of power with the possession of a firearm, he turns into a merciless killing machine who his closest friends no longer recognize. It really is a hood classic and introduced me to how talented Tupac was.

Tupac also starred in the film Poetic Justice in 1993. He played the character Lucky and had an on-screen romantic partner. This role showed how versatile Tupac’s acting style was and how he could truly fit into any role presented to him.

Accomplishments

Before he unfortunately passed away, Tupac made a huge mark on society and had an ongoing list of successes and accomplishments.

Tupac sold over 75 million records worldwide. Rolling Stone magazine named him one of the "100 Greatest Artists of All Time."

One of his most well-known songs, "Changes," addresses issues affecting society. The song reuses phrases from "I Wonder If Heaven Got a Ghetto," which was recorded in 1992, and samples Bruce Hornsby and the Range's 1986 smash song "The Way It Is." Tupac had experienced growing up with concerns of poverty, classism, and racial segregation, all of which were addressed in the 1986 song.  Tupac addressed racism, drugs, war, violence, and police brutality in his verses.

Rappers' attitudes about movies have altered since Tupac's breakthrough film, Juice. Bishop, a confused young guy who betrays his friends and grows into a ruthless murderer, was played by him. The film not only illustrates what it was like to live in Harlem in the 1990s, but it was also the first time a rapper gave a truly excellent dramatic performance.

Tragedy

He was killed in a drive-by shooting in Las Vegas, Nevada, on September 7, 1996, at 11:15 p.m. The incident occurred while the vehicle in which he was driving was stopped at a red light. Four shots from a.40-caliber Glock were fired at Shakur. Six days later, he died as a result of his injuries. 

Just recently, Duane "Keefe D" Davis was apprehended on September 29, 2023, a whole 27 years later, after having been charged by a grand jury for the first-degree murder of Tupac Shakur.

This made me happy because society went all these years without knowing who killed such a legend in the making, and now it seems justice has finally been served.

citations used:

#tupac shakur #juice movie #poetic justice #suge knight #keep ya head up #music blog #blog post #artist #rap #hip hop #90s rap