#i say this like i wrote all the songs or something

[flurry-of-stars]

𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓼𝓮 𝓗𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓸𝔀 𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓼

𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: 𝒩𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 𝐹𝓎𝑜𝒹𝑜𝓇 𝓍 𝒜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒: Slow burn romance, female reader, small age gap (Fyodor is thirty, the reader is in her early twenties.) No Abilities AU, angst, fluff, eventual smut, multipart story. 𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: “Eyeing his new assistant from across the table, Fyodor’s heart twists in some cold form of rebellion–” “His eyes scan you, watching as your pen glides across the paper, translating his words carefully. A smug smirk rises onto his lips, noting how many times you stop and start. You were already struggling.” 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 6.5k or so (A/N: First of all, I’m giving the biggest shoutout to a very close friend of mine for helping with the Russian written in this chapter, you’re the best and I owe you for this ❤ Second of all, I know, strange to write an author AU when the characters are based on authors but here we are. I want to say Novelist AU Fyodor may have a few similar traits to IRL Dostoyevsky but he is not supposed to be a complete one-for-one in every sense of the word. They’re supposed to just be minor nods to the real Dostoyevsky.) ❤ Reblogs are appreciated ❤

𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒾𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝐼 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝒶𝒸𝑒? 𝒮𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝓅𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝑒𝓀𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹? 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝐼 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝑒𝓀 𝒾𝓃 𝒾𝓇𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃, 𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓃𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓈𝒸𝓇𝓊𝓃𝒸𝒽 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝑒𝒹? 𝒪𝒽...𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝐼'𝒹 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃. 𝒯𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝒸𝓊𝓅𝓅𝑒𝒹 𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓈.... ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵ The lake always looks mystical early in the morning at this time of year. A faint mist rolls over the mirrored surface as dancers in orange and yellow descend from their places in the comforting embrace of timber and bark. Soldiers of fading green, browns and oranges line the lake, swaying in the soft, chilly breeze. Bird song and the gentle scurrying of the forest’s dwellers is the perfect symphony to this backdrop. Yes. This was why Fyodor always sat outside to write. He felt a peace unlike anything else when he sat at his small outdoor table, the earth claiming the furniture by wrapping tendrils of green around its leg. He doesn’t mind. He never had any intentions of moving it after all. A single page sat at his hands, one hand elegantly moving across it as he writes in Russian, his mother tongue. The sound of his pen scratching against the white sheet tickles his brain pleasantly, each stroke deliberate and careful. Fyodor would only write the drafts of his novels on paper. He would never touch a keyboard. Even when conversing with his agent he would only use his phone. With his long distant friend and fellow author, he opted for letters. Technology was something Fyodor wasn’t fond of. His deep, purple eyes rise from the page, tired eyes scanning the horizon before him. He notices a few russet sparrows flying over the lake. For a moment, he even thinks he can see a fox on the other side of the lake, disappearing into the treeline. Yes. This view was far more enjoyable than some television or computer screen. He breathes deeply, taking in the rich, earthy air around him. It wouldn’t be long until this view would be painted in white, the frigid air forcing him to stay indoors far more than he would have liked to be there. The novelist was a homebody, that much was true. But he spent most of his time outdoors when he wrote his stories. Or rather, attempted to. His current novel had been giving him a bit of grief as of late. “Romance novels are popular right now!” He could still hear his agent’s voice insisting. “With the works you’re already known for, I bet the world is dying to see your take on one! Plus, if we partner with this company and make it an international release, the revenue would tie you over so you can focus on a novel you actually want to write!” Fyodor scoffs. He wouldn’t have even considered writing such a novel, were it not for the fact that his funds were looking a bit depressed as of late, due to a few recent large expenses that needed to be paid. His eyes scanned over to his wristwatch; it was still a few hours yet until his guest would arrive. Another matter his agent had been too insistent on that Fyodor had begrudgingly accepted.

He didn’t understand why she had been so pushy about the matter of an assistant. He had managed so far on his own. He didn’t need any help. These were his stories to tell. Sighing, Fyodor rises from his chair. He moves towards his small, cozy dwelling, his raven hair ruffled by the Autumn breeze. Perhaps a nice pot of tea would get those creative juices flowing again. ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵ A soft breeze teases your hair and scarf as you walk up the winding stone path, heading deeper into the heart of the forest, an eerie fog cast across the sky. The trees sway their branches in the wind as if greeting you as sunlight filters through the thick branches, showers of yellow and orange descending on your path as you walk. You see an old, rough-looking tabby cat that gives a low mewl before disappearing over the fence like an elegant shadow. You notice a few small cottages scattered around the area. One is at the top of a flight of narrow cobblestone steps. Another is nestled near some thick bushes and trees, almost devouring the structure in its natural embrace.

The thin fence lining the pathway is overgrown with thick vines and small flowers here and there, with tall trees and other flora about, creating an almost fairytale-like appearance. Everything here is quiet and still, aside from the chirps of a few insects and the whistling of birds. You clutch your orange coat closer to your body, the fabric blending in with your environment as excitement runs through every inch of your veins. This was the opportunity you had been searching for! What were the chances that you’d run into a literary agent while heading to the unemployment centre to ask for help? It was as though God himself had lifted an olive branch for you.

The agent, Vivian, had looked at you with such joy when you explained that you were looking for experience helping authors get their works published. You wanted to help however you could, whether that be as an editor, a translator or even a beta reader! You just wanted a way to step into this field finally. You had grown up with a love for books and stories. You wanted to be part of the process to get these books created. “Well, I have just the guy for you,” Vivian had replied, a small smirk on her lips as she handed you her business card with a name written on the back. The name of the novelist she had been helping for the past decade. Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

You had never heard of the man before. Walking along the quiet stone path, heading towards a large archway overgrown with blossoming flowers, you wonder if he wrote under a pen name. You were so excited to meet him! Oh, but you needed to calm down and relax. Don’t make this weird! You walk through the archway, the gentle aroma of the blossoming flowers filling your senses as your eyes fall on the crystal-clear lake before you. The water was a calm, almost mystical blue, with nothing disturbing its perfect surface. It looked like it could have been the subject of an oil painting. You blink, the trance broken as you notice movement. An older gentleman sits at a small outdoor table, a small porcelain teacup in hand. You notice a few strands of grey in his otherwise dark hair, along with the dark crescent moons under his mystifying yet cold purple eyes. You wondered if they were from late nights of writing stories or brainstorming.

He looked more frail than you were expecting. Quite lithe. He reminded you of a scarecrow. He was almost swimming in the dark coat covering his shoulders, even his white scarf seemed to be looped multiple times more around his throat. You tense as his eyes flicker up, meeting yours. The teacup moves back towards the saucer, resting upon it with a soft clink. He lifts one of his hands, beckoning you closer. You come to stand before him, your heart pounding out of nervousness and excitement. This was it. The first day of the rest of your life! Things would only be looking up from here! Before you can speak, the gentleman interrupts you. His thick Russian accent sends a slight shiver down your spine, “You’re the assistant Vivian sent.” He looks you up and down slowly. You can feel the judging look in his eyes as he scans you carefully, “You have no experience in this field and yet you agreed to be my assistant. Fascinating…” You swallow, trying to calm yourself. You almost burst into excited rambles as you begin to speak in a rather rapid tone, your giddiness getting the better of you, “Y-yes sir! You see, it’s always been a dream of–” “Enough.” He says suddenly, shaking his head. Those dark eyes of his stare coldly into yours, your excited heartbeat being frozen still in your chest as he adds, “I do not wish to hear your life story. You are here to do a job. And I expect you to do it well.”

You try and speak up, “Shouldn’t we go inside–” “No. You will work out here,” he cuts you off as he reaches down to a leather bag by the side of his chair, hidden from view. He lifts it, passing it over to you as he speaks, “Within this is the first three chapters of my latest novel. I need you to proofread, edit and translate it into English by the end of the week.” You tense; the end of the week? You supposed you could handle that. What’s the most he could have done? Really? Maybe ten thousand words total? You take out the first group of papers. It looks like he’s stapled each chapter together. There’s no title page yet, so it starts straight on the prologue. One issue becomes apparent very quickly. One big, glaring issue. Fyodor’s handwriting. He had written in fluent Russian from what you could tell. But his handwriting was quite…well, it was cursive? It was hard for you to put into words. The best way you could describe it was like a doctor’s handwriting. “Excuse me, Mr. Dostoyevsky?” You look up from the first page. Fyodor is gazing across the lake, sipping on his tea once more. He doesn’t spare you a glance as you continue, your tone soft and polite, “I’m having some trouble reading your handwriting. I don’t suppose you have a typed version I could reference instead?” His dark eyes slowly turn over to you. You swear you feel the cold of a hundred Winters rush through your body at once, “If you can’t translate it, then I shall call Vivian right now and inform her that sending someone illiterate does not help me in the slightest.”

‘Illiterate??’ You quietly think, feeling both offended and furious. ‘At least my writing doesn’t look like a chicken walked all over my page!’ Biting your tongue, you nod. You would make this work, just to spite this guy. ‘Just think about the end goal. Someone out there is going to love this book. You just need to focus on your goal..’ It’s a daunting task, one you weren’t sure you could achieve. But you were going to put your damnest into this job more so than ever now. ✩

Eyeing his new assistant from across the table, Fyodor’s heart twists in some cold form of rebellion and anger. Vivian didn’t mention that she was sending someone like you. Had he known that, he would have called his overseas friend to go and stay with him while working on this novel that he didn’t even want to write. His eyes scan you, watching as your pen glides across the paper, translating his words carefully. A smug smirk rises onto his lips, noting how many times you stop and start. He notices the way your brows furrow in irritation. You were already struggling. It was only a matter of time before you gave up and admitted defeat, running away from his little piece of heaven with tears in your eyes and a white flag in your hands. He liked that thought. That thought brought him peace. “You’re going to have to work faster than that,” he suddenly says, sounding very proud of himself. You don’t look up, your hands and eyes continuing to move as he adds, “Vivian wants the book by the end of the year. If you can’t handle getting three chapters done by the end of the week, you’re useless to me and any other author.” He notices your jaw clenching. He sees the way you swallow down whatever response you keep to yourself, instead replying with a soft “Yes, Mr. Dostoyevsky.” If he breaks you down enough, will you submit faster? Will that get you away from him faster? He’s silent for a long while, his gaze slowly returning to the scenic view before him. It soothes him and assures him he will soon have his space and peace returned to him. He lifts his teacup, sipping the warm liquid slowly. He just had to bide his time and wait. You would crack eventually. He would make sure of it. ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵

Even though Fyodor treated you coldly and barely even spoke to you, you were intrigued by his writing. It felt like his words had a grip on you, filling you with the urge, that desperate need to know what happens next. The novel was about a young man. From what you had read, he was an extremely lonely man. No matter how Fyodor wrote him, or what scenes he was in, he was always alone, even when surrounded by people. But there was one thing you wouldn’t understand. “If this is supposed to be a romance novel,” you say slowly. “Then where is the other lead? What’s this guy going to romance, himself in the mirror?” “Oh come on now, cut him some slack,” the warm voice of your best friend chimes over the phone. “This is just the first three chapters, right? He’s probably just laying down the groundwork for now. I mean..” She pauses, hesitating before adding in a teasing tone, “The main female lead in that story you read didn’t get a proper romantic interest till like, what, book four?” “Hey, you say that like I wanted her to have one!” You joke, giggling as you walk up the winding stone path on your way to Fyodor’s. It was almost week’s end and despite having a handful of paragraphs left, you were almost done translating the first three chapters. Though it wasn’t an easy task. You had learnt that Fyodor had a habit of rambling in his stories. Sometimes, this made parts more fleshed out. More interesting and intriguing to you. But you didn’t need to know the full backstory of some random man sitting by a lake if he wasn’t going to be important to the story later on. “I want to give him some advice,” you say into the phone, your voice suddenly more serious. You notice the pair of village cats nearby as you pause in place. The younger orange tabby cat attempts to play with the old tabby, the older of the pair growling as he backs away, “But is it my place to give him advice? I mean…he is the author. It’s his story. I have no right to tell him how to write it.”

You hear a hum on the other end of the line as you start moving again, approaching the familiar archway. Then, “You could always try it. But this Fyodor guy doesn’t sound like the type who would take your advice onboard. You’re still so new to this field, your ears are still green!” You chew on your inner cheek, sighing. The chances that Fyodor would listen to you were slim to none. You understood that already. It didn’t take a genius to know where you stood in his regard. But you wanted to help Fyodor make improvements to his book. You look up at the archway, a gentle breeze pushing against your back as you sigh in defeat. “I’ll call you tonight and let you know how badly he chews me out.” You end the call, hiding your phone in your pocket, walking through the archway and into the lush clearing. You were already expecting to be greeted with the typical iciness from the author as you approach his table. “Ah, you’re finally here,” he greets you. His tone isn’t exactly friendly, but it’s not as frosty as you were expecting. There’s a faint hint of hibiscus in the air as the soft breeze draws the scent of his tea of the day to you. Yesterday was ginger. The day before was turmeric. He always had a fresh pot every morning when you arrived. But he never offered you a cup. Regardless, you come to sit at his table, your chair creaking faintly as you reach into your messenger bag, pulling out the last few pages of the first three chapters of his novel before speaking, “I’ve almost finished with these chapters,” you let him know, a flame of warmth in your voice. “I only have a few more paragraphs to go. Though I have to say–” You rummage around your bag, searching for your lucky pen as you continue, “--I quite enjoy your writing. It's captivating. Sometimes I feel like I’m hanging on the end of your every word–” “Flattery will get you nowhere,” Fyodor quickly interjects, deep eyes narrowing at you, the dark hoops under his eyes making him look more menacing. A shiver runs down your spine as he nods at the paper before you, “Get to work and stop wasting your time with idle chatter.”

‘Oh, so I can’t even compliment you?’ You quietly think, your hand wrapping around your lucky pen. You pull the gold and black ballpoint pen out, clicking it to life as you begin working, huffing and puffing in annoyance in your mind, ‘Fine then. Maybe I just won’t speak to you again. God, I hope all writers aren’t this entitled.’ You catch yourself, your fingers caressing the side of the ballpoint pen as the gold edge shines in the early sun. No…you knew all writers weren’t like Fyodor. He was a rotten apple surrounded by batches of bright, red fruit. He wasn’t going to stop you from reaching your dream. He would not stomp that flame out. A silence falls over you and Fyodor. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but it’s not quite pleasant either. It just simply is. You glance up now and then to see Fyodor sipping on his tea, his eyes always drawn to the distance. You scan his expression for a few moments, your pen stopping its movements. He doesn’t notice you looking at him as he stares almost longingly into the distance, his dark eyes shrouded with depths of emotion you struggle to comprehend. But there is one emotion there that is most obvious to you. It’s a look of deep, suffocating loneliness. He stares, as if seeing something in the distance you cannot. He is silent and still. You barely even see his chest rising and falling with his breaths as a gentle breeze tousles his raven hair, as though an invisible hand would be combing through each lock with a careful, almost affectionate touch. Then, as if returning to reality, he blinks, his gaze slowly shifting to meet yours. You stare at one another, frozen in time for just a heartbeat. There is no coldness, no scolding. Just you and him and his sad, lonely eyes. For a moment, you almost decide to ask if he’s okay. Almost.

But as quickly as you see this side of Fyodor, it disappears under frozen blinds and walls of ice. His dark eyes glare at you, hiding the emotions you saw behind a careful shield as he scolds, “Why are you wasting time staring into space? Get back to work.” You shake your head, snapping out of your trance, eyes gliding back to the paper at your hands. You don’t speak a word and merely focus on those last few paragraphs. You knew what you saw. That cold facade cracked for just a moment to reveal something more to this man than you originally thought. There was more to Fyodor than the cold wall you kept smashing again. Your pen glides across the paper, finishing the last few translated lines. You smile to yourself, placing the ballpoint pen down on the garden table before looking up at Fyodor, pride glittering in your eyes. You’d completed the first obstacle he’d put in your way, “I’m done, Mr. Dostoyevsky.” His eyes graze over your smile, the proud glimmer in your eyes, then move down towards the sheet of paper at your fingertips. He turns his body, sitting at the table properly now as he nods at you, “Let me check.” Taking the rest of the pages out of your bag, you slide each completed chapter over to him, your hands carefully caressing the top sheet before passing it over. You were hoping this would prove your value to Fyodor and get him to start treating you…well, like someone trying to help him. Like a proper translator. Like someone actually trying to get his book published. He’s silent for a long while as he flips through the translated chapters. He murmurs to himself every now and then in Russian; sometimes he sounds almost fascinated. Other times, he sounds annoyed. Then, at last, when he’s midway through the second chapter, “This is precisely why I didn’t want to do an international release. My words simply do not translate well into English.” “We could work together to find a suitable substitute for your words in English,” you suggest. The moment his dark eyes pierce into yours, you gulp. “If you wanted to. It won’t be exactly the same but I’m sure we could find a nice middle ground.”

He’s silent for a while as if thinking over your words. Then his eyes travel back to the page, murmuring, “We can try. But I assure you, you won’t be able to translate it perfectly. The English language is incapable of properly translating what I’m attempting to convey–” ‘There he goes again, acting all high and–,’ your grumpy thoughts are interrupted as a thought strikes you like a bolt from the blue. You resist the urge to gasp. Wait…was this the first proper, positive reaction you’ve gotten from Fyodor? He accepted you reaching out a hand to him? Then maybe now was your chance! You gasp a little, suddenly standing up, much to both yours and Fyodor’s surprise. He looks up at you, taken off guard as you suddenly blurt out, “Um! In that case, I had some other advice I wanted to give to! It’s in regards to that man you focus the second chapter on!” “I don’t know if he has any significance to the plot or not, but is it really necessary to have the last twenty pages focused just on his backstory?" "Because it seems like you could use these pages to develop the male lead further or even bring in the female lead! Are you intending for him to have a larger role or–” “You dare to have the audacity to lecture me on how to write my novel?” Fyodor’s cold voice cuts you off, his eyes narrowing at you dangerously. You can almost feel your voice being stolen by his anger, as he continues you glare daggers at you so sharp, that you feel that little shred of confidence and pride you’d finally gained being ripped to shreds before you. “You translate three chapters and that’s it? You’re suddenly an expert in the writing world, are you?” He scoffs, laughing at you mockingly. He tosses the translated pages onto the table, his eyes continuing to stare into your own shocked eyes. His voice grows harsher as he suddenly begins to speak in his native tongue.

“Сверхуважаемая госпожа, я хочу напомнить вам, что ваше право на собственное мнение не обязывает меня слушать этот бред. Молчание - великий талант. Мой совет вам: если у вас будут мысли, держите их при себе; в наше время умные люди молчат, а не разговаривают. Я вас здесь не нанял для авторского выступления, так что будьте любезны, работайте и не стройте из себя Александром Сергеевичем Пушкиным.” *

He stands suddenly, leaving you stunned in place, unable to find your voice. You watch in stunned horror as he storms towards his cottage, tucked and hidden within the wilderness of the trees and shrubbery. He enters it, slamming the door behind him before you can utter another word. You feel both stunned and horrified. You had no idea what he had just said to you but why did it feel like you just lost your job? ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵ “You should have cut him some slack.”

“Do you really think I need to hear that right now?”

“You know it wasn’t your place to criticize him like that–”

“I know…I don’t know what came over me…” You sigh heavily, sinking into the thick duvet on your bed as your heart aches within the tight confines of your chest. The sound of the city beyond your apartment blares outside. The distant siren of an ambulance. The loud yells of passerbys. A dog’s loud barks as the scent of cigarette smoke and fumes waft through your apartment window.

It wasn’t the classiest apartment, very far from it, but it was the only place you could afford right now with the allowance you were receiving from the government, along with what little savings you had left. You sigh, running a hand through your messy hair, “I genuinely didn’t mean to do it. I just got so excited. I felt like he was finally accepting me into his world…” You lower your voice, sounding more upset. “But now I’ve gone and ruined it all…not even a week in...”

You lift your other hand, holding up your gold and black ballpoint pen once more. You twirl it between your fingers, Fyodor’s harsh expression still vivid in the back of your mind. You felt like you really offended him. You hadn’t meant to. You just wanted to help. But you understood how your words had come across as hurtful. You didn’t know the story Fyodor was plotting out. You didn't know if this man was going to play a pivotal role and yet you–

You hear a loud crunch on the other end of the line, causing you to wince and yelp in surprise, your thoughts broken through instantly, “Ack! Trixie! Hold the phone away next time!” “Mrm! Sorry girl, but look-” Trixie goes silent for a few moments while she finishes chewing whatever she’s eating. Then, she speaks again, sounding quite calm as she gives you her advice, “--I think you owe him an apology. This guy is not only your senior career wise, but he’s the literal author of the book you’re translating.”

You frown as she goes on, your eyes glued to your ballpoint pen as the streetlight outside touches it, making the golden parts gleam, “What kind of things does he like? You know, besides sitting and staring at the lake all day.”

You think over Trixie’s words, eyes sparkling with the golden hue coming from your pen. Fyodor hadn’t spoken to you much these past few days since you began working as his translator. He greeted you, scolded you to start work and then sat in silence until the day’s end. Did he like anything besides staring at the lake and–

Suddenly, you sit up in your bed, and your loose, white nightgown drops over your frame, the old springs of the bed squeaking softly. That was what you could get him to apologize! You would need to get some research in tonight and wake up early to head to the store tomorrow. You were sure there was a speciality store for this type of thing on the other side of town.

Moments before you’re about to hang up, you get a second call. Your eyes widen as you read the name on the screen; Vivian. Your heart leaps into your throat. “Sorry Trix, I have to go,” you quickly say, rising from your bed to move over to your kitchen counter where your laptop was sitting, charging. “I’ll call you when I can.”

“Keep me updated on your situation with your author man!” Trixie manages to chime back before you end the call, picking up Vivian’s seconds later.

“Yes? Hello, Vivian?” You quickly answer, holding your phone with your cheek while typing into your laptop’s keyboard, searching through the specific results you had pulled up.“I’m surprised you’re still up. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; all those involved in the literary world seem to be night owls.” She chuckles, before clearing her throat.

You scroll through the results page as Fyodor’s agent keeps speaking to you, “I presume you know why I’m calling. I just got off the phone to Fyodor regarding the…incident.” The incident…

You cringe at it being referred to like that. Your heartbeat picks up as you stand up straight, a deeply apologetic tone in your voice, “I know, I know, I was in the wrong. It’s Mr. Dostoyevsky’s book and he’s free to write however he pleases. I just got a little head of myself and–!”

“Easy,” Vivian whispers soothingly. It almost feels like she’s there with you, patting your shoulder and assuring you it's okay. “Fyodor is still a tad…appalled at your behaviour, but I have managed to convince him to give you another chance due to how efficiently and well you translated his first chapters.” A gasp escapes your throat; before your hopes can get too high, she quickly adds in a tone that reminds you of a stern teacher, “But this is your last chance. He’s said if you step out of line again, you’re out.”

“No…no, I understand perfectly!” You run a hand through your messy hair, resisting the urge to jump and dance around in glee. Oh thank God, you didn’t lose this chance! Your gaze flickers back towards the laptop screen, the results still silently waiting for you. You knew you still had to apologize properly for what you had done.

“I promise, neither of you will regret this.” You begin writing down an address frantically on a sticky note, looking up the coordinates to the location on the other side of town. You click your tongue, planning everything out in your head. Yes, if you wake up earlier, you will have the time to swing by and get everything ready before visiting Fyodor tomorrow morning without being late.

Suddenly, Vivian’s voice breaks through the silence, cutting you out of your thoughts, “I shouldn’t be saying this but do me a favour, would you?” She pauses for a moment. You focus more on her as she adds, “Cut Fyodor some slack.”

“Wh-what?” Is all you manage to breathe out. Everyone keeps telling you to do that. Were you in an echo chamber? Or did everyone else just see something you couldn't? She continues, sighing heavily and you swear you hear a pen being placed down, judging from the gentle tap you hear on her side of the call.

“It isn’t my tale to tell, but I will inform you that Fyodor has been through a lot as of late.” You frown deeply as you hear this. “This is his returning novel after taking some time away from his career, so all I ask is that you show him the same patience you would want to be shown.”

Your mind stews those words over silently as you chew the inside of your cheek. The novelist you were working with was an enigma. He was more mysterious than the deepest pits of the ocean, and more closed off than a crime scene. You only had his name. His career. And the gift of being able to read his captivating story. Well, part of it.

Just who was Fyodor exactly? And what had he gone through to make him the way he is now?

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵

The sky was overcast and angry as you began to make your trek towards Fyodor’s quaint cottage. You sprint along the stone path as the sky rumbles like a beast, growling as the clouds light up, warning you of the upcoming downpour that is about to begin. Clutching the bouquet you’d bought close, along with the small gift bag, you run through the archway.

The usual clear, mirror-like surface of the lake was black and menacing, nowhere near as picturesque as it had been for the entire week. No birds were singing. Branches waved violently in the strong winds that buffeted against them, sending spirals of leaves cascading around, like mini tornados of color.

You barely manage to hold onto your bouquet and gift, grimacing as you notice Fyodor isn’t sitting at the usual spot today. You look towards his cottage, the trees and shrubbery around it rustling violently against the strong gusts as well. They almost look like they’re clinging onto the cottage to keep themselves rooted. You catch a glimpse of that old tabby cat sprinting up to the door, his paws reaching up and scratching at the timber desperately and at once, it opens.

You see Fyodor, wrapped in a thicker cloak than normal along with what seems to be an old ushanka on his head, keeping his face warm. He opens the door to let the feline inside, cloak dragging on the floor behind him like a cape. Rubbing against the Russian’s legs, the tabby darts inside, away from the rough weather. But he doesn’t follow the feline; his dark eyes lift, meeting yours across the way.

He watches as the wind tousles your long hair as though playing with the elegant strands, your bright, vibrant coat of orange a stark contrast against the blackening sky but matching perfectly with the leaves falling from rustling trees around you. He sees the way your brown scarf aggressively sways in the violent breeze as the sky growls a final warning. He says nothing as he watches you. Is he waiting for you? His eyes scan you once, twice…it’s like he’s taking you in for the first time.

Like this, you look like a single glowing ember in the darkness of the world, seconds away from being snuffed out and devoured by the shadows.

Not wanting to be left out in this downpour, you sprint towards Fyodor, a loud crack echoing across the sky as it lights up, lighting striking somewhere in the distance as you pick up the pace. Without a word still, he steps aside, letting you run in just as it begins to storm. Cold droplets pour from the sky as it roars, another loud crack is heard in the distance. Rain begins to patter loudly on the roof of Fyodor's humble home, almost cleansing the land.

You hear the door close, along with a lock being turned, clicking into place. You turn to face Fyodor, noticing that the room is not illuminated by the bulbs hanging overhead but by candlelight. There are candleholders along the wall, lighting the hallway in a warm, welcoming light. Flickers of yellow dance across Fyodor’s face, his dark purple eyes practically invisible in the dark of the cottage.

Gripping the bouquet tighter, you hesitate to hand it over. Then, at last, you do, presenting the brilliant bouquet with a gentle hand. “Here,” you say softly, almost silently. “These are for you.”

You watch as his calculating eyes trace along each chosen flower; the blue hyacinths to the white orchids, to the few lilies of the Valley. He hesitates to accept them as his eyes turn back to you. He must be waiting to hear her apology out loud, “I’d like to say I’m sorry for overstepping.” The plastic around the bouquet crinkles as you grip it tighter.

“I am both your junior and not an author,” you begin, fighting back down every inch of your pride to make sure your apology comes across as genuine. “I had no right to tell you how to write your story. I’m only here to translate it into English so I’m sorry. It will not happen again.” You also present your other hand, holding the gift bag out to Fyodor. “I hope you can forgive me and we can start fresh.”

He eyes the gift bag, reaching for it first. He peers inside, hiding his surprise behind his cold eyes as he notices the variety of tea leaves you’ve purchased for him. These are all high-quality leaves from a teashop on the other side of town. Passionfruit drop. Cream black tea. Autumn spice. He looks up at you, raising a brow curiously.

You squirm under his gaze, anxiously waiting for a reply. Would he accept the apology? Would he not? It felt like time was frozen as you and Fyodor stared at one another, his deep, purple eyes peering into the very depths of your soul as if trying to see if you were truly sorry in the very pit of your heart.

Then he moves past you. You feel your heartbeat freeze in your chest and then–

“Come along. I will brew some tea while you begin work translating chapter four.”

Warmth spreads across your chest instantly, your heart fluttering in your chest, a smile breaking out on your face as you turn, following Fyodor through the candlelit hall towards what you presumed to be the kitchen, your apology bouquet in hand.

You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you were both glad Fyodor had seemingly accepted your apology…and excited to read the fourth chapter of his novel. Even if he rambled on for the next forty pages and didn’t progress the plot. Your ankle boots click against the old wooden flooring as you hurry after the author.

✩ You were an enigma to Fyodor. Despite the cold walls he had placed securely around himself and the distance he had tried to keep from you, you kept coming back. Did this job really mean that much to you or were you just that desperate for money?

Or perhaps you were here for other reasons.

The kettle’s loud whistle shakes Fyodor from his web of thoughts. He takes it off the stove, bringing it over to his preferred ceramic teapot, decorated with painted pink carnations, filling it with the boiling water before moving on to inserting the mesh tea infuser, full of some of the new leaves you brought him.

As the aromatic smell of spices fills the air, he turns his thoughtful eyes to where you sit at his dining table, reading over the fourth chapter of his novel. He sees your smile behind the pages. The way your eyes gleam as you read and reread paragraphs. It even looked like you were no longer struggling to read his handwriting.

He felt warmth stirring in his heart. Fyodor had seen from reviews and heard from Vivian that his works were well-beloved, but seeing you smile and the joy in your eyes was something else entirely. It stirred something deep within his soul.

You actually did enjoy his story. You weren’t just going along with the crowd or agreeing with a friend because it was a popular piece. You were genuinely enjoying his work. He feels his heart pound for just a second before he turns away, focusing on the tea.

With slender hands, he pours the rich, orange liquid into the prepared porcelain teacups, the fragrance growing even stronger in the room. Between the sound and smell of the pouring rain and terrifying thunder and the earthy, aromatic smell of the Autumn spice tea, Fyodor felt his shoulders relaxing as he brought the two teacups over to the dining table, just in time to hear you gasp quietly.

Ah, you must’ve gotten to the part where the female lead is fleetingly introduced. For a moment, Fyodor finds himself smiling.

Dividers: @/saradika * Translation:  Dear Madam, I want to remind you that your right to your own opinion does not oblige me to listen to this nonsense. Silence is a great talent. My advice to you: if you have thoughts, keep them to yourself; Nowadays, smart people are silent, not talking. I didn’t hire you here for an author’s speech, so be kind, work and don’t pretend to be Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin.

#bungou stray dogs #fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoyevsky x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader

[qrrieterisunnq]

Hi i think sweet creature with nico would be so🥹🥹🥹 (my favourite hs song and fav player)

Thank you so much for requesting! I hope you'll like it! Not the best one I wrote! 🫶🏽🤍

It’s already 1 am, and you’re lying on your couch, tv playing quietly in the background as you’re waiting for your husband to come home after his game. He was supposed to be home three hours ago, right after his post-game interviews.

Your daughter is already asleep in her crib, after an hour of trying to get her to sleep. The whole time she was crying, wanting his daddy to give her a goodnight kiss. You know how much she loves Nico, so it was really hard to explain to her, that daddy is still working, and he’ll give her a goodnight kiss as soon as he comes back. After you promised her that, for the fourth time, she finally gave in and fell asleep.

Your relationship with Nico has been on the wrong path for a while now. You had been arguing for a few months now. It would start with small stupid arguments, but they would graduate to much worse ones. The worst thing is that your daughter is always a witness to them.

It started at the beginning of the season, the devils had such a great start, winning a lot of games, which led to Nico spending his nights in a bar with his team. He was coming home late and leaving early for morning practices. You were used to it, but your daughter wasn’t she is only a year old and is really attached to Nico. She loves him so much which is starting to be the topic of most of your arguments now. You hate he barely sees her, and when he’s at home, it's only for a few hours or for him to get some sleep.

A loud bang on the door pulls you from your thoughts. You straighten yourself, waiting for something to happen. You hear the jiggling of the keys assuming it’s Nico, you stand up and walk over to the door to open them.

You’re met with Nico’s large figure. He stumbles into the apartment cursing when he hits the shoe cabinet, causing all the fall on the ground. You let out a breath, pushing him further into the apartment as you drop down on your knees to put the shoes back in the cabinet. Your head whips in the direction of your living room when you hear a loud band.

Be quiet! Peach is sleeping!” you whisper loudly as you enter the kitchen. “Where were you?” you ask him when you return with water and Advil tablet. “Peach wanted a kiss from you.”

Nico just stares at her blankly, an annoyed look on his face. Y/n let out a sigh shaking her head. “I asked you where you were so late. You were supposed to be at home three hours ago. So where were y-“ Y/n is cut off by Nico’s voice.

“Stop asking me stupid questions!” he snaps at her, his voice full of venom, he stands from his sitting position, hovering over y/n small frame. “You’re acting like a jealous whore!” he yells at her. Y/n’s eyes were well with tears at the hurtful words. She can’t believe he really says this to her, especially when he knows how hard she’s trying to not be one of the wives that has to have control over their husbands.

Before Nico can say anything the noise of their crying daughter interrupts him, noticing the tears in his wife’s eyes. Y/n shakes her head quickly making her way in their daughter room, with Nico hot at her tail, with regrets written all over his face.

“I’m so sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to.” He let out a sigh, his eyes locked on his wife and their daughter in her arms. “Dada.” Peach mumble as soon as she sees her dad standing next to her. She turns in Y/n’s arms making a grabby hands on her dad. With a small smile, he takes her from y/n’s hold pressing her to his chest, placing a chaste kiss on her chubby cheek.

“Hello my beautiful babygirl.” He whispers, tears in his eyes, as he slowly realizes what an awful father he has been to her. And even more awful husband to y/n.

“Dada.” Nico looks up at y/n, his eyes full of tears, some of them already rolling down his cheeks.

“Y/n I’m so pucking sorry. I, uhm, I know I’ve been acting weirdly and being distant. I don’t really deserve you two, but puck! I love you and I swear I’ll do better. It’s just too much on me, and I don’t know how to handle everything.” You have to smile at his “puck” instead of “fuck”.

“I know, I love you too, Nico. But you have to communicate with me more, okay.” You let out a sigh, walking closer to him to give him a side hug.

“Yeah, I will. I promise.” He nods his head, kissing the side of her head. His eyes closed at the feeling of being in his love's presence.

#nico hischier #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier fic #nico hischier imagine #nh13 #nhl #nhl fanfiction #nj devils #rez speaks ✨️ #rez's 200 celly

[taranida]

What exactly happened in the 70’s

I’ll start with The Poet and The Muse. I’ve written about the real Thomas Zane being a poet already, but left out this piece of evidence (not at all on purpose, truth be told), but I want to discuss it here, since it goes well with the point I want to make.

In the song we learn the story of a Poet living happily with his Muse and telling her stories about treasures beneath the waves. Then one morning the Muse goes to the lake and drowns. The Poet at some point realises that something happened and comes to the lake, calling for the Muse, but to no avail. Whole day spent in search, and in his desperation, he swears to bring his love back. He writes a story and succeeds to some degree. The husk of the Muse comes to him in the night, possessed by some dark force. The Poet takes her in, but in trying to fix his mistake, vows them both to silence beneath the lake. The story concluded with the peculiar:

Now if its real or just a dream One mystery remains For it is said on moonless nights They may still haunt this place

Now, what exactly the boys of the Old Gods of Asgard are hinting at here (aside from the existence of the Dark and Bright Presences) I can’t tell for sure: they might just toy with all those who have that buzzing question of “who wrote whom”, but I will treat the story of Thomas Zane the Poet as a true story, that happened without any help of tortured writers. Although I will use the manuscripts as well as every other source of information.

Prepare for a long read, since firstly, I would like to present all the bits and pieces that I’ve managed to collect, and then tie them all up in a version of events, I believe, happened in July 1970.

First, the dialogs.

Tor and Odin (whom I cannot stop lovingly call “the boys”) say this:

“Tom’s just lost, is all. Baba Yaga got to him too, the damn witch!” “She used us all, taken from all of us. Took my thunder, the witch.” “And my ravens, what was...what were they? Memory and Thought! The hag.” “She took something from you too, didn’t she? That’s what she does.” “Oh, we’re better off. This place, the lake, it gives you power. If you’re a creator.... An artist, a god!” “Nightmares shifted in their sleep in the darkness of the lake...” “Heh heh, yeah, that’s the one. She makes sure it comes out twisted and wrong. Just ask the Lamp Lady. She knows what happened to that other writer.”

 Cynthia Weaver tells us:

“I knew them both. Tom and Barbara. I had such a crush on him...such a beautiful man. I was jealous. There was a part of me that was maybe a little glad when she had the accident. And then Tom started writing and woke the darkness up.... He tried to bring her back...but you can’t do that. There are no free rides like that.” […] “The witch looked like her, but it wasn’t. Barbara was sweet. He didn’t understand until it was too late. He tried to undo it, wrote himself, her, everything he’d ever written out of the world.”

We have Samantha’s dream in “This House of Dreams”, that gives us even more details:

“The diver told me that a dark presence had taken over his girlfriend (the woman in the photos). He’d tried everything he could think of to banish it from her, but everything had failed. In the end, he finally understood what he had to do, finally understood the true nature of the dark place that was hidden under the waves of the lake where they lived. The lake was an opening to dark place that was much bigger than the lake itself, in fact, much bigger than the whole universe we live in. He wrote one last poem, his masterpiece, a secret poem, a hidden poem, a poem that’s not among the poems I’ve found in the shoebox. And he took his girlfriend for one last dive. Together they sank down into the depths, far deeper than he had ever dived before.”

Then we have the manuscripts, that expand on the story:

More so, we have the dates and newspaper articles:

The last one is cut awkwardly, but, really, all I needed from it are the dates of publishing and of the seismic activity.

So, what really happened during this week? On the morning of 10th July Barbara went for a swim and drowned. As Cynthia notes in her article, Barbara was quite a swimmer and her death does seem odd. At the same time, we have another article (that I will put in the very end for those who are curious) about a writer visiting the area and encountering Taken — Robert “The Colonel” Hambleton dated 6th July 1970. Thomas even makes a snarky remark about not ever hearing about him and calling him “an uninvited guest”. All hints that with all the artists in the area: the boys of Old Gods of Asgard, Thomas Zane, Cynthia Weaver and Barbara Jagger, the Dark Presence still pounces on every other creator unfortunate enough to choose Bright Falls as a place to visit. Might’ve been because it could not make the gang mentioned above do its bidding?

The Dark Presence might be of a very different mind, alien to humans, but it’s cunning. As stated in one of the manuscripts, when it senses Alan, “all he'd need was a little incentive.” For Alan it had to drag Alice to the pier and into the lake; for Thomas it might’ve used the help of its ravens or some other means necessary to overwhelm Barbara long enough for her to drown, as at the time the Dark Presence had no physical body (but there might’ve been some other Taken swimmer around). And after Thomas spent the whole day searching for his lover, succumbing to desperation more and more, he got that incentive, the Dark Presence needed.

In the night Thomas wrote a poem to bring Jagger back. The Dark Presence plan worked and it was now in the world, almost free, wearing Barbara’s skin. But it was still constrained by the story Thomas wrote, and in his story he surely wrote something along the lines of them being together and in love again, therefore we see that the Dark Presence cannot do anything to Thomas as he ties it to the chair, carves its heart out and writes countless pieces to undo his mistake. It just couldn’t get out of the role of the loving Barbara, who would never hurt Zane. It had to go through the story in which, probably, Thomas and Barbara lived happily ever after and died on the same day, to be completely free. Which doesn’t mean that the very, pardon, presence of the Dark Presence in the world was not affecting Bright Falls at the time, the Taken might’ve been multiplying and awful things happening during this week. Yet, unlike Alan, Thomas didn’t go into the woods, fighting for his life, he searched for a solution at the cabin, armed with his typewriter and the (kitchen) knife.

The only solution he found in the end — one last dive. To bring this darkness back to where it came from.

There are still a few mysteries left:

in the guide for the first game we can read excerpts from the book “Taken by the Dark Presence” found in a shoebox that has no author, but has initials of T.Z. and J.Z. on some pages, apparently written in the late 1960’s. And, oh boy, I have lots of questions for this one!

the Bird Leg Cabin and the Diver’s Isle, that might or might not been retroactively removed by the eruption under the Cauldron Lake.

the extent of Thomas’ writing powers, since as much as it is stressed a lot that he wrote himself out of reality, Barry, with a little research, is still able to find out about his existence, yet Alan in one of the “Writer in the Cabin” TV’s claims “A story is a beast with a life of its own. You can create it, shape it, but as the story grows, it starts wanting things of its own. Change one thing, and you set off a chain reaction of events that spreads through the whole thing.” The chain reaction here never happens: we have hard evidence that both Thomas and Barbara existed.

But those are theories for another day. This is already a long enough read to throw those into the mix.

And here’s the article about Robert “The Colonel” Hambleton (spoiler alert: there is another one, confirming that he died):

#alan wake 2 #alan wake #thomas zane #alan wake ii #alan wake remastered #remedy entertainment #remedy connected universe #remedy games #RCU theory #alan wake game #tom zane

[tiathecreator]

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ so american ( hobie brown ) !

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎.𖥔 ݁ ˖✎ᝰ synopsis — " he laughs at all my jokes and he says i'm so american. " blk reader.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟcontains — ooc (?) hobie, fluff, swearing, atsv!hobie brown, hobie is taller than you no matter what, very very slight.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ tia speaks — because nobody told olivia to write such a cute song like my goodness. i love this song so bad ( almost as bad as i love accented men ) so i had to write a piece inspired by it ! i am also using this to be a complete feminism nerd and i almost wrote something similar with another olivia song lol. i totally recommend reading this whilst listening to 'so american' by olivia rodrigo !! happy reading !

despite his punk exterior, hobie is the best boyfriend you've ever had.

you'd first met hobie when you were selected to speak at a diversity conference in london. you were studying abroad in the middle of your second year of university, using the excuse of 'furthering your education' to read authentic european literature and cross of some of your bucket list. he was doing his usual routine when he swung by a billboard advertising the conference. he decided to check it, never one to shy away from social politic discourse. he stopped by a few panels, taking a liking to the minority in leadership panel, before stopping by the gender and intersectionality panel.

hobie's eyebrows rose as he watched you prepare yourself for your own presentation. you were dressed in business professional with the best shaped afro hobie had ever seen. his pulse quickened as you sent the moderator a ready smile before you began speaking.

and you were so american.

your charisma was enchanting, gracefully demanding the attention of the room. you engaged with the audience as you presented, throwing in small jokes here and there to keep the crowded attentive. he even imagined your expression becoming the slightest bit bashful as he caught your eye. you ended your presentation with another dazzling smile and an adorable tilt of your head at the sound of the applause filling the room.

he was even more impressed with your ability to answers questions on the fly. it was as if you thought of every possible questions and came up with perfectly calculated answers for each of them.

"i have a question for y/n. you mentioned white feminism and black feminism as two separate movements due to the lack of inclusion of marginalized women and their concerns. does that mean that you believe that white women are inherently racist?" a commentator asked. a furrow found its way in between your brow before you answered.

"no, i called it uninclusive because i meant it did not include the needs of women who were not upper class, able, educated, white women. black feminism can include women who are not black as it's an umbrella term of sorts. it serves to uplift and represent the underrepresented and unite all feminists, not imply that all white women are racist because of one social group. there are some wonderful white women who can acknowledge their privilege and use it to uplift us all as a united front rather than living in their individual comfortability. thank you for your question."

after your panel concluded, hobie found himself searching for you in the crowd of spectators. he eventually found you holding a bouquet of flowers from the moderator as you put away your things. he casually made his way to you, slipping through the ocean of bodies before standing behind you.

"would've gotten flowers if i had known someone as smart as you would be presenting here. however, i doubt i'd be able to find anything as beautiful as you, ms. america," he charmed, immediately gaining your attention as you turned to him.

"i take it that you liked my presentation," you mused, smiling up at the man before you.

"liked it so much that i'd like to hear it again. maybe over a meal some time, yeah?"

your cheeks stung from how wide you smiled as you punched your number into his phone, telling him to text you the details.

you guys hit it off as your personalities, morals, and routines meshed almost perfectly. you finished your educational responsibilities around the same time he finished his internship, leaving the two of you with enough time to see each other at least three times a week, excluding your weekend.

he's so attentive as he remembers everything about you, including things that you mentioned offhandedly. you'll expect him to pay it no mind until he says or does something that showed you that he was in fact listening to your every word.

and he's so soft with you. underneath your boyfriend's unapproachable persona was a man who was putty in your hands. he melts into your embrace, hands gently cupping your face as he laid a breathless kiss on your lips. he was always touching you when he was in your presence. he usually opted for the casual arm hooked across your front as he rested his chin on your shoulder. it was the perfect height for you to whisper all of your jokes into his ear, ensuring that he didn't miss the chance to indulge in your humor.

you actually guessed that he was the esteemed spider-punk after having rescued you from a mid-evening robbery. you noticed the stature of the hero looked familiar as you watched him swing through the air.

"what happened here?" you asked him one lazy morning, pointing to the bruise forming on his shoulder.

"i slipped in the shower," he mumbled, pulling you closer to him as he tried to go back to sleep.

"are you sure it had nothing to do with that pole the news showed you being flung into?" you mused.

"how'd you figure?" he asked, eyes now open as he looked down at you with a tired grin.

"what kind of girlfriend would i be if i didn't know my boyfriend when i saw him?" you replied, planting a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "plus i’ve tripped over your beat up sneakers enough times to recognize them."

"sneakers," he said, copying your accent. he let out an amused gruff after you painlessly slapped his arm. "you're such an american."

he made the effort to join you for your public demonstrations, only stepping in when someone got mouthed off at you too much for his liking, knowing that you could hold your own but preferring if you didn't have to. he read all of your favorite books as well as any pieces that you mentioned to him. he participates in most of your hobbies, even picking up a few and calling them his own.

he even calls your mom, asking her how she had been since the last time he had the chance to ask. she was more excited to see him the first time you visited since meeting him. she tried to treat him as a guest, but he was set on helping her around the house, taking care of any odd problems she had.

you might just have to marry him if he keeps this shit up.

© tiathecreator 2024. all rights reserved.

#☆ — tia the creator! #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x black reader #hobie brown #hobie x reader #hobie x black!reader #spider punk x reader #spider punk x black reader #atsv x reader #atsv x black reader #spiderman atsv x black reader #spiderman atsv

[hiro--aoki]

TWD Incorrect Quotes from my classmates

Tw: contains swear words, mention of sex, use of slut and maybe some other offense things, idk

Michonne: Because your minds are still developing you want to….

Y/N: Do drugs!

Michonne: Take more risks…

Y/N: Nah…

Michonne: A risk is any unsafe action or stupid, thoughtless and careless behaviour.

Carl to Y/N: Literally me.

*Coughs that sound like an erupting volcano*

Abraham: My tummy hurts.

Michonne: Can you name three risks?

Merle: Sex with no protection!

Carl: A gun with no safety on!

Y/N: Having a forehead as big as Merle’s!

Deanna: So, we have codes A, C and D.

Rick: Why not code B? Where’s the B????

Aaron: B-cause.

Glenn: You should b- ashamed of yourself…. I’m not funny

Maggie: You’re not funny

Deanna: So, code A stands for….?

Daryl: Ass!

Eugene: Acceptable!

Aaron: Yeah *fistbump*

Y/N: Nerd!

Deanna: What about code C?

Maggie: Coffee.

Eugene: Calculated!

Deanna: Yes! How about code D?

Abraham: Deez nuts!

Sasha: Dangerous!

Carol: Destructive!

Deanna: Yeah! You guys concern me!

Y/N: Ron, shut up you acoustic monk.

Glenn: Guys I accidentally wrote relationhips instead of relationships.

Carl: Y/N, has relationhips.

Y/N: What’s that supposed to mean?!?!

Y/N: Carl, has a shirt that says ‘ Roblox is life’ shirt, and he said it suits me.

Negan: Feel how soft my water bottle is.

Simon: Stop stroking your water bottle like that!

Michonne: What’s something that was legal, but was a destructive decision?

Merle: Weed!

Enid: I wanna jump off a cliff.

Y/N: I wanna kiss a 12 gauge.

Enid: My dad jumped out of a plane without a parachute…

Carl: My dad is a plane.

Andrea: My butt hurts.

Dale: *Gives strange look*

Andrea: You’re looking at me like you wanna fuck me.

Dale: What?

Shane: Ha!

Dale: No, I actually didn’t hear.

Amy: Real.

Negan: Did you wash your ass today?

Michonne: So, tell me an example of a safety risk?

Merle: Your mom

Michonne: …and some conatin cannabis

Judith: These gummies tastes funny.

*Watching a budget direct ad and Captain Risky comes on*

Jesus: Smash

Ron: Bro’s him

Daryl: I mean he has all the skills

Carl: Bluds the main character

Y/N: You look like a potato

Dwight: You look like a trash can

Y/N: Nuh uh

Dwight: Yeah uh

Negan: Dwight, keep working *Lightly caresses the shovel Dwight’s hand*

Y/N: Stop!

Dwight: Stop it I don’t like it!

Y/N: Yes, we are Sluts

Rosita: Sexy Ladies Under Tonnes of Stress

Y/N: I can’t make a decision that big, I can’t even tie my own shoes!

Enid: Please tell me you’re joking.

Y/N: I’m not, I tie them like a three-year old! Let me show you!

Enid: No, no thanks…

Y/N: Watch my feet! Watch my shoes. *Ties laces with two loops*

Enid: Ew *visibly cringes*

Carl: …I just asked if you wanted pancakes or waffles….

Glenn: Look how much funny shit we said today.

Daryl: I can’t it’s too black

Glenn: Ayo?

Daryl: I meant too dark!

Y/N: Nah!

*Glenn adjusts lighting*

Daryl: Now it’s too white!

Y/N: !!!

Daryl: Too bright! Too bright!

Negan: BALLS

Y/N: Gotta rizz ‘em with the ‘tism

Negan: I’m a Savior….save ya mom!

*Carl and Ron carrying a log*

Enid: For a second I thought that was in their ass’s

Y/N: I want them up my ass

Enid: What?

Y/N: What?

*Truck passes*

Daryl: Awww yeah, listen to tha’

Y/N: I can smell the air…

Daryl: No shit, sherlock!

Glenn: Don’t judge a book by it’s-

Eugene: Erm actually, it’s in the human instincts system, for us to make a quick judgement on a person appearance to determine whether they are friend or foe.

Y/N: Oooh, did I appear friend or foe when you first saw me?

Eugene: Well, when I first encountered you, you looked like you couldn’t hurt a fly, but since then, I have realised my mistake and have grown scared of you.

Rosita: He’s scared of everything…

Eugene: Not pickles!

Beth: What song do you wear?

#twd #the walking dead #twd incorrect quotes #carl grimes #daryl dixon #dale horvath #rick grimes #shane walsh #amy harrison #andrea harrison #enid rhee #back off enid #ron anderson #rosita espinosa #eugene porter #abraham ford #glenn rhee #maggie rhee/greene #michonne grimes #negan smith #simon twd #dwight twd #twd jesus #judith grimes #twd aaron #twd deanna #carol peletier #merle dixon #sasha twd

[otakubimbo]

Now I'm All Messed Up

Shoko Ieiri x F! Reader.

You and Shoko "break up"?

Hurt No Comfort, Not Proof Read, Wrote This In 30 Minutes.

OB talk: Inspired by the song Now I'm All Messed Up x Tegan and Sara. I couldn't get the idea out of my head after listening to Heartthrob for the 75th time. In my mind, it was written for a female reader but nothing is gendered.

The butt of her cigarette gets smashed under her shoe as Shoko enters into her empty apartment. It was devoid of life, devoid of joy, devoid of you.

Now I’m all messed up. Sick and tired of wondering where. Where you're leaving your makeup

Flashbacks of your terrible singing coming to her mind while she drops her stuff at the door, not even bothering to hang up anything properly. You should be dancing around in her kitchen right now, trying to stay awake as you make her a late-night dinner that she continually told you, you didn’t have to. But you always insisted. Before you, she barely ate dinner, she barely ate anything surviving off of cigarettes and coffee, but you made sure she ate, you made sure she took care of herself. You took care of her.

Now I’m all messed up. Sick and tired of wondering who Who’s life you're making worthwhile?

But now you were gone. Your light had left the cold apartment not long ago and she missed it. She missed you. You were her everything, and yet she was the reason you left. You were her everything, but in those last moments, in those last months, she treated you as if you were nothing to her but a burden. The genuine care you had for her was seen as nothing more than a nuisance as she was putting in overtime, barely sleeping, barely eating, and barely doing anything else besides work. The last words between the two of you still feel fresh in her mind.

Go (Please stay) Go, if you want, I can’t stop you.

You had brought her dinner to the hospital, another 24-hour shift.  She met you in the parking lot while she was taking a smoke break. As you handed her the dinner you packed you fiddle with your sleeves nervously as if you had something to say. The sight of it annoyed her for some reason, making her roll her eyes.

“What” her voice coming out in a huff.

“I know you’ve been so busy lately, and I understand that I do but I was wondering if you could take some time off to come to my art showing. This one’s kind of a big deal and you haven’t really had the time to go to the last few, which I completely understand I know how busy you are but if there was any way you could see if you could maybe take some time off and come. I understand if you can’t I do I was just hoping that maybe you could. If not it’s fine.”

You ramble on trying to downplay how important this galleria was to you. She had missed the last few ones, well more than a few the last several ones, and those were the ones where you had made some big connections that procured you a spot at this huge important galleria opening. Several of your paintings were going to be displayed and some of them were even going up for auction. This was actually a really big deal for you, an important step in your journey as an artist, and all you wanted was your girlfriend there.

Shoko stomped out her cigarette in annoyance, “If it’s not that important then why even ask me to come? You know they’ve been having me work triples here and what kind of time would I have to go to something like that.”

She was stressed and annoyed. Shoko knew that she shouldn’t be taking it out on you, shouldn’t have been constantly taking it out on you but she just couldn’t help it. No matter what she said or did, you always were so understanding, so forgiving, so ready to hold her after a long day stroking her hair as you told her how proud you were of her—kissing her head softly, comforting her until she fell asleep in the middle of the morning before you got up to take care of the house and the rest of your day. You loved her, you loved her with all that you had.

“Yeah no, you’re absolutely right. Sorry for even asking. I completely understand” Your eyes burned with the threat of tears; your voice wavering as you tried to keep your composure. Every word that was said to you, broke your heart bit by bit.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a bother to you, maybe I should stay back at my own place for a while.” You suggest, hoping that she would come around, hoping that she wouldn’t agree.

“Yeah, probably if you want.”

You give her a sad nod, before trying around the tears already streaming down your face.

Just go if you want to. Go if you want, I can’t stop you. Go if you want, I can’t stop you.

That was the last time she had seen you in weeks. Now here she lay face down in her bed, somehow the sheets still smelled of you, everything in her room smelled like you. There were still bits of you in there, some things that you missed. The little frogs you sculpted for her still sat on the bedside table. There were a few unfinished canvases in her closet. There was still so much of you, except without you. All she was left with was the scent of cigarettes and you.

Now I’m all messed up. Sick and tired of wondering where. Where you’re leaving your makeup.

#angst #jjk #jjk x reader #jujustu kaisen #shoko ieiri #jjk shoko #jujutsu kaisen shoko #shoko x reader #jujutsu shoko #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #jjk fandom #breakup #heartbreak #emotions #feelings #emotional #breakups #you broke my heart #heartbroken #break up #ex girlfriend #relationship

[retrogradedreaming]

do you ever dig up old fandom playlists because you’re kind of in the mood to listen to whatever music you were into back then and turns out the playlists are absolute masterpieces and you’re just in this loop of listening to your own genius 

#i say this like i wrote all the songs or something #but i was in a long phase with a book a couple years ago #and made a ton of playlists for it #and this one is just. absolutely perfect everything i want right now #also i like making fun little character playlist titles to capture the character Vibe

[crossbackpoke-check]

it’s all the rest of what i want with you

connor dewar/brandon duhaime :: 8k

Summary:

“Brandon,” Connor says with a sigh. “There’s no baby in there.”

“Not yet,” Brandon says. Connor feels his stomach twist, almost like what he would imagine a baby kicking to feel like.

in these trying times of dewvorce, may i offer you 8k of pwp inspired by @stillfertile’s wonderful art which i had. several breakdowns about 🫶 anyway please enjoy!!!

#OFFICIAL FIC ANNOUNCEMENT 🗣️🗣️🗣️‼️‼️‼️ i wish i had pretty fic graphics but alas i have No Skill and also. so much work i should be doing bu #HI SHE’S HERE i would love to say this is a complete surprise drop except i have Anxiety & i needed to ask you guys about it beforehand #in my defense i started writing this in like. january far before any tragedy occurred #because square asked about my tags on their dewey2 art and she spawned like. a million more thoughts about it #including the part where i got absolutely kicked in the face with the lightning vision of those two lines. #like those two lines are the first actual lines of the fic i wrote ajdhkwdiowdjiw ANYWAY please be nice to me i know i am always like #‘this is not the first real fic i ever thought i’d post’ and if i had a nickel i’d have three but this is the first pwp i’ve ever posted #and it’s 8k and it’s not a fic for an exchange (although technically i did very much write this for the dewey^2 hivemind so.) #i have SO many things to say i have so many comments on this doc also i couldn’t pick a title for the LONGEST time and i finally decided on #this one but the full quote was too long: #all the rest of what i want with you that scares me shitless #so. i was angling SO hard to make a yung gravy lyric as a title bc i saw the video of him at a wild game but i couldn’t find a good one #and instead y’all got a very sentimental title l m a o. #liv in the replies #shout out to the extended universe this lives in and also my unhinged comments in the docs. #if you liked fun fuck a baby in him friday i’ll be here all week i promise i am the exact same in the comments as i am in the tags 🫡 #the NUMBER of times i wrote something in this by pulling it out of my ass and then actually went back and did the research & was RIGHT is. #far too high. also the amount of coincidental things that dropped while i was writing this (yung gravy song about pregnancy AFTER i wheeze #laughed myself into a yung gravy title the athletic player poll confirming my restaurant & bar choices from googling ‘st. paul good bars’…) #also if anybody got advice on formatting for these little announcements. help. this is different from my miro/luka one &i’m still not happy

[petruchio]

taylor swift is actually so insane for putting dbatc right after cornelia street on the tracklist. she closed the first half of the album with cornelia street and then opened the second half with dbatc. and its particularly insane theyre actual mirror images of each other. "drunk on something stronger than the drinks in the bar" becomes "i get drunk but it's not enough" and then "as if the street lights pointed in an arrowhead leading us home" becomes "i ask the traffic lights if it'll be alright they say i don't know" and then "we were a fresh page on the desk, filling in the blanks as we go" becomes "if the story's over, why am i still writing pages?" and then "windows flung right open" becomes "i look through the windows of this love, even though we boarded them up" and then "i get mystified by how this city screams your name" turns into "the only thing we share is this small town" and she just expected me to deal with that? like. okay.

#caroline speaks #taylor swift #whenever i think about lover i just get mad like she was DOING something. and she threw it all away for fucking me and yntcd #but like. she wrote a song that says youve touched my life in a special way and im afraid if it ends i could never escape that #and then the next song is: someone left me and i cant find a part of my life that they didnt touch #like fuck. okay

[orbmanson7]

@intrulogical sent me a Logan Angst prompt!

logan crying in a video whilst offering a solution to something and thomas going "stop crying"

I'm still taking Logan Angst prompts from any word or phrase sent to my ask box!

--

Asking for clarification had become almost habit for him by now.

"Ah, so you didn't mean that literally then?" Logan steadied his expression after the realization struck him. "I suppose this is why clarification is so useful in these discussions."

"There's nothing to clarify, Specs!" Roman threw his hands up dramatically. "It's not like we were trying to trick you!"

Logan blinked at that response. He hadn't thought they were trying to deceive him with their words, no, but it's not as though they had meant what they said, either. Hence the need for clarification.

He nodded towards Roman, replying,

"I understand that, but--"

"Do you?" Roman instantly cut him off. "Because it seems like it takes a million times for us to explain something to you before you actually get it!"

Oh. So he was bothered by Logan's repeated desire for clarification. The quantity was the issue.

"I believe I understand your concern. While some subjects may take extra consideration, I can assure you, I am trying my best."

"Are you?"

Thomas stared back at him with an unreadable expression. Was it unreadable to everyone else, too, or just him?

"Wh..." He was so shocked to hear Thomas outright doubt him like that, he couldn't even formulate the question he wanted to ask. He tried not to let it show, straightening his stance.

Thomas needed his trust, his confidence.

"Of course I am," he told him.

He just needed to be confident. He didn't need to bring more doubt to the topic at hand, after all.

"Princey kind of has a point, though," Thomas only frowned at him. "We've talked about this before, but you never seem to get it. Aren't you supposed to be the smart one?"

"Well, yes, of course," Logan replied as quickly as possible, trying not to sputter over how badly his attempt had just failed. "But it's not as though I have limitless knowledge--"

"Aren't you his language center or whatever it's called?" Virgil piped up. "Isn't this supposed to be your thing?"

"I operate his recognition and use of language, yes," he answered truthfully, "but understanding more than the contextual meaning behind a phrase via facial expression or body language or tone of voice doesn't typically fall to my expertise--"

"Then why are you even doing it?"

"Wh... It... Because it's my job."

He'd never had anyone ask him such a question before, and he wasn't sure there was a better way to answer it.

"And yet," Roman butted in, "you need us to explain what we mean forty times every episode for you to understand? If it's your job, shouldn't you already know how to do that?" He grumbled, crossing his arms. "It's not like I have to relearn how to write every time I have an idea, you know. I already know how to do it. So what's your problem?"

Logan stared. He...wasn't sure there was an adequate answer to that, either. Surely, there was a legitimate reason why pragmatic errors frequented his discussions with others, but if it really was his role to handle that on Thomas' behalf, why was he continuously struggling with it? Why had he not learned about it, held onto that knowledge, and then applied it when the situation arose, just as he had with near everything else?

Why was this different, especially when it so heavily affected his purpose to Thomas?

What was his problem?

Roman laughed.

"What? Cat got your tongue now?"

"...no?" Logan raised an eyebrow, confused. "I still have my tongue and there is no cat to--"

"Logan, seriously, just stop." Thomas held up a hand to stop him. He wasn't even looking at Logan as he spoke. "You're the one always lecturing us about learning stuff but then you don't even understand half of what we're saying unless we spell it out for you!"

Logan bit his lip, willing himself to understand.

"I don't think you'd need to spell anything out, Thomas. I simply ask that you clarify the meaning of--"

"For the love of God, Logan, this is exactly what we're talking about!" Thomas shouted, finally turning to look directly at him.

Logan paused. So this was more of the same, then.

"Ah."

It wasn't just that he was asking too often, it was the matter of his asking at all.

Roman rolled his eyes.

"Boy, and you call me stupid."

"I don't believe I've called you that," Logan responded calmly, then adding, "Today."

Even if it was harsh, at least when he had said that, he meant what he said.

After all, why would someone say something they didn't mean? Wouldn't they want to be understood? To be able to communicate effectively?

When he spoke, he wanted to not only be heard but for others to know what he was trying to convey. Using hidden context served little purpose, and only proved to create massive communication issues like this one.

Logan absently fiddled with the end of his tie.

The others were all looking at him disapprovingly.

He swallowed, but something in his throat felt tight, obstructed. His eyes seemed less focused, slightly blurring around the edges.

He tried to take a proper breath, but it came in shuddering and came back out shaky.

None of these were good signs, at least as far as seeming professional goes.

"Perhaps I have asked for clarification far too often for your liking." Logan paused, expecting to be cut off yet again. When the others didn't respond, he continued, "I merely wish to make sure we're communicating properly, that I'm not misunderstanding your--"

"We shouldn't have to explain it every time!"

And there it was.

Roman and Thomas both began yelling a number of things, but Logan just waited.

Everything they were saying... They were right. Something was definitely wrong here. Logan shouldn't be continuing to struggle if they've all done their part to explain their intention so many times. Why was he still in need of clarification, of assistance? Why hadn't he resolved this on his own already?

He would have to keep trying.

As it quieted down, he turned to Thomas, attempting to hold his gaze without trepidation.

"I... I'll keep trying, then."

"What, so you weren't trying before?" Thomas was so immediately outraged. "How long are we going to have to put up with this?"

"Logan, maybe you just need to try a different way of figuring it out." Patton offered, hands up, placating. "We all know you get stuck in your ways, so maybe just try it our way this time, yeah?"

But doing just that hadn't ended well at all last time. He couldn't have been the only one who remembered that, right? Last time, he was only left confused and ultimately misunderstood by the others when he tried it 'their way'. That couldn't possibly be the solution. No, there had to be something else.

"Well," Logan tried, "I don't know if that would--"

"He's right!" Roman cut in, sounding angry. "You don't even want to get it, do you? Is this an attention thing again??"

Roman moved his arms around in ways that failed to make sense to Logan at all.

"Oh no, Logan needs even more attention now so he has to pretend to be stupid to get even more camera time!"

Logan was completely confused at such a comment. That didn't seem like a fair judge of his conduct at all.

He grimaced,

"I... I would never pretend to--"

"L, it's fine if you're just doing it so you get to talk more," Virgil told him, leaning back casually on the staircase. "I get it, man, but this isn't the way, you know?"

Logan did not 'get it' like Virgil apparently did. Why would someone pretend to not understand something? Why not just be sincere, clarify their confusion so they can get the help they need? What purpose would it serve to lie about it?

"I just..." He wasn't sure how to explain to them that he wasn't pretending without knowing why they thought he was. "That's not... I wouldn't do that--"

"Oh, please." Roman scoffed.

Thomas sighed, putting his face in his hands.

"Logan, the excuses aren't helping, either."

He hadn't meant to bother Thomas with all of this. He was at a loss on what he could do to fix this mess, one he had apparently started all on his own.

He swallowed again, feeling heat begin to rise behind his eyes.

"A-apologies."

Thomas shoved his hands down at his sides. Logan may not have been the best with body language but he could certainly tell his choice to apologize had been the wrong one to make.

Thomas glared at him, something Logan realized he had started to see more often lately. Logan flinched without meaning to, and he couldn't even begin to understand the shiver that had gone through him or what it could possibly mean. His vision blurred.

He could just make out Thomas' expression as it twisted at Logan's knee-jerk reaction, and he suddenly shouted at Logan,

"Ugh, stop crying! Just do better!"

He really hadn't meant to have any overt reaction, but he'd been quite unprepared for this turn of events.

Where had they come up with the idea that he would lie about this? Was this his fault to begin with, for not putting in enough effort to understand, to learn, to improve?

Clearly they had a better understanding than he did, so perhaps they were right. Maybe he was capable of understanding and was simply choosing not to properly learn how to discern the difference in someone's words with how they speak them.

He reached up, removed his glasses, and wiped a palm across his eye, trying to stop the tears that kept flowing. He wasn't entirely sure when he had started crying, either, but now it didn't seem to want to stop.

Thomas was right. Logan had to do better. It was past time he did his job the right way by now, and in the way Thomas wanted above all else.

He put his glasses back on and turned to Thomas, ignoring the last tear escaping down his cheek as he spoke.

"I'll try."

#logan angst #logan sanders #fanfiction #finally something with some dialogue #ooh boy i swear this isn't unsympathetic sides and thomas even if it seems like it #this is genuinely just a very bad reaction to Logan's difficulty with pragmatics #stuff like hyperbole innuendo metaphors irony and sarcasm all change how youre meant to interpret language #so of course logan can understand whats being said but when you change how you say it then it becomes harder for him to understand #when you dont say what you mean you know? #anyway yeah angst fun enjoy #sanders sides #long post #orbs speech bubbles #oh! and i was listening to I'll Try from Peter Pan 2 Return to Neverland when i wrote this #go listen to that and tell me thats not a logan angst song yeah?

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

I don't know how to write this without it being horribly obvious who I'm writing about

#but at the same time. since when have I cared about that? #I wrote an entire poem about another writer and then flashbanged you all with a song. idk. I want to post this and talk about it #I like what I've written #but it IS very directly and not even vaguely about another person and I don't have any right to say any of these things #I've never had the right to miss anyone. I always love too hard. far more than is reciprocated at least #everyone means the world to me but everyone has someone who means far more to them than I ever will #I'm not anyone's most important person. or even AN important person. but everyone is so so important to me #idk a song came on my playlist while I was reading and now I feel really upset about something stupid #like. a friendship lost that wasn't even that close. I don't think this person cared anywhere near as much as me. and I didn't #care as much as I should've/could've either. so. it's complicated #Lu rambles #sometimes I think I could write poetry

[perilegs]

i miss my husband <- guy who has to go to the store before he can sit on the computer and kiss elliott sdv

#he's so. augh 🥺💘 #i am so fucking easy any poetry person can say one nice thing about me and i will fall in love #idk there's just something about words as a form of art. can i expose myself. i nearly started crying last week when my friend played a song #her soundcloud rapper bf wrote about her. that's like. oh my god. he loves her. #anyways i love most sdv spouses (esoecially harvey) but elliott just has such a special place in my heart #i know sdv characters dont have much going on but i am so in love with all his few pixels and lines its embarrassing #leevi liveblogs

[couldbebetterforsure]

Man, getting into Enstars after being a part of Idolish7 for so long is so funny to me. Because I realized Kotaro Nishiyama voices both Kanata in Enstars and Minami in Idolish7. And hearing the difference in the type of songs they sing is something else 😂

Because on the one hand you got a guy singing about friendship and bonds and dreams and protecting the smiles of people. And on the other hand you got a guy singing about how typical love is dumb and actually being in a codependent relationship is awesome!

#story time with me #that actually is a line in sasagero by the way.... #part of the chorus translates to: the everyday view of love is bullshit a codependent relationship is all I need that's it #man I love sasagero so much definitely one of zool's best songs minami was on something else when he wrote that one #also I hope no one takes this as me trying to say I think less of kanata/ryuseitai songs compared to idolish7 songs #I feel like I've made it clear by now on my blog I'm a ryuseitai girl there are NO bad songs in ryuseitai's discography I'll fight on that! #they're my favorite boys my favorite unit of enstars I will go to bat for them at any given moment #I just found the general contrast between ryuseitai songs vs zool songs funny considering nishiyama voices a character in both units #idolish7 #ensemble stars #kanata shinkai #natsume minami

[astranauticus]

a handful of chinese songs that give me big robit energy

translating cpop songs is like my second favourite hobby so it's frankly surprising I haven't made this post sooner

Him - Floruitshow (马 - 福禄寿)

I've talked about this song on here before but this is the 3.7 song for me

the second chorus is definitely MR-SN but i like to think of the first chorus (Let me take a good look at your visage as we count down the time till the curtains’ close. Forgive me for holding back my voice so soon, do you know, in your graceful escape, all I see around me is disaster?) as VR-LA during the flashback sequence

specifically 'all I see around me is disaster' because yeah not wrong

'This time I’m not here to bring you home' just kills me like the please please take care of yourself because I can't be there with you anymore of it all

'Oh spring, oh warm sun, please come sooner, grant him a smooth and safe journey' same point, just the desperate plea for the universe to protect VR-LA because he can't do it himself anymore

How can I make you stay - Floruitshow (我用什么把你留住 - 福禄寿)

(conveniently I have actually done a full translation of this song!)

definitely one of the Maxim songs of all time

"You’ve believed that you can let your life pass in numbness, but [...] why do your tears fall in the moment of letting go?' YEAH because we've seen so many times how Maxim keeps trying to convince himself that he can stop just caring but it never works

'You say don’t fall in love, yet you’re unwilling to let go' same point, this man is in such denial about how he just can't stop caring

specifically the second verse feels a lot like Maxim waiting for VR-LA to return from Tu'narath

'You stay silent, holding onto starlight as you wait through your darkest hour. Your mind is struck, when familiar murmurs pierce your ears once more' aaaAAAAHH

the bridge (?) as a conversation between VR-LA and Maxim, VR-LA inviting Maxim to see the beauty and wonders of the world ('Do you want to see the sea of flowers blooming?', very 4.5 wedding invite honestly) but Maxim's trauma just would not allow him to take that risk ('If none of them come back, then who should I live for?')

fun fact the second version of the bridge in my translation ('You must stay to see the flowers bloom' onwards) is exclusive to that live performance of the song so it's not in the spotify version i linked here. as for which version you think fits Maxim more.. well.

Borrow - Mao Buyi (借 - 毛不易)

finally banging out a translation for this song was kinda the inspiration for me to make this post actually

the tldr of this song is that it's an unnamed/unidentified speaker asking to borrow various small things for the sake of somebody else (like 'an inch of frozen sunlight' to provide warmth in a cold world) so you can probably see where i'm going with this

'A simple ‘we have plenty of time’ etched into the soul to prepare for the chance of forced separation' ouch ow okay

'Those blown apart by these winds will say that they never loved deeply' / 'There is a sincerity that cannot be blown apart by this wind' DX-TR betraying the old crew vs VR-LA fighting through so much just to get them back

'There are tears that cannot be washed away by this rain' this line just haunts me. like in general

'An acre of land for him to call home, an ordinary life for him to live' as MR-SN watching over the old crew like I can't be there for you but I hope you will find peace and a home...

#rolling with difficulty #rwd starship #rwd professionals #my feel good hobby! as opposed to art: my feel bad hobby /j #im actually learning to play how can i make you stay on the guitar right now its a lot of fun but ow my fingers #ive also found a score for him but its super outside my skill level so we'll see how that goes #bmadd11 my beloathed #/also/ working on a little something based on that song but that wont... come into play for at least the next few weeks so #its an absolute monster of a project and school has started so i dont have high hopes for getting it done soon #i dont think i got to mention this on the actual post for borrow but ive literally been spinning that song in my brain since like 2020 #genuinely. i've been thinking about how to translate that song for upwards of 3 years #grammar is just weird sometimes #i was gonna include let's go wandering by bibi zhou but i couldve SWORN i wrote a translation for that song before i just cant FIND it #spent 30 minutes hunting for the doc in my drive thats 30 minutes of my life wasted #but 'lets go wandering with a smile because we carry our home in our hearts' just fucks severely #also considered including forget your sorrows when the flowers bloom by zhou shen #bc im not gonna make a cpop post and *not* try and subject more poeple to zhou shen #but like that songs vibe is too... cottagecore to really make a good point there im just obsessed with one specific line #'If my memories are stolen and I forget all my love; I'll say to you “Hello!” #post amnesia vrla to the old crew??? the 'i dont know you. id love to get to know you again' of it all???? #did this instead of my programming homework :|

[pankomako]

sometimes when i scroll through tumblr's trending page i see posts that feel like half-assed attempts at poetry that are little more than a surface-level description of something with line breaks interspersed. i read them and i go, okay, where's the art in this? what are you trying to say? where's the metaphor, the figurative language, the wordplay that defines poetry? now it isn't my biggest passion, but i guess i am kind of picky when it comes to lyrical writing, especially because i see it as art - what it's supposed to be. and the funny thing is, when i tried to come up with a mock example of what they sounded like, i ended up with something more beautiful by accident:

i like the sun

it lights the world

and shines on me

everyone is in the spotlight

unless you don't want to be

you can hide in the shade of a tree

and that's okay

because there's also night

it's okay to leave your reader asking questions and wondering at the meaning of your poem, in fact i feel like all good poems should, but they shouldnt be wondering because your poem feels like it has no deeper meaning at all. write the way a pro photographer takes pictures - take care to capture and emphasize the beauty. don't write like the regular guy who goes "ooo pretty", whips out their phone and takes a picture without further thought. if you help your reader understand what it is you're trying to convey - it doesn't have to be too obvious - it'll make your writing (doesnt necessarily have to be poetry) better. you just need to add summa that seasoning y'hear? a l'il bit a' that spice. takes it from bland to beautiful real quick

or maybe im too biased and they're fine. i dunno (shrugs)

#i write these things as if im an expert but im really not #i just enjoy figurative language and all that #words that mean something different than what they say. picking and arranging words and sounds in fun ways #analogies. analogies and metaphors are my favorite thing for describing and explaining #to see a poem/song that just near completely lacks those elements? big disappointment #you're just talking with line breaks at that point what's even the use #im pretty sure i wrote better poetry as a fuckin KID. in like. 3rd grade. for school.

[whostolemygoldfish]

Hahha perks of being a pretty talented musician is that I can write songs about this one specific guy I hate so fucking much and just yell about it but with a sick bass line in the back

#also yes he ends up being kinda like a metaphor for all of the shitty young andrew tate wannabes BUT THAT'S BECAUSE HE'S A WALKING EXAMPLE #GODDAMN I HATE THIS GUY SO FUCKING MUCH HE THINKS HE'S SO SMART AND HE QUOTES BREAKING BAD EVERY FIVE MINUTES AND WATCHES FUCKING SOUTH PARK #AND HE LISTENS TO NIRVANA BUT JUST FOR THE AESTHETIC AND IT'S LIKE THEY WROTE A FUCKING SONG ABOUT YOU OR SOMETHING #HE'S BEEN THE EXACT SAME SHITTY WHITE GUY CUBS FOOTBALL COACH FOR EVERY HALLOWEEN SINCE HE WAS LIKE SEVEN #UNFORTUNATELY I'VE KNOWN HIM SINCE WE WERE IN PRESCHOOL AND SINCE I'M FROM A REALLY SMALL TOWN THERE IS NO ESCAPE #HE SAYS THE MOST HOMOPHOBIC TRANSPHOBIC AND MISOGYNISTIC THINGS SO FUCKING CASUALLY AND ALL OF THE LAME ASS GUYS THINK HE'S COOL #okay sorry I'm done now he's just infuriating :)