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viviennevermillion · 2 years

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Al-Haitham and the arts

notes: ever since I saw the akademiya's stance on the arts I had this idea. seeing al-haithham as someone from the akademiya slowly growing to appreciate art especially in relation to his (artist!)s/o seemed like such a sweet scenario

contains: al-haitham x gn!reader

warnings: none

A l - H a i t h a m

Like many people who followed the Akademiya and as one of the most rational people you ever met, Al-Haitham struggled to find merit in the arts. Whether it was music, dance, painting, writing, theatre....he thought it was a waste of his time.

That was until he met you

You loved all these things and Al-Haitham, despite not knowing it yet, loved you. He was unsure of his feelings, trying to stay rational at all times and not ever expecting himself to fall in love with someone. He never bothered looking into love or putting a label on his feelings because he thought that they were distracting him. Yet he knew you had become important to him.

Once you gave him a Radiant Spincrystal with music you liked and told him it was a gift for him. "Oh...", he goes and then looks up to you, "why?"

He tells you that he doesn't listen to music and that he thinks it distracts the scholars but you insist the music is good and Al-Haitham realizes you're passionate about this so he'll listen to it and instead focuses on studying what makes music enjoyable for people. But when he sees you express emotions, sometimes he thinks of these songs and realizes how much they remind him of you.

So he finds himself listening to them when he misses you. When you've been traveling or busy with work. And it makes him feel a little closer to you.

If you show him poetry (either written by you or from a book) he struggles to understand the meaning since they're full of metaphors and also can mean different things for different people. So he's like "I don't really get this." "This is how I feel when I read your papers", you argue. He looks at you with a dead-serious expression: "I can explain them to you again if you'd like to." "No need, I'm good."

If you like to draw he would sit down next to you and glance over your shoulder, his cheek occasionally touching yours. He'd see you draw something and he comments on how concentrated you appear and you're like "well, art takes a lot of focus and technique as well" and Al-Haitham takes a sketchbook and gives it a try. He tries to draw the big tree in Sumeru City and is frustrated when it comes out looking like a squashed potato

Definitely has a new-found respect for your art now

The first time you took him to watch a play he paid attention the whole time and was entertained but he kept asking afterwards why the protagonists made such terrible decisions. You chuckle: "Well....they were in love. Love can make you irrational sometimes."

He nods and is like "Yes, that's how I feel with you." Completely calm.

You almost spit out your drink

For Al-Haitham you knowing about his feelings is not a big deal at all. He knows love can make people act differently than usual and he doesn't want you to wonder about his behavior.

"I- I like you as well", you reply and hold his hand in yours. He looks at your intertwined hands wordlessly and curiously but feels warmth in his chest.

When you ask him whether he'd like to be your significant other he tells you he needs to give the matter some thought and evaluate the pros and cons. Very romantic.

Comes back a few days later and tells you he'd like to engage in a committed relationship with you. He's unsure what to do next so you take the initiative and ask him for a kiss.

Kisses and affection makes Al-Haitham flustered and god he's not used to that at all. He loves it though. He's like "do it again please."

If you write stories or lyrics or poems etc., after getting together with you, Al-Haitham tries his best to get to know your interests more so he dedicates an afternoon to reading your works. You come home to find him at your desk, fiddling with a huge folder and your creations. "What are you doing there, love?", you ask and raise an eyebrow. Al-Haitham doesn't look up. "I am sorting them alphabetically", he explains and you chuckle and pull him closer to you by his arm.

"How about we cuddle instead?", you suggest and wrap both of your arms around his torso and trail kisses down his neck. He can feel goosebumps on his arms. "But I haven't finished sorting the-"

You interrupted his sentence by kissing his lips tenderly. Al-Haitham melts into your touch and presses you closer against him, kissing back passionately and letting out a sigh. You won him over this time. Spends the rest of the evening enjoying your affections and letting you kiss him for as long as you want to. He even puts on some of the music you showed him.

You ask him for a dance. "This isn't an occasion people usually dance in", he remarks and you just tell him you'd love a dance with him. He doesn't understand why but hell would freeze over before Al-Haitham would say no to something as simple as a dance to make you happy. He loves seeing that smile of yours so much.

He has never danced before though, so he steps on your feet a couple of times. You teach him to the best of your abilities and Al-Haitham is always up for learning new things. He even continued trying to draw after his first attempt.

In the end he understands a bit better why you like this because he gets to hold you close

He smiles and kisses your forehead and your cheek. "I love you", he reminds you and squeezes your hand.

But as soon as you go grab some food or take a shower he will go back to finish his folder

Overall he's way more perceptive of the arts now that he's with you. He listens to your favorite songs because they remind him of you. When he hears street musicians, he makes a mental note to take you to see them later, looking forward to that smile of yours that he adores so much. He gives mora to street performers now and takes home flyers from the theatre that he used to throw away when they were handed to him. He tries to improve his drawing skills so he can draw something beautiful for you (he has a long road ahead of him). He also considers taking you to a festival so the two of you could dance there together.

He tried to write a short story once. Titled it "A day in the life of the Sumeru Rose" and it just came out like a biology paper. Actually it pretty much was a biology paper. He gets a kiss for effort.

#genshin impact #al haitham #alhaitham #al haitham x reader #alhaitham x reader #sumeru #genshin impact headcanons

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melestasflight · 4 months

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For the holiday prompts, 4. filled with wonder and delight + Celebrían/Elrond? Thank you! — @emyn-arnens

Holiday Silm Prompt fill for @emyn-arnens. 1k words of our favorite comfort pairing.

Elrond and Celebrían in five poems and a little more.

filled with wonder and delight

on AO3

It had always been thus, that poetry was the language of their hearts. For verses could tell those things that could not be spoken.

Elrond’s heart composed rhymes of its own will as he watched Celebrían dance, the words matching themselves in harmony even as her own two feet followed one another, different but same.

Onomatopeias sprang at the tip of his tongue whenever Celebrían laughed. How she chirped as the robins in the forest when Elrond would bring himself to share a jest. How she howled in unguarded glee at Glorfindel’s stories and chortled smugly at Erestor’s incapacity to defeat her in any argument at all.

It was Celebrían who had started it all on her first summer in Imladris.

Oh to walk among your gardens fair, lord of waters, lord of things green, Oh to rid myself of all despair, lord of summer, kindness unseen.

A note left behind in her guest quarters, no more than a scribble on a piece of scrap paper, almost swept with the dry leaves of fall descending through the open windows.

But Elrond knew the meaning behind these simple words. Your valley is a home closer to my heart than any I have known, he could almost hear Celebrían’s words in his mind.

A damp and cold winter followed Celebrían’s first departure, and Elrond was sick with longing for her, reading and rereading that little note until the paper was worn and the ink almost illegible beneath his fingertips.

The warmth arrives with Celebrían’s return, for every season turned into Spring when she was around to fill the halls with her laughter, to let her song coax the valley to life. Then quietly, with no spoken agreement, they let themselves fall into the sweet habit of verse.

In the depths of the forest, Under the light of the moon, My heart rushes like water, Flowing clear and crisp and clean, Seeking the stars of your eyes.

Letters left for each other at the breakfast table, slipped underneath doors, folded between the pages of favorite books, tucked between gifts, never of farewell, but of endless beckoning — come back to me.

Even in Celebrían’s absence, Elrond sought after suitable words to match this meter or another, verses that stretched out leisurely or cut themselves short at just the right place to form stanzas worthy of the princess of Lothlórien.

Always his heart resorted to poetry because plain language was simply not good enough, not beautiful enough for this person whom he loved beyond what any word could describe.

Verses lingered even after their partings, as the scent of freshly baked bread remains long after the warm crust has been sliced and eaten to the last crumb.

An Elven-maid was here in my home of old, A bright star in my day: She has gone back to her forest of trees gold, Her dress of silver-grey.

With her I send the wood’s breeze, To stir the tresses of her hair, In place of my love to ease, Her journey to Lórien fair.

Until spring I shall await her return, Of betrothal vows to say, May my heart in longing not fully burn, Let her spirit to mine stray.

In time, the words folded themselves around their children also. There were songs written and drawn into Elrohir’s leather-bound diaries, verses embroidered along the sleeves of Arwen’s riding cloak, stanzas engraved along Elladan’s bow. Elrond loved them with each verse, the poetry filling his home almost too fair to be true.

Until the day Celebrían was gone, and when she returned she was silent and no words at all came from her lips or quill. No poem, no song of Elrond’s could alight the Spring in her heart.

He let her go and remained to live yet another winter, longer and bleaker than any.

The last winter did not seem as cold As this. Her hand was warm in mine, and she Made these icy halls a homely place to be. Where the cones of the spruce did once unfold Stories beneath their shadows were told. Now the ground is sodden wet, the apple tree Has shed its fruits. No green leaves to see Its crown is empty, so barren to see.

Spring shall surely come but not for me, Across the Sea I send a voiceless plea.

Elrond measured the passage of the centuries by the coming of each winter, that cyclical quieting of the land. And as the valley was emptied of birdsong so was his house emptied of poetry. For he wrote, endlessly, tirelessly. He wrote missives, and orders, and plans. Drew maps of battlefields and kingdoms. Sang his people to survival, to hope.

But verse he refused to write or read as long as he remained wed to Middle-earth.

Until now.

On this day, a day he had not dared dream in his long winter, Elrond finds himself in Celebrían’s home. She had not waited for him upon the docks of Tol Eressëa with Elwing, noe welcomed him with fresh bread and sweet water beside Idril.

He stands now in Celebrían’s small house, a green-roofed cabin between the trunks of ancient trees. All windows and doors are open wide as if inviting any beast of the wood to dwell as a guest here. There are few things but the house does not feel empty.

A neatly folded piece of paper sits on the small table in the only room. It is for him, Elrond knows.

Winters and summers Will come and go but You will come to me.

The world shall change And the roads curve but You will come to me.

None shall remember The people we were but You will come to me.

Tho Tilion descends With Arien from the skies You will come to me.

His hands shake by the time he reads the last verse. And when he looks up from the paper, she stands there watching him, renewed and more beautiful than in any of Elrond’s memories.

I have no poem for you, he wants to say but does not dare speak, afraid that he shall shatter this moment and never regain it again.

‘I knew you would come to me,’ his beloved says and opens her arms.

Elrond lets his heart open and be slowly filled with wonder and delight as he steps forward to fall into Celebrían’s embrace. They do not need words for this.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

#elrond #celebrian #celrond #prompt fills #ficlets #Holiday Silm Prompt Fest #my writing #silmarillion #tolkien

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realworldsucksendhelp · 2 years

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Il y a quelqu'un pour tout le monde

[There's someone for everyone]

Fem!Y/N x Oscar Issac!Young! Modern!Gomez Addams

Summary:

Y/Ns always been different, making dating life almost impossible, but she's happy like this, that is until a certain family come to visit her house, and a certain brother seemed to catch her attention

Y/N is a bit more like Wednesday in this than mortician but if this becomes a series you may or may not see some character development.

Translations are in Bold and Red

Y/n I want you in your room and don't come out unless I say so"

"Bu-"

"No buts OK? These people want to look at our house to buy it and I don't want you and you scaring them away with your.."

"Lack of compassion?"

"No"

"Stories of the underworld?"

"Not quite"

"The impending sense of doom I tend to inflict on everyone and everything I come into contact with"

Mum snaps her fingers and nods as I simply toll my eyes before retiring back to my room.

Ever since I was young I knew I was different.

I never cared for the silly little cartoons and toys other people my age seemed to fawn over, no instead I spent my time writing stories and poetry on how I truly felt alone.

When I was in a particularly good mood I would write horror and poems describing death but the joyful poems seemed to be nothing in comparison to the lonieless ones.

And recently it has only gotten worse and mum and dad want to move out following my grandma's death to be closer to my grandad. For the longest time it's just been us and now we want I co-operate another person into our family, plus its bad enough having them judge me, I don't need another one and Grandads the worst, and with no Grandmare to keep him in check it's a death wish for a strange 18 year old.

"Ah the Addams! Please do come in"

I hear my mum greet them at the door and here four pairs of footsteps waddle in. I lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling as I try to block out voices downstairs. I hear mum and dad and the four pairs of footsteps make their way up the stairs and pray I can be left alone in my room. They look around every other room and just as I think I have gotten away with it.

"What's this room?"

It'd a female voice and sounds like a Barbra. I bet she's a soccer mum with her two pride and joys following her. I can imagine their faces when they see my room decorated to my own taste. The whole room top to bottom is painted black with a old wardrobe I found on the street and painted it myself a desk homage by screws of wood from when dad build the shed full of pills of paper and my bed, a rectangle in the edge of the room, I loved it it was my safe place but mum and dad had there own views.

"Oh, that's my daughter's room! She isn't very sociable but I suppose I can nudge her out if you want to take a look..but uh I would warn you she has a particular..style but don't be alarmed! She's a sweetheart"

That was possibly the biggest insult of my life.

I hear a misrule knock on my door, the one that attempts to make a tune and u groan and mentally prepare myself for how this is going to go. I take a deep breath and open the door.

"Sweetheart do you mind stepping outside for a minute, our guests want to take a quick look at your room"

I squint my eyes at her as she over pronounces guests before nodding and walking to one side, and to say I was wrong about the family was an understatement.

The mum and dad seemed to pass as normal, each gave me a kind smile as they walked into my room, yes classic mum but I couldn't Imagine her being snobby, she had piercing black eyes and her hair just as striking. The dad however seemed to be a typical amefain one, just a little bit taller and seamed approachable.

Then came the other two.

The first one to walk in was a pale and Klippel-Feil Syndrome, don't ask why I know this I went thru a phase when I was younger and once it get focused on something I know everything about it so when I went through a Doctor phase I know know many desires of by heart and some would say its smart, others would say it's pathetic but either way it makes me stand out and that's always been the one thing I'm good at.

The first one walked in without acknowledging me, joining his parents in my dark whole of a room.

The second one though was different, he carried himself differently and almost made me feel small in my oversized hoodie and legend to his perfectly coordinated outfit from head to toe.

He looks to be about my age and his hair is slicked back and very impressive eye liner grazes his eyelids. His eyes are a dark brown colour and he's nothing like I have ever seen before. Unlike his brother, this one does acknowledge me in the best way possible. Before walking into my room he lifts my hand up to his mouth and gives it a light kiss. I turn my head questionly at him but even I can't deny they smile and blush creeping into my face, u haven't felt like this ever, I feel alive and I never want it to stop. He smiles into my hand and places it down.

"Pleasure to met you mon amour"

My love

"le plaisir est tout pour moi monsieur Addams"

The pleasure is all mine Mister Addams

Many sleepless nights also meant I was almost fluent in French witch Is weird I guess for having no desire to leave my room nerv mind going to another country but with all the books I had randomly on that topic it felt only right. I would be observer to by them books in hope of learning the language and finding true live at 10 years old, but harsh truth of reality kicked in at 12 and now I know what I'm destined to be

Alone.

The second one seemingly blushes before walking into my room, laughing. I could do amazing things, I do that alot.

Once everyone is in my room I head downstairs and put the TV on.

I glick through the channels before turning on Netflix and watch 'His houses' a personal favourite. Dad doesn't like me watching films like this but I don't see what's wrong with it, it isn't that scary despite others reactions to it and of anything I find amusing.

I hear mumbles of conversation upstairs until the four guests make her way back down.

"Y/n! What are you watching"

Mum urgently tries to get me to tint of my favourite film, what ist not like there's any kids around.

"His house"

I say not looking from the TV

"Why don't you watch it upstairs?"

"You just kicked me out of upstairs"

"Well I'm kicking you back in"

"Pourquoi as-tu si honte de moi?"

Why are you so ashamed of me?

"You know I don't speak french"

"Peut-être devriez-vous apprendre"

Maybe you should learn

"Y/n! Upstairs now!"

I sigh and turn the TV off and walk upstairs. I accidentally bump into the second one and he gives me an almost sad and understanding smile. I attempt one back but I can't imagine how it looks, I've always hated my smile. Before I walk up the stairs I feel him place something in my back pocket. I don't see what it is there since I want to get out of there as soon as possible but I would be lying if my hast wasn't only because of that.

I rush into my room and shut the door, I put on my small lamp in the corner of my room and reach into my back pocket. It s peace of paper, a cornet peace to be exact with a phone number scribbled on the the words-

Appelez-moi?

(Oui, je parle français)

Call me?

(Yes I speak french)

I smile widely at the note and even though I'm alone in my room I make sure no one's around.

I don't use my phone much, never mind texting but I suppose I can't make an exception.

I walk over to my desk and get it out the drawer and hope it has a battery in it.

15%

That's enough for now.

I get the paper and carefully type in the number. I'm.not sure what to do for the contact name, I don't know is name anyways and settle for

'The second one'

The name I have deemed him in my head.

Once I added the contact name I debate to send him a text right away or wait until he's left me I diced to wait as I don't want to seem desperate or needy but sit in since and hope in for them to just go so I can send him a text.

What should I say?

Hi I'm the weird girl who lives in the house your peratam are trying to buy?

Where did you learn French?

Hello!

The possibilities are endless but keep me entertained before I hear some polite goodbyes and the door shut. I pick up my phone and almost immediately start.

[>-Y/n >-Gomez]

Sorry you had to put up with my mum,<

she's insurable<

>I take it your the French speaking

Girl from the house?

>And don't worry my Mum's the same

Why? Do you give your number out<

often?

>No, actually you're the first.

I'm flattered<

>You should be

I never got your name?<

>Gomez Addams

>I never got yours either?

Y/N L/N<

You have a nice name<

>No tan hermosa como tu amor

Not as beautiful as yours love

That's not french<

>My family come from España

>How do you know french?

Don't know.. I guess I got bored<

>With what?

Everything<

>Fair enough

>Your different

What do you mean<

>Not sure yet

>Are you free tomorrow? There's a ice cream place I want to try

What time<

>3:00?

>I'll pick you up?

Will you pay?<

>Is this a deciding factor?

Yes<

>Then I will pay and pick you up

à bientôt Monsieur Addams<

See you there Mister Addams

>Et vous Mademoiselle L/N

And you Miss L/N

_______________________________________

I smile like a stuiped girl with a crush, witch I spouse I am and here my phone buzz,

5% Connect Charger

And I do just that, and maybe do a couple of happy stories, tonight seemed like the right night

#moon knight #blue jones x reader #steven grant #steven grant x reader #sucker punch #blue jones #marc spector x reader #jake lockley #gomez addams x reader #oscar issac as gomez addams

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bramble-scramble · 1 year

Text

Of Verses and Curses: Chapter Five

Author’s notes:

[I sighed a song that silence brings, it’s the one that everybody knows.

Oh everybody knows the song that silence sings, and this, this was how it goes.]

Yesterday I talked about struggling with the ending of this part. Originally the events were stretched out over two days, and I was torn between keeping it that way because SLOWWW BURN! SLOW DOWN THE DAWNING REALIZATIONS! and condensing it because it was getting way too long-winded and just not fun to write, or probably to read. I eventually went with the condensed version because that’s the one that just feels better and that I’m happy with. Dead time in a story, just like on stage, isn’t very interesting, after all. So yeah, these boys are falling fast... but that’s just how it is sometimes, isn’t it? Fanon thanks: @randomrabbidramblings for the idea that Phantom punctuates his more flirtatious statements with purrs. Did you know rabbit purring is actually them clicking their teeth together really fast? I just learned that the other day and have been waiting for a chance to drop that knowledge. So, the skills on this guy to do that between talking! Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five - Kindred Spirits

Woodrow had business to attend to in town, and all afternoon he went about it, moving slightly faster than normal, merrily, humming to himself- and the songs that came out of him were familiar ones, comforting ones, ones he had listened to time and again on his gramophone; they were the Phantom's. No one in town failed to notice his demeanor. The spring in his step, his energy, his smile - it was all quite unusual. The locals babbled and whispered amongst themselves when he passed, swinging his umbrella about with a jolly flourish. He felt the sun shine clear and bright upon him, and today not even Jinx had the power to block it completely.

Before he knew it, the appointed hour drew near. Having made a quick visit home to make sure he was all in order, to adjust his bowtie, and even to slick down the wisps of scruffy hair under his hat, he made his way back to the inn.

Entering by a side door into the establishment’s adjoining restaurant, he saw a few villagers seated at scattered tables and booths- and then, in the back, settled into a plush chair at a large table, looking almost like a king on a dais: the man he was looking for. No longer wearing the black and gold of earlier, he was now in his most familiar traditional outfit, the one he was known for, the one Woodrow had expected to first see him in - all sumptuous and vibrant, red and blue. And he only seemed to grow brighter and more splendid the closer the warden got. To see him in person… a songbird in all his glory, resplendent in plumage divine-

The warden stopped in place, and stopped his thoughts as well. A poem need not rhyme, and he was getting dangerously close to a poem. And why did he need to write one, anyway? Why did he need to write one for someone whose whole existence was poetry-

“Ah! Monsieur!” He had been noticed. With a suave gesture, the Phantom motioned to the matching seat across from him. The warden did his little bow and took off his hat, placing it on the table - he had been so distracted he’d forgotten to hang it up at the entrance- and settled back into the chair. It had been designed for the bulkier Rabbids of the area and was rather spacious and empty around his uncommonly oblong form.

The two made small talk as they decided what to get, looking over the menu written on a big blackboard on the wall. When the waiter came over, the Phantom ordered their house red wine for himself, and looked expectantly at the warden, who asked for a non-alcoholic apple cider.

After the server had left, Phantom turned to his companion. “You don’t drink?”

“Not often,” said the warden. In truth, he did sometimes… but sometimes it led to depression, and always- ALWAYS it led to poetry. And thus he'd have to abstain, for a while.

When their drinks arrived and they waited on their meal, Phantom took a sip and glanced over his wineglass at the warden. “So,” he said, after a swallow, “I have been wanting to speak to you about your writing.”

Woodrow’s ears pressed themselves backwards involuntarily, and he choked on his cider.

“Oh- are you alright?” asked the Phantom in concern, leaning over.

The warden coughed a bit. “Yes,” he managed to get out after a moment, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I’m fine.”

“I am glad of that! As I said, I have read some of your work, and I find it quite wonderful. To be honest… it moves my soul. And I can scarcely believe it- to think I should find myself destined to stay on a planet where such a storied poet resides, as the very warden, no less!”

‘Storied’ is right, thought Woodrow, wondering how much he knew.

“...What is it you wish to know about my poetry?” he said cautiously, feeling a burning in his ears and cheeks that was half astonished pleasure and half dread.

“Oh- anything! Your process, what inspires you. I suppose I am most curious about what you’re working on now. Have you written anything good lately? I should love to be your sounding-board.”

The erstwhile poet frowned and looked down at his hands. “Alas, I must admit… I am not writing much right now,” he said, clasping his paws together.

“Oh?” said the Phantom, seeming a bit crestfallen. “Writer’s block?”

“Yes,” answered Woodrow. “That’s just it. The muses have fled me. More’s the pity- I should have liked to compose something to commemorate your momentous arrival, but… the well of my inspiration is dry, as of late. I am under a drought… the river has ceased to flow."

“It’s alright,” said Phantom, sadly but gently. “I feel the same way with my own work recently. You can’t force these things.”

“Yes, of course you understand,” said Woodrow with gratitude, and he knew that the other truly did. Only… it wasn’t true, for the warden, of course. The poems were definitely still there- battering and scratching at the locked door in his mind, building up like a flood behind a beaver’s hastily-built dam. He wondered how long it would hold.

“But I do hope your muses come back, while I am here,” said the singer with a smile. “Or that you might at least recite some of your existing work to me. I’d love to hear it in the author’s own voice.”

“Yes, well! It is painful to even think of such matters right now, but- but we shall see,” said Woodrow, his ears flopping down helplessly to the sides of his face, at a loss as to how he could ever resolve this. But he would worry about that later - he ought to try and enjoy this night. Forcing his ears back upwards, he said, “But enough about me! I know… I know times have been rough for you, of late. If it’s alright to ask… how have you kept yourself busy, since retiring from the opera?”

Phantom smiled somewhat ruefully- excited to talk about himself, even if to vent his woes. He explained how, in addition to going on publicity tours and making money from selling and signing his own older work, he had hardly retired from the stage entirely. He’d been getting cameo roles in plays, and even non-singing roles in musicals; even with brief stage-time, they were still enough to be attractions in themselves, and to make the crowd go wild. (Sometimes with boos, if they were part of Bea’s fanbase.)

They had to be smaller roles, though- his voice was not only totally ruined for singing, but he couldn’t even talk for too long without the damage becoming notable. Woodrow said he hadn’t noticed, and indeed he hadn’t as of yet- but as the night went on, he was saddened to notice a faint scratchiness, a raspiness, start emerging in his companion’s rich voice, like static on a radio signal as the radio moved further and further from its source. When it started to come out, Woodrow said not a word, but noticed his companion would take a drink, and rest for a moment, and sometimes look wistfully into the distance at nothing in particular.

But it did not stop him from talking. Throughout their meal - a vegetarian stuffed eggplant for the planet’s warden, and a seared fish filet for the visitor - the singer went into detail about the plots of his favorite productions he had starred in, the character motivations of his roles, how he had moved into somewhat of a backstage coaching capacity recently (another stream of income), and how happy he was to still work in the theatre despite his ailment. Woodrow sat rapt in attention, sometimes forgetting to eat, his head resting dreamily on his paw. His companion had such a fine voice, and he began to think that its supposed damage was not so bad, really… no more of a problem than the fuzziness and pops of an old record - in fact, that’s what it quite sounded like indeed. A layer that added a feeling of texture and nostalgia, not covering up the pleasure of the listening experience. The warden found himself hardly comprehending his companion’s words sometimes, only hearing the resonance of his voice, the rising and falling lilt of his passion. He did not need to sing to make music.

“Hello! Would you like any dessert?” the voice of the waiter brought Woodrow back to reality. He looked down at his food, which was only half-eaten, and said, “Oh… no, thank you, I shall be fine.” He then took to hurriedly trying to finish his meal while the Phantom ordered something for himself.

“Crème brulée,” he repeated merrily when the waiter had gone. “My favorite.”

Woodrow swallowed and looked over at him. “To be honest, I am somewhat surprised that a ghost can eat at all. Fascinating…” then his eyes suddenly widened behind his glasses, and he winced. He had asked the question in the state of dreamlike wonder into which his companion’s voice had lulled him, but now he was embarrassed. “Oh, I’m so sorry… that was rather rude-”

The Phantom laughed, then leaned his elbow on the table and his face in his hand. “Not at all!” he said. “You must remember, mon ami, that a ghost is only one of the many things that I am. In fact, it’s not as though I was made from a real ghost at all. The mere concept of one created me, thus I am more one in concept than in reality… does that make sense?”

“Hmm,” said Woodrow. “Perhaps, but not fully. I hope… I shall come to understand better in time, as I know you more.”

“I am sure of it,” said the Phantom. “For now, let me put it like this - I may look like a ghost, and I may have some of their powers, but my needs… my desires… remain that of the living.”

Woodrow nearly choked again. Had there… had there been a slight purr in the pauses between his words? No- surely that was just the scratching of his voice….

“I- I see!” was all he could get out, and he hurried to finish his meal before it got too much colder.

Luckily, their conversation quickly returned to theatre and music. And when Woodrow had finished his food, and Phantom his dessert, and the check was settled… they found themselves once more on the veranda of the inn, preparing to part.

And yet, it was clear that neither of them wanted to. Jinx had come down under the awning of the porch, gravitating between and above the both of them.

“Well,” said the singer, “I do believe you’ve had a long day, haven’t you? You were so kind to take time to give me a tour, on top of all your wardenly duties.”

“Oh, 'twas truly my pleasure,” said Woodrow. “I… I ought to let you retire. You have your publicity event tomorrow, and I’m sure you wish to rest after your travels. Speaking of which- I forgot to mention. I have a number of appointments that have come up for tomorrow, and I’m quite afraid I might miss your signing. I do hope I can find the time to stop by. I… I would very much like your autograph…”

The Phantom threw his head back with a laugh. “Oh, you are a silly man, for such a serious one!”

Woodrow frowned in confusion, gripping the handle of his umbrella tightly with both paws, wondering what inappropriate thing he had said this time. “I… I’m sorry, I-”

But the singer reached out and touched his shoulder, his hand resting amongst the leaves that were perpetually stuck under the warden’s collar. “It’s just- you must understand, by now, surely? You need not wait for a special occasion for my autograph. You can have all that and more, anytime you wish. Do not panic on my account.”

A wave of relief flooded the warden; aided by the startling warmth of his companion’s touch, which he could feel through his coat. “Thank you,” he said. “You are… most kind.” But suddenly nervous at the extended contact, he stepped away a bit, then looked back. “I suppose I shall see you around town, then-”

“Please, my good poet, will you not join me here for dinner again? Same time, same place? I hope you will not be too busy into the evening, tomorrow.”

“Again!!” said the warden. “Are you quite certain?! Did I not bore you to tears tonight?”

“The only tears I will shed is if you say no,” said the Phantom with a sly smile. “So…”

“I cannot bear the thought of your sorrow,” said Woodrow with sincere concern. “I shall see you tomorrow, Sir Phantom.”

“Enough of that,” said the ghost with a wave of his arm. “You can call me Tom, if it please you.”

It pleased him very much. “Of course… Tom.” No single syllable had ever felt so wonderful.

“And if I may be so bold… do your friends have a name for you, besides Woodrow?”

The warden hesitated for a moment. Of course, to Sweetlopek he had been Woody since childhood, but somehow he didn’t wish to be called the same thing in this case… he always preferred to go by his last name, and yet- before he knew what he was saying, before he could even regret it:

“Woodrow is always fine, but- but you can call me Tristan. My given name. If- if you like!”

“With pleasure, Tristan Woodrow.”

Woodrow found himself unable to speak- he could only nod, moved almost to tears, as if hearing a familiar simple tune arranged by a genius and played by a grand orchestra. His own humble name had never sounded so wonderful, even filtered through the slight rasps of the other’s weary voice.

“Shall I accompany you home?” said the ghost after a moment. “It’s a fine evening for a stroll - or a float, I suppose, in my case.”

“Oh…” said Woodrow quietly. I would like nothing more, he thought. But his mouth said, “That’s alright. It’s quite out of the way, and you ought to rest. Perhaps some other time.”

“Alright then. I shall see you tomorrow, poet of the forest. The night and the day shall be too long.”

“And I will see you too, o fair spirit,” said the warden. “Palette Prime already shines more brilliantly in your presence.”

And suddenly heat rose to his cheeks and he found himself feeling nervous and giddy all at once. With a little wave, he turned and scuttled off as fast as he could.

—

Woodrow had climbed his stairs quickly, without a second thought, trusting his luck. Lying in bed, clutching his blanket to him, he fell asleep to the joint music of a newly-opened roof leak and the sound of one of Phantom’s gentler albums, playing on his gramophone safely away from the steady drip. He had not wanted to stop hearing that voice. A voice that had spoken his name.

Not far away, stretched out on his own rented bed, wearing a luxurious robe, a certain performer lay reading a book he had purchased in a souvenir shop that afternoon.

“Ha, ya sure ya want that one?” the shopkeeper had laughed when he took it to the counter. “His stuff is a little overwrought, methinks, on top of everything el-” But noticing the visitor’s surprisingly serious face, they’d stopped and added- “Alright, whatever floats your boat.”

Now he held T. S. Woodrow’s newest volume of works in his hands, thinking with amusement of how he would surprise its author by asking to trade autograph for autograph. More than any other book he’d ever handled, he found himself holding it gently, flipping its pages slowly, almost like a caress. Its cover was unassuming, but within was unfathomable beauty and passion, a spectrum of agony and joy, pain and love. He wanted to understand. He wanted to know its every page. He wanted the book to open itself before him and tell him, and show him, everything that wasn’t written in ink… it wasn’t about the book anymore, was it? He wanted… he wanted…

It had been quite the day, and he fell asleep with the book at his side.

#mario + rabbids #mario plus rabbids #fanfic #woodrow #ts woodrow #the phantom #phandrow #mario rpgs

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axieta · 1 year

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On the state of poetry and its contemporary form

The strange thing about poetry is that when we talk about it, our minds more often times than not venture into the territory of popular, well-renowned, dusted-up men like Edgar Allan Poe, Baudelaire or Shakespeare. Those figures are what our schools acquaint us with. In fact, the string of literary figures that we are obliged to learn about for our compulsory education ends just about XX century, giving us no opportunity to familiarize ourselves with more contemporary writers other than exploring the subject on our own. And don’t get me wrong, I find the old, classical poetry as enticing and fascinating as any other sane person. It is beautiful, grand and sublime for the most part, quizzical and light for the rest, and educating young minds on that matter is more than fine by me, essential even. It is extremely important to introduce young people to the common legacy and culture of the world, the beauty and intricacies of language. But with the way it is done in our schools comes an insufferable notion that poetry – true poetry! – may only come from those dried-up, long-dead men. A notion, which I consider to be borderline ludicrous. For me the candid charm of poetry lies in its constant fluidness, progression, as well as mercurial and an almost aching need of change. The fact that it lies in the nature in both, the poet and poetry, to invent new forms, to oppose the old ones, and to break the rules, or rather, bend them to one’s will. And for that I consider the contemporary poetry, as neglected and disregarded as it is, to be as crucial to our culture as the works of the old rhymesters. To be completely honest, I for one, find the unfamiliar, murky waters of the new, contemporary poetry far more alluring than the already ventured, known by heart lyrics of Romantics or Beat Generation. I don’t know why, but I must admit there is something far more relatable in the modern poetry, something that if only written and read properly can cut to the bone, infect one’s soul with the problems and desires that are much closer to them than let’s say the conquest of Granada or the complicated stories from Camelot. Of course, we could break our heads over the sorry excuse for writing that Lord Byron decided to curse us all with, but what for if we could just simply contemplate ourselves, our lives and our problems while supplemented by the subtle and moving works of Stephen Crane or Laura Gilpin, whose poems are by far more coherent and thought provoking than whatever Byron managed to ever produce, with the greatest strain and effort I imagine. To be honest, for that reason I find the constant neglect of contemporary poetry in our society quite unfair.

And so, considering all that, I admit to being the most eager enthusiast of contemporary poetry. My favourite poems are In the desert and Two-headed calf, both true, soul-gripping masterpieces. But one piece of art that has, and for ever will have my undisturbed sympathy, is an anonymously written poem by the name of Icarus. Like in the two aforementioned pieces, it is the subversion of expectations that grips my heart most in the poem. In Two-headed calf and In the desert, the surprise comes from the conclusion the authors plainly present us with – that the beauty and content may be found even in the darkest, most gruesome and grotesque scenarios. And while Icarus does quite the same thing, what surprises the readers most, what first comes into the view and leaves them in awe is the way the whole affair surrounding Icarus himself is presented. It is not a story that we’re used to, the cautionary tale of recklessness and arrogance, but rather an ode to the dreamers. Moreover, dreamers who fail in their endeavours. When Icarus falls, in the traditional telling he is punished for exactly that, for trying, for wishing and for dreaming. His death is gruesome, tragic, unnoticed. In Bruegel’s interpretation, no one is looking at our protagonist. The people in the foreground (and even in the background!) are going on about their day, their eyes digging deep into the soil before them, into the nets, the cows they must take care of to make ends meet. No one pays attention to the solemn, pale leg sticking miserably from the barely disturbed sea. And I suppose, if it wasn’t for the title of the painting – Landscape with the fall of Icarus – we, the viewers probably wouldn’t even know who the leg belongs to as well. In Bruegel’s piece, anonymity is the punishment for Icarus. In the original myth it is the death itself. But not in my poem. In Icarus, he laughs in his fall. He finds beauty in the tragic situation, delight in the burn of melted wax scorching his skin, strange allure in the light of sun. We know, as readers that he should be soaring, and yet he falls. Laughing all the way down. I don’t think that for this Icarus death is the punishment. I think it is the crescendo, a beautiful end to a dream he could never fulfil. It is unclear in this poem if our Icarus knew that he was destined to fail, but ultimately, it doesn’t matter. He tried, he made the effort and that is what truly counts. The result is just that, a result, and his failure is his own – an achievement in itself.

That kind of forking in the way of living, fulfilling one’s duties and the values one cherishes the most could be seen as far back as in the times of Homer, namely in his most known piece – The Iliad. In that absolute masterpiece, a blueprint of true fiction and chanson de geste if one would indulge, we can see the two brothers, Parys and Hector, facing the siege of their city. Hector, the prince, the older brother, thinks in the old, more acceptable, honourable way. He’s trying to convince his brother to duel for his honour and the fate of their town. Hector values thomos and wants for his brother to think in the same, valiant way. But Parys is not like that. He’s not a prince like his brother, he's not a warrior, but a recently recovered, royal son, a shepherd whose upbringing differs dramatically from the one of his brother’s, and so his way of thinking is different as well. Parys, the gentle, unprepared soul prefers the path of kholos – the contemplative wallowing. So, one might ask, at the end of the day, what is the correct way of thinking? The path of thomos or kholos? Well, I say it does not matter at all. Ultimately, both Parys and Hector die. But we all die, don’t we? One way or the other, our lives end and there is not second chance, no replay button. What matters is the fact that both princes had a certain view of the life, their own interpretation, and lived their lives accordingly. Just like in the case of Icarus, their decisions and actions were their own, as well as the results.

That is what one might conclude when thinking of the Icarus in the frame of old, Greek stories. But it is a modern poem, so I think I would not be too far off while saying that, yes there are some elements from antiquity that inspired the piece, but what I think truly inspires it to be what it ultimately is, would be the XX century absurdism, specially that of Camus.

Should I kill myself or drink a cup of coffee? Are the most famous words of Albert Camus. What they represent is the critical, almost nihilist way of thinking about life. If there is no origin of life, and what comes with it, no purpose to it, then what is there to our activities? If they are of no meaning, leave no trace in the grand scheme of things, then why do we do them at all? In that kind of world, having a cup of coffee, or killing oneself bare the same meaning, hold the same weight. You did something. That’s it. There is no cosmic consequence. While reading Icarus and having that thought in mind, all the thomos, kholos, punishment and unachieved endeavour, go out the window.Mayhaps, Icarus laughs not because he is content with what he did, maybe he does not see that beauty in the fall, but the pure absurd that is the fear that comes before it. Maybe he does not fear it and is able to admire the golden rays of sun, because whether he dies or not is of no consequence to him, because in life there is nothing truly of consequence. One might say that it is a very bleak and unpleasant way of looking at life. I, however, say that it is quite freeing. After all, if there are no repercussions, no hell, no final, divine punishment, then what is there to fear? Absolutely nothing. So, we might as well live our lives to their fullest, fall, if we must, face Achilles, drown. But laugh while doing this, because we know that at least we tried, and the failure or victory do not matter at all.

As I’ve said already, the contemporary poetry is, in my humble opinion, terribly neglected, and simultaneously, utterly brilliant. But it is not only for its fresh, new-wave style or contrarian nature. I think it is so brilliant precisely because it is so deeply rooted in the past all the while being close to us, and their authors have the opportunity, the resources to reference the old. Sometimes the poetry might subvert our expectations, surprise us. Other times it might solidify our perception of the world. Or in some cases, do the first, while presenting us with the second and vice versa. What I want to say, is that there is no correct way of interpretating poetry, like there is no correct way in choosing thomos and kholos, the old or the new one. But if we venture into the uncovered realm of contemporary poetry, we might gain a clearer insight into the past, as well the present. And that is precisely why I enjoy this poem, Icarus, so much. It is a contemporary, anonymous work, and so by its existence it rebels against the admiration for the old, all the while catering to in, in the themes it uses.

As I said before, the old poetry is grand, sublime, it is in one word, a classic, and that in itself makes it so valuable to our society. One thing about it is that, even though it is so important to us it does not do anything our modern poetry isn’t. That is why I think the contemporary poetry so important.

#poetry #contemporary poetry #i could write a whole essay on this #oryginal

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runeterrankhaleesi · 2 years

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🐊Gator🐊 anon again, may I have a dbd survivor matchup for the LMMU Event if it's open please?

I'm a tall plus sized bisexual woman with medium length reddish brown hair and black eyes. I tend to dress more of the gothic, punk style. I either wear band tees and skinny jeans or wear all black androgynous dress shirts and pants.

I tend to intimidate people with both my quiet personality and my aesthetic but once you get to know me, I have a heart of gold and am fiercely loyal to the people I'm close to. During stressful times, I tend to cope with my morbid humor because I'm not the best at social cues.

My interests and hobbies include: writing stories and poetry, studio effects makeup, horror movies/ stories, playing guitar, hiking and traveling, and riding my bike. Overall, I'm the classic example of not judging a book by its cover- the "looks like they can kill you but actually is a giant teddy bear" trope. Thank you so much dear!🐊🐊

I pair you with...

DWIGHT FAIRFIELD!

Why? Because...

You say that you tend to intimidate people with your quiet personality and Dwight is no exception. At first, he thought that you were the "silent but deadly" type so he was afraid to approach you. Boy was he wrong when he finally knew what you were really like.

He fell in love harder than he thought. He's absolutely soft for you and the fact that you're loyal and have a heart of gold makes him melt like an ice cream under the sun. He likes that you're kind to everyone, helping everyone in need when you can.

During stressful times is where his time comes, he's a natural born leader. This is where Dwight's skills and leadership comes in handy. He's great at leading, encouraging, and comforting people. He's a good reader, he knows when you're nervous and stressed. You start to joke at every turn, using your humor as a defense mechanism so he drops everything in instant to be at your side, helping you calm down and telling you that you he's always here.

He tries to learn as much as he could about your interests and hobbies as a way to get closer to you and spend more time with you. Dwight wrote a poem once for you, it wasn't good considering it was his first time but he did his best in trying to be a romantic.

He doesn't do well with hiking or riding long miles on a bike considering his stamina isn't the best. If you do manage to convince him to go outdoors and hike or ride a bike, you'll find that you need to take a break at least every 10-15 minutes otherwise Dwight will pass out (almost literally). He's breathless before he even reaches the finish line.

He also doesn't do well with scary stuff. Almost everything scares him, even something falling off from a height will send a chill down his spine. So don't expect Dwight to play, read, or watch anything scary. Though there are times when he's sort of confident and brave, inviting you to watch a horror movie and then regretting it. He's already covering his eyes with his hands or burying himself in your arms whenever he feels a jumpscare coming.

And for fun, Dwight volunteers to be your model to practice your studio effects makeup on. He's always amazed at what you do and gushes over how the finished product looks, telling you that if he was in charge of giving awards to SFX artists, he would give them all to you.

💝~Happy Valentines Day!~💝

[You were matched together by @dumbgaming]

#runeterrankhaleesi #dead by daylight #dbd #dead by daylight x reader #dbd x reader #dwight fairfield #LMMU #love month match up

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rainbowvamp · 1 year

Text

an unsent letter: 1883

Hob Gadling offers up a new kind of offering to the only person who he's ever known to resemble a god. Serial publishing.

~900 words

AO3

----

I have the need to create. To complete something. I have been out of publishing for some time, but I think it might be time to return to it. There’s this new form of publishing where you print a story piece by piece over months. It’s very interesting. Not as convenient as reading a whole story at once, mind, but it allows for longer, more complex tales without having to pay for a whole book up front. It’s quite good for business, so I’ve heard.

I’ve been reading this serialized novel by a chap who writes about a detective. Bloody brilliant. Interesting way of thinking about the world, this detective. Mind so great he can deduce a criminal from a shoe print and a leaf. It’s not at all realistic, but it is good fun.

It’s been a while since I enjoyed a story like that. I think maybe I’ll use some of my capital to invest in my own serial magazine. Give some poor, starving artist the chance to make something of themselves, share the stories that long to be told.

I know you have a particular interest in stories. Will Shakespeare made that clear enough. I wonder, sometimes, if I give you the same thing, will you touch my back like you touched his, lead me away somewhere for a conversation in private, and who knows what else. Lord knows I have imagined it, though the way you said “nothing so crude” makes me thing that whatever I have imagined was just a fantasy to torture myself.

How many hours have I spent lying awake thinking about what silent things you whispered to him. How many hours have I spent scouring his poetry and plays for any sign of you or your influence. You confirmed, in 1789, that you had some hand in this work, and since then I’ve done nothing but look for you between the lines of poems so beautiful they bring my eyes to tears. I think that must be you, the beauty of them. Your influence comes through in ways I cannot understand, but it brings me closer to you than I have felt except when sitting right beside you.

I look for you in every piece of beautiful script I see. Every line written for lovers lost and prevailing hopes. I look for you in the space between letters and hold the words that feel like yours as close as I might hold my most beloved.

I ache to see you. Each day. I don’t know if you care for publishing in serial, but maybe you will bless my writers, like you blessed Will, and I will have the honor of putting your words in print and sharing them with the whole of England. Like they should be.

I haven’t sat down to write you in some time. I’ve tried my hand at poetry, instead of these letters, hoping to hide myself in something that it intended to be abstract, but I cannot come up with new words to describe the same few things that have enchanted me about you each time we’ve met.

The beauty of your eyes, the pale pink of your mouth, the deep black richness of your hair. Any man can write about such features, but there is something about you that is beyond those things that I can see, something I have never been able to put to paper.

The drawing done of us in 1689. There’s a reason I thought you looked the worse of the two of us. Because as low as I was brought that century, the image captured me in my essence. You, however, feel almost to beautiful to be captured on a page. Certainly to beautiful to be captured in crude lines drawn from a distance by some unknown artist.

There was no love in the delicate lines of your face. No softness to your eyes. None of the dozens of things that I know but can’t describe that make you the most delectable creature I have ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. You looked worse because of the two of us, there was so much more of you that needed to be captured.

Because of the two of us, you were more perfect. There were more places an artist could go wrong. And he did. He went wrong in so many ways, my beautiful, perfect stranger.

I cannot write a sonnet or a song that could capture your essence. There is no letter that I could transcribe that would ever perfectly describe you. You are unknowable in a way that captures my heart and my imagination, but that cannot be put to paper, cannot be put to words.

And so if I cannot capture your likeness, I will create for you a tribute instead. A new serial magazine, filled with the most beautiful writers I can find with no prospects of publication on their own. The women, the people of color, the immigrants, and the jewish, and the atheists. The ones who society tries to do without, to live around, to shun and exile. They will write what I cannot, and this will be my offering to you, far better than these paltry letters ever have been.

The time of our meeting cannot come soon enough. How I ache to see you.

I wish you well. Take care. My most beloved Stranger.

#lore's dreamling letters

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invinciblerodent · 5 months

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For the tav backstory ask 15 for Iona and 10 for Arvid?

15. Do they have any sentimental items?

Oh, she has an entire pouch of them in her inventory! :) Having fled from her previous home, she doesn't have a lot of things she's kept from then, but she's picked up quite a few things along the way. She's a pretty sentimental character, even if she's not terribly open about it, and has something of a soft spot for poetry. This is what that bag currently looks like:

her old wedding ring. She's... not sure why she kept it. She oughta have traded it months ago. Or just tossed it in a river somewhere, gave it to some hungry urchin to sell, done SOMETHING, but it feels like it's burning a hole in her pocket sometimes. (She's always had a hard time letting things go.)

a locket found on the ledge above the Gur camp, with a portrait of a little girl inside. She couldn't bring herself to sell it, or leave it, so she slipped it into her pocket. (I hc it's Chessa, as she'll later learn.)

a worn dog collar- I headcanon it's the one Scratch had on originally, and while she got him a new one, she did keep the old one as well, just because.

a ruby necklace- the description said that "wearing a ruby near one's heart will increase a lover's courage". She's a jeweler by background, so she intends to take it apart, and use the stones to fashion something new from them, once she finds a suitable workshop. (This is where I headcanon the stone she'll use to make the ring with which she'll propose to Astarion down the line will come from ❤️)

a regular, dingy silver necklace- this one came from Aradin's chest in the druid grove actually, it was one of the first thing they successfully pilfered as a team! My little story for it was that while she distracted Aradin, Astarion picked the lock on the chest, and lifted this- and since he was in full-on seduction-mode then, as soon as they were far enough away, he dropped an incredibly cheesy line about it being "worth more adorning her lovely neck, than gathering dust in a chest somewhere", and she let him put it on her. She's very happy to have kept it now.

the Spellcrux amulet. it's just there for safekeeping, this one is not that sentimental lol.

the book of handwritten poems found by the skeletons on top of the House of Healing- the one described as being "extremely horny", where the poem goes like "I hold my breath for the Sun to fall/For in the hot collapse of day, I'm brought to you". It... reminded her of a certain someone.

Mirkon's story that he wrote for her. It's just very, very cute.

the Selunite brooch engraved "A+I". She now knows it's for "Aylin+Isobel", but it's been so long now, she doesn't know how to bring it up that she has is.

the book "Larethian"- it's just a book of elven history. It's the one that calls elves "as sad as a species can be". With her Drawing of the Veil drawing closer, and finally not living in a human settlement, she's been feeling a bit closer to her fey ancestry, but realized that she doesn't actually know all that much about it.

the book "The Illustrated Adventures of Balduran". The one described as having crude, but enthusiastic drawings. She thought it was cute, and has always liked that story.

Mol's eyepatch. She'll try to give it back, if she can. (i don't know if you can. Probably can't, right?)

one of the poems found in the Underdark- it's the one that starts "These empty sheets are all that's left of you./The last of all the thoughtless gifts you gave." It just... resonated with her.

a copy of the issue of the Baldur's Mouth Gazette they "sabotaged"- because, well, why not. It's flattering, and funny, and it feels kinda good knowing that someone did actually write that, it was just discarded in favor of slander.

the Harper pin found in act 1, on the skeletons under the bridge- she recognized the symbol only vaguely then, but thought it was beautiful. Now, it's almost a good luck charm.

Scratch's ball. Of course.

the gemless ring found on the dead refugee in front of the entrance of the gnome hideout. Being as worthless and damaged as it is, she pocketed it, but would have felt disrespectful in selling it.

aaaaand the book of Ansur. (this should be in the quest items pouch, but also... it's one she'll be just absently turning at night, for no reason in particular.)

Not pictured is her journal, which she writes in Common, but using Dwarvish script. This is a habit she picked up back when she was a trader and jeweler (her community did a lot of business with primarily dwarves, orcs, and gnomes who not all spoke Common but could read Dwarvish, and a lot of goldsmithing terminology is already in Dwarvish)- she just kept it up, because it's comfortable, and it's a little bit of encryption too, in case someone were to snoop around among her stuff. Wink wonk.

10. Was your Tav in a relationship? How did it end?

He’s… had a few relationships before. No more than a small handful, and no particularly long or significant ones, but you don’t often get to be in your fifties (I’ve amended his age since the last time I posted something like this lol, he’s now supposed to be 55 rather than 35- I wanted him to be still young for a dwarf, but at least old enough to be seen as a young adult rather than barely not a child) without getting into a relationship if you’re interested in that sort of thing. Though there’s definitely not been any to speak of in the past 5-6 years, and none that he would remember with more than just… mild regrets.

See, Arvid is... a notorious people-pleaser. And that doesn’t just translate to being kind and selfless, or to serving the community: it means, quite frankly, that he was prone to dropping everything personally important to him as soon as his aid was requested. Which, as a war priest, is not exactly conducive to maintaining a healthy romantic relationship. His past loves, they’ve never really managed to last, simply because despite his affectionate nature and propensity for devotion (he just… doesn’t really know how to like things -or people- a normal amount, it’s either soul-crushing devotion or nothing with this guy), Arvid didn’t really have any sort of an idea on how to be selfish, so he… simply didn’t make time for himself, and by extension, for them. There was always someone to aid, a battle to fight, a wound to mend, a “downtrodden” to help up, and coupled with the stress of loving a soldier who might not return from the next fight, it’d have worn down even the strongest relationship- which those already weren’t.

He does feel bad about all of that, you know. He definitely feels awful for never having been a better partner, and not only is this time with Gale very different (partly because they’re on equal footing on the “I could lose you at any point” business, and because finally they're both equally not normal about the other lol), he’s also changed a lot, very quickly. He’s a lot more self-assured now, and he does make it a point to carve time out for himself, and most importantly, his lover.❤️

#squirrel plays bg3 #squirrel speaks #thank you for asking! <3 #oc: iona raedir #oc: arvid trygg #wow hello sudden influx of new followers; I ramble a lot!!!

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gabbrothetroll · 2 years

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The Dragon's Charm

The charm I wear around my neck has magic on the inside

it makes the wearers skin as strong as a dragon's hide

for me it means I can exist in day as well as night

without turning to Stone as other trolls might

but this charm also has a story and I'll tell it to you now

it starts in a far-off country in a long forgotten town

the townsfolk there all lived in fear of what lurked beyond their Gates

the manticores were frightening, as were the giant venomous snakes

but the thing they feared the most of all which lurked beyond their doors

was the dragon great and fearsome sitting on her mountainous hoard

the townsfolk all were restless. they needed someone to slay this dragon!

but heroes were expensive, and as for money, they simply had none

so they made a flyer and sent it all across the land

"help!" it said in stylish font, "we need an extra hand!"

"no experience necessary" it said, "must be willing to work for exposure"

the townsfolk were all anxious as their Doom was drawing closer

but soon a rumor was spreading that a troll was coming their way!

although such news would generally be met with nothing but dismay

the townsfolk were delighted "a troll!" they said, "that's what we need!"

"something big and strong that can break that dragon's knees!"

the problem with this matter, and of course by now you see

is the troll that came to their rescue was in fact no other than me

when I first strolled up to the gates they had hope behind their eyes

which soon faded to dread when they noticed my small size

"what's this?!" they cried, "a tiny troll? that's surely a sight to be seen!"

of course they didn't know that trolls are only as big as they are mean

"my name is Gabbro" I said, "if you want to know"

"and if you don't need my help I guess I'll go"

"wait!" they pleaded, "Gabbro the troll!"

"if you slay the dragon we'll reward you with gold!"

I thought of this for a bit, then I said "you're bluffing"

"but I haven't got much to lose so I'll do it for nothing"

I left the town's gates to hesitant cheers

and so started a journey that took me 4 years

just kidding it was only a 4 hour hike

unfortunately, they hadn't invented the bike

when I got to The hoard I was amazed by it all

it was wonderfully wide and amazingly tall

"thief!" said a voice that made me jump

"leave before I turn you into a smoldering stump!"

sitting atop the glittering mountain

hidden in Twilight, was a violet dragon

"I'm not here to steal" I said, "I have no use for gold"

"my true heart's desire can't be bought or sold"

"what is it?" Asked the dragon, "what is your wish?"

"To see sunlight" I said, "though I know it's quite foolish"

"what is your name, thief?" asked the dragon, intrigued

"Gabbro" I said, "may I ask what yours might be?"

"Carmen" she said as she got down from the pile

we sat there in the shade and talked for a while

"the problem with gold" she said after some time had passed

"is when all's said and done, its value just doesn't last"

"and besides, I only steal to take revenge on man"

"who have cut down whole forests and polluted the land"

"but, my friend!" I said, "aren't you beginning to see?"

"you don't need to steal! you just need poetry!"

I took out my notebook and showed her what I do

"I couldn't do that!" she said, "I'm nothing like you!"

"you don't have to be!" I said, "you don't even have to rhyme!"

"well, in that case" she said, "I guess I could try"

many a poem was composed that night

we worked through the darkness and almost to daylight

"thank you, my friend" she said when we were done

"you've given me something to cherish for years to come"

"and now that the night is almost through"

"allow me to make your wish come true"

she dug through her hoard, and pulled out a charm

then she drew in her breath, and much to my alarm

she blew out a flame and held the charm to it

she let it heat up for about a minute

"this charm" she said when the flame had stopped

"should give you the power which you have sought"

just then the sun began to rise

I put on the charm and much to my surprise

I hadn't become petrified!

then I looked up at the crimson sky

I said "what is this wondrous sight I behold?"

"it's better than anything I've ever been told!"

"that, my friend, is a sunrise" she said

then she lifted me up to the top of her head

I held on to her horns and away we flew

up into the sky with its brilliant hues

it took us a while, but we got to the town

people started running before we touched the ground

"wait! she's reformed!" I said to the crowd

"there's hardly a chance that she'll bother you now!"

"except" she said, "for a snack now and then"

then she gave the townsfolk a big, toothy grin

and so that's the story of the dragon's charm

now I have to go rest my writing arm.

#poetry #dragons #fantasy #writers on tumblr #short story

0 notes

themelancholyhill · 2 years

Note

The emergency at work was that someone almost died lol but she didn’t because luckily she has me as her nurse.

I wrote a poem yesterday about friendship and wanted to share it with you.

Upon the soil of my heart, lies a sparse garden. I’ve blocked out the wind carrying wildflowers from every corner. Instead, I’ve handpicked each being to a specific patch of my land. Seedlings grew tall, reaching for rainwater and sunlight. Under my care, some flourished. Year after year, their blooms stretch proud and dependable. There are ghosts too, petals too heavy for their stems, bowing to their almost forgotten death. But I remember every flower I plant. When I think of them, I still gasp and cry, at the cuts made by thorns and cauterized by pollen. That is the nature of this intentional cultivation, not every flower wants to grow. For those that do, the soil gives as much as it receives.

So before you pass the honeysuckle, you have to understand, there is no other garden quite like mine.

I saw “Fight Club” the other day, it was a rewatch, i’ve seen it before. Have you seen it? i was just about to tell you my thoughts on it and realized i shouldn’t because it contains spoilers. The weather here is more reminiscent of autumn than late spring. Everyone is complaining except me. ✖️

Good thing you were there for that "emergency". Is it mean to use "" on that word, or is it just feeding on the dark humour? 🤔 oh well!

Your poem is simply delightful, and I can relate to it so much. I guess this is the aim of poetry—speaking to people's soul more than anything else 💛 I'll try to be as eloquent as I can while talking about certain lines that stands out to me. I want to get better at critical reading, and what a better start as a good friend's piece of writing?!

You saying, "I've blocked out the wind carrying wildflowers from every corner." speaks volumes to me cause that's exactly what I've been doing. That's a bit of an exaggeration here, but I always do my best to be true to myself and sometimes I meet great people along my way—I'm pretty open in this regard. However, due to my situation with Ray, I'm slowly building walls around me. They're not tall enough so that people can't see me, but they're of a height that doesn't allow them to get closer. "Under my care, some flourished." just hits me cause it reflects my tendency to be there for people, and like you said, only "some" flourish, which is found in the line, "not every flower wants to grow." It goes to show that despite our good intentions, some people have their say and we can't keep them or see them turn out the way we intended. I think that, "But I remember every flower I plant." sums up the entire thing. Despite everything, the fact that we won't forget those that aren't around us anymore is our last gift for them. Sorry to mention this once more, but remember when I mentioned suspecting Ray to be a narcissist? I read that they thrive for attention and they like it when their "victims" are heartbroken. If this is the case with him, my last and everlasting gift for him would be everything I feel, I'd send everything I'm holding within my heart until he's intoxicated! Anyway, I truly enjoy reading your poem, and it goes to show how our experiences feed our creativity.

I'm planning on watching Fight Club after I'm done with my exams. I haven't watched it, but I know what's it about. It's one of those movies that you know about, and you can even discuss, without seeing it. I actually want to watch more movies set in an urban setting. After watching both The Batman, and La Haine, I've grown inclined to stories that take place in the city.

The weather has been a bit cold these past days (did I say that in the last ask? I don't remember!) and I'm happy about it. Hopefully it won't be too warm on Sunday cause I'm taking an exam, and the heat drains me!

I hope my "review" isn't all over the place, but I really wanted to share my honest opinions on your lovely poem 🤍

#asks #✖#poetry #V✖

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omentranslates · 2 years

Text

Notes of ways I notice Genshin characters using Japanese in the dub that I find interesting and stand out to me

Various characters that don't have enough notes for their own thread compilation edition

i did single character threads of this for Xiao, Albedo and Paimon

Kazuha

-he's just kinda quirky

-I don't watch many old movies but I know a LITTLE bit abt like stereotypical samurai stuff and also like older classical Japanese and I don't hear him use most of it, he's perfectly understandable in modern Japanese (disclaimer he does use SOME just not a lot, nothing you’d have to look up or anything)

-like he says かたじけない (katajikenai, it’s like samurai thank you basically) and uses ぬ for his verbs a lot but that’s Mostly it. And it comes out mostly in his longer quest dialogues, not as much in his like voice lines and stuff

-most of the places he sounds noticeably different in are when he's speaking like poetically

-Beidou was not kidding abt the flowers thing Kazuha speaks almost like a romantic poem is written like at least half the time (romantic as in like era of poetry)

-it’s kinda hard to tell what’s supposed to be fantasy poetry language and what’s supposed to be him being a samurai bc tbh it works for both in some cases, altho I’m confident in my interpretation

-uses せっしゃ (sessha) as his pronouns which is essentially the samurai pronoun

-when he says "gozaru" all the time he's literally just replacing the usual だ or である at the end of the sentence with archaism

-it's the non-formal ending of gozaimasu which is a word I'm sure a lot of people are familiar with, but like said how he uses it is not used in modern Japanese almost at all I can't think of any situations where you'd need it and I'd never come across it in other media before him. If the situation isn't formal enough for gozaimasu you just use the other two or nothing at all

-in other words he's just kinda quirky

-I've seen the Japanese community clown on him for this too, I personally find it endearing and the general consensus seems to be between that and like mildly funny

-has one of the most noticeable speaking styles in the game, like he Really stands out. The others you gotta listen for it or it’s only a few things every now and then that will encourage deeper analysis as a whole, but like every sentence Kazuha says is like “huh what’s the deal this guy”

Raiden Shogun

-she's always kinda stuck out for me bc she speaks really respectfully

-like it's not really strong full on keigo or anything just like regular polite Japanese you'd use with someone you don't know well

-but it stands out bc she's a god and the direct leader of her country and both of those positions do Not need to do that

-she never seems to grow closer with the traveler through her language (her character I think does but it doesn't reflect much in her speech)

-she even speaks politely like this to the Inazuman citizens during her like date story quest

-she speaks even less like a god than Venti does

-my personal interpretation of his is that she doesn't feel like an archon and still sees herself as serving her sister, so she still speaks as if she's in the presence of her superior

-supporting this, during her story quest 2 cutscene Makoto speaks very casual and feminine Japanese like they're very close but Ei continues to use longform polite Japanese even with her

-I don't think the English translation that I read really goes into the dynamic between the sisters in the same way that the Japanese really shines in like that. The Japanese version implies a whole world of respect and admiration for her sister that the English misses that she would consider herself not even to be in the same class

-It also suggests that Makoto may have been older than Ei, like they were twins obviously but the younger twin will still use honorifics/respectful words with the older twin depending on their relationship

-altho that's not nearly as important as Ei's relationship with Makoto and how she thought of her, I thought it bared mentioning bc it would be exceedingly uncommon for an older sibling to use that kind of language with their younger sibling no matter how much they respect them

-there is a certain trope regarding gods speaking formally bc they’re just that removed from humanity and I went more into detail in the notes about how different levels of Japanese can be used to express distance rather than respect, and I do want to emphasize that it doesn’t feel like Ei’s respect is directed towards the player or Inazuman citizens or anything like that

-it does make her sound spacey but it doesn’t feel to me personally like that’s the case because then I would expect her language to change with her story, but that’s just one interpretation so I’m just leaving all the information I can think of

-tbh a polite, long form desu and masu speaking girl who wants to be guided through the human world speaks to Quite A Few tropes in anime so

Shenhe

-I don't have Shenhe but while I was playing her story quest I msged a friend saying that she was "detached and vaguely polite" and that she sounded like she worked in the Tower of Fangs

-pretty sure I meant that as in her speech structure is similar to the like fantasy tone of the mountain adepti, but stripped of all the like boastful self-aggrandizing flair

-so it's close in tone to just standard Japanese while still being noticeably removed

-that's why I compared her to Xiao in his post they both talk like wizards

-she had the distinct impression that she's used to speaking to superiors, but she mostly speaks to people in her quest like she's talking down to them and they're noticeably lower than her socially

Xinyan

-considering how strong her accent is in the eng dub I was expecting Kansai dialect

-I was wrong though she speaks very standard

-I remember a little dialect coming out at the end of her sentences during Labyrinth Warriors but I went back over her voicelines and. No it's just not there

-she uses あたい (atai) as her pronouns, which is not very standard

-when I researched this it's apparently associated with girls' biker gangs it's like the punk rocker girl pronoun

-so yeah apparently Japanese has a punk girlboss pronoun, tho it's largely out of style now (unfortunately)

-she speaks with a rough masculine flair that I'm not used to hearing on female characters

-she doesn't completely talk like "one of the boys" tho. if it serves comparison, she's not even close to Paimon's level

-I think the non-committal direction matches her like scary but cute on the inside thing she's got going on

Yoimiya

-this is where all of Xinyan's accent went

-was literally bashed over the head with Kansaiben when I started her story quest

-she sounds like the teacher lady in white from twin star exorcists and I could listen to her talk all day

Ayato

-another character of supposedly super high status who speaks politely to the traveler for some reason

-definitely sounds spoiled even if he's polite abt it tho

-I find it amusing that he and his sister use the same pronouns

-when people started clowning on his English chest dialogue I was surprised bc his JP version just ranges from like politely curious to grudging approval, when I heard his like smug ass English dub it was. A departure

-I expected him to be more like smug and vaguely patronizing like Yae but tbh he's more like. Feigning innocence.

-does not speak formally to Thoma (Thoma does with him tho)

Zhongli

-speaks more modern Japanese than most of his wizard friends

-the content of his dialogue sounds really chill and relaxed but his manner of speaking is like surprisingly forceful

-talks the most like an actual god out of the 3 archons

-if he wasn't a god he would sound like kinda pushy, his dialogue is full of really commanding sentences (what constitutes a demand in Japanese is a little more broad than English, so he can sound really demanding in spoken Japanese without the English subtitles giving it away)

Gorou

-he just always takes me off guard bc he sounds just like Reki but talks nothing like him

-very meticulous pronunciation like idk he just annunciates every sound extremely clearly even tho he speaks really fast

-you can tell that for his personality archetype they just wrote "soldier"

Yae

-she shares some quirks of speech with the adepti and I think that's funny for lore reasons

-she talks like an old person, like not like an ancient being just like a grandma

Cloud Retainer

-speaks like an object

-I do not know how else to describe this

-but it's a very important object

Fun Genshin Japanese fact if you for some reason read this entire thing: the word they use for "adeptus" in Japanese is 仙人, which is listed in the dictionary as "immortal mountain wizard" and I laugh harder every time I think about this.

There are now extra notes abt the shogun puppet, Venti, Kaeya, Diluc and more Ayato in the reblogs

#genshin impact #kaedehara kazuha #raiden shogun #shenhe #xinyan #yoimiya #kamisato ayato #zhongli #gorou #yae #cloud retainer

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retvenkos · 3 years

Text

within these lines | t.l.

Little Women - Theodore “Laurie” Laurence x Reader, fluff requested by @mywinterbucky - sorry for the wait!

tw: none

word count: 1.6k

prompt: “you still have that?”

A/N: sorry timothee chalamet fans, but the gif is of christian bale’s laurie because sometimes you gotta switch it up, y’know? after all, variety is the spice of life.

Summary: The world had come in between Laurie and (Y/n) five years ago, but neither time nor distance could keep them apart for long.

There’s something elusively romantic about the teenage years. Despite any tragedy that reaches the hearts of the young, there is something infinite in youth that takes such melancholy and spins it into something beautiful beyond recognition.

It was in their teenage years that (Y/n) was torn from Laurie’s embrace - two friends on the cusp of being something more. A “perhaps” that ended in ellipses, each dot like the thousands of miles that separated them. All through their childhood, they had been together, and up until the moment (Y/n) was whisked away to England, they had constantly been at each other’s side. To have known someone so fully and to lose them so completely was a tragedy that often left the soul barren. But they were teenagers at the time, standing at the precipice of adulthood, and their minds preserved a beauty that existed in their youth - something unique and not likely to happen again; gold-spun.

When (Y/n) was plucked out of Laurie’s pocket and ripped from his heart, there wasn’t much else to do than wander. Laurie passed the days on his own and when he wasn’t lost amongst the memories of his youth, he was writing letters to (Y/n) when he ought to have been studying and fashioning poetry when he should have been sleeping. There is something elusively romantic about writing to someone you don’t have the address for - something that lies in the yearning of one’s being and the void that is left behind.

As the years wore on, Laurie grew out of those rose-colored teenage years, but his heart still beat to the rhythm of a sonnet. Across the ocean, (Y/n) was much the same. Although less of a poet, (Y/n) was a dreamer, and when they closed their eyes, they were there in the gardens of their youth, with a boy they had once thought of loving at their side.

It was a muddy, April day when Laurie felt a particular kind of ache settle in his heart. (Y/n) had told him, once, when they were hiding in the study of his grandfather’s house rather than practicing the piano, that muddy, grey mornings were their favorite. He had laughed at them back then, even after (Y/n) insisted that grey mornings had a comforting sort of calm about them - something that made sense to Laurie, despite it all. (Y/n) had insisted on the beauty of drab mornings, and when he told them that loving dull skies was like loving the taste of over-boiled tea, (Y/n) told him that they loved that, too. “After all,” they had said, “that’s how you make it when your grandfather is away, and there’s no one here but us.”

“But it’s not any good.”

“To me it is.” At their statement, Laurie made a face, and (Y/n) laughed like a spring breeze. “As is anything that is made with love.”

Laurie’s cheeks bloomed with a soft red at the mention of something so sacred as love, and he hid his flustered feelings by fiddling with the papers on the study desk. On a few pages, Laurie saw his own messy scrawl, and on a couple of others, he saw (Y/n)’s curled handwriting.

“Why don’t you make a list, then?” Laurie searched for a blank piece of parchment and set one down in front of (Y/n), giving them a quill and inkpot. “Make a list of everything you can think of that’s made with love.”

“Why?” And the curiosity in (Y/n)’s voice was gentle.

“So that I may make a list of my own, and we can learn to love the list of the other.”

(Y/n) smiled.

That had been many years ago, but Laurie could still remember the soft, subdued smile that (Y/n) had given him that day - an expression of contented awe. He had associated that look with muddy, April days a long time ago, and there was something particularly melancholic about a memory so beautiful and so full of love.

And a long time after, Laurie was still in the study, now in his early twenties. Sitting in a newly upholstered seat, he pulled out of a small tin box a stack of old papers filled with curled handwriting. At the bottom of the stack lay the list from so long ago, well-loved and well revised, with additions like “poorly done sketches from the neighbor children,” and “broken seashells from the beach,” written in minuscule letters.

Laurie was reading number twenty-six (“the singing of birds on Sunday mornings”) when a voice spoke from the stillness.

“You still have that?”

Transcending time and distance, Laurie would have known that voice anywhere.

“(Y/n)?”

Laurie's old friend, leaning against the door of the study, giggled from delight, and not a moment later, Laurie had them wrapped in a hug, his years of loneliness only tightening his grip - warm, enveloping, and ferocious, like he would do anything to never lose them again.

“Laurie, you’re going to crush me!”

“Wasn’t that on your list, though?” Laurie pulled away, holding (Y/n) at arm's length, looking into eyes he hadn’t seen in years - bright and strong; beautiful beyond belief. “Number thirty-one: ‘hugs you think will crack your spine.’”

(Y/n) hummed fondly. “And if I remember correctly, your number thirty-one was hiding in the closet during parties, whispering stories by candlelight.”

“You remember?”

“Of course, I do,” (Y/n) said earnestly, their brow creasing slightly, as though they were surprised at his question. “I have it right… here.” (Y/n) reached into the inside pocket of their coat, pulling out an old and fading envelope. They gingerly pulled out a piece of old parchment, reading the first sentence on the page. "Number one: 'the too-small gloves that you made me.' You really should have written my name - had anyone else found the list, they would have been terribly confused."

“You still have it.”

(Y/n) smiled, and the expression was there - that contented sort of awe that never failed to make Laurie feel seen and, perhaps most of all, loved. For a moment, the two just stood there, within arm's length, holding onto each other and marveling at all the other had become. There was something elusively romantic about the moment; something heavenly that had been captured in every poem Laurie had ever written and every dream (Y/n) had ever fathomed.

“I missed you, Laurie.” And those four whispered words held a fragile sort of intimacy that could be shattered with a voice much louder than a sigh.

“And I missed you more than you could ever know.”

(Y/n)’s breath hitched.

Laurie stepped away suddenly as though a spell broke. He turned his back to (Y/n), his cheeks already starting to flare, and scanning the study for another chair - something for (Y/n) to sit in, close to him, at last.

“Ah, here.” Laurie pulled a chair closer to the study desk. “You can sit there and tell me all about your adventures in England. Would you like any tea?”

He turned to face (Y/n) once again, and they had a mischievous smile on their face. “Over-boiled, I’m guessing?”

Laurie chuckled, looking downward to hide the embarrassment that crept up onto his cheeks. “I think you’ll find I’m much improved. I’ve had five years of practice since you were last here.”

“Five years,” (Y/n) mused, walking over to their seat and sitting gently. “It’s funny, it feels like it’s been an eternity since I’ve been in Massachusetts, but it’s only been five years.”

“Five years is a long time,” Laurie supplied. “A lot can change.”

“But a lot can stay the same. Or, at least I hope.”

The two friends looked at each other. For a moment, it felt like the world slowed around them, and they were nothing more than the teenagers they had been five years prior when they were writing silly lists of things that were made with love.

“Well,” (Y/n) started, “I suppose I have stories I could tell, but I want to know about you."

"Well, I want to know about you!"

(Y/n) scoffed and shook their head, an expression that was beautiful, akin to the breaking of a new day.

"Well, this town has been like it's always been." Laurie relented, relaxing in his chair. “The March sisters have been less willing to spend time with me lately, since my mood has gone sour. but you’ll be glad to know that I have plans for getting back in their good graces, soon.”

(Y/n) leaned forward, putting their elbows on the desk and steepling their fingers, as though whatever they were talking about was of great importance. On instinct, Laurie leaned in as well, two conspirators in an empty house. "Well, now we're getting somewhere, Mr. Laurence."

Laurie stifled a chuckle, (Y/n) clearly struggling to do the same. "Indeed we are, (Y/n) (L/n)."

They both broke, and laughter filled the room, the sound echoing through the floorboards, unearthing the past where they had done just the same when they were years younger, but much the same.

Laurie sighed. "How is it that after five years of being apart, nothing has changed?"

"Well, I know you, Teddy, nothing can change that." (Y/n) smiled, gentle but full. Laurie felt a tugging on his heart - something almost painful if it weren't for the care in (Y/n)'s eyes, wrapping him in the most comforting sincerity - a gravity more divine than existing. "Even when we were far from each other, I had your list and my memories; you were the most full thing I ever had."

"I didn't know if you'd remember."

"I always remembered you."

Laurie breathed.

“Well,” (Y/n) began, something in their voice a little unsure, endearing Laurie already, “Now that we know we both remembered and kept the list of the other, I have to ask: did you learn to love my list?”

“I did.”

(Y/n) seemed pleased. “Even muddy, April mornings?”

Laurie chuckled, the feeling warm and pleasant in his chest - like a thunderstorm in June. “They were the first I learned to cherish.”

They smiled at each other once more.

-- taglist: @locke-writes, @brokenandheadoverheels, @coffee--writes, @swanimagines, @amortensie // message me if you want to be added!

#little women #laurie laurence #theodore laurence x reader #theodore laurence #laurie x reader #laurie laurence x reader #laurie imagine #laurie laurence imagine #theodore laurence imagine #x reader #gender neutral reader #imagine #reader insert #fluff #one shot #fic #fanfiction #fanfic

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ssscentral · 3 years

Text

One More Time

Summary: Your touch was addictive, your scent intoxicating. He wants that back so badly, but he needs another chance. Just one more time.

pairing: Seokjin x female reader

rating: GA

genre: angst, mild fluff

warnings: pining, heartbreak, only mentions of sex, but everything very sfw

wc: 3k

member: Rid || @taegularities

a/n: Hello! Back with the second fic in the Bouquet Collab series. Each one of us chose a flower and wrote a fanfic around the meaning of it! These were just 2 out of 6, so please look forward to many more awesome stories! I also want to thank my amazing betas @biaswreckme and @missgeniality, and further @birbdae for this wonderful banner!!!! 💕 And now let’s dive into the angst!

A single ray of sunshine illuminates the room.

Conveniently, it shines directly onto that one particular plant that stands in this whole apartment, still healthy and green as it refuses to die. Seokjin is fond of it, given the fact that it was you who had gifted him it many weeks ago.

You always used to say that his place is gloomy, grey, in urgent need of redecoration, so he could actually invite someone over and make them feel somewhat homely. After he’d declined all your offers due to laziness, you’d given up - except for the little present that you’d brought him that one significant day.

He remembers it so vividly, the memory still so painfully clear.

At that time, spring was just approaching, birds returning and beautiful flowers blooming. You were a sucker for nature and all its aspects - which was probably the exact reason for the distaste that you felt whenever you entered your friend’s apartment. His way of handling his place was dull, tasteless.

So, when you decided to surprise him with the odd choice of giving him an aloe plant as decoration and present, you weren’t expecting more than a pleasant evening that you’d spend together.

What you didn’t know was that he’d been a nervous wreck for days now, ripping out several strands of his hair before he’d finally decided to tell you the truth about what he caged in his mind. But when he saw you that day, wearing this beautiful sunflower dress, your hair in a bun with only two strands framing your angelic face, words failed him immediately.

Instead, he froze, eyebrows furrowing in fear of what you’d say or do if he confessed to you. And it didn’t take a lot from your side, no - one brush of your finger along his arm, an intense and loving gaze addressing only him, and a beautiful, mesmerizing smile were enough for him to snap before he pulled you in.

When you first felt his full lips on yours, you stared at the way his eyes closed, relishing in and welcoming the moment right away. You needed a second to comprehend what was happening, but once you understood, you felt yourself give in fast, the world becoming blurred and silent.

All you heard were the sweet words he uttered, all you saw was his glistening skin, and all you knew was that you wanted to bathe in this euphoria forever without ever having to let go.

But when you both found yourselves in each other’s arms, covered by nothing but his blanket, you still hadn’t addressed why this had happened and what it meant for you now.

Seokjin didn’t regret this - how could he, if it was with you? But the same old insecurity that plagued his heart and made his chest burn had eventually come back now. Despite having no real evidence or reason, he assumed that you didn’t want what he wanted - you’d never see him as more than a friend that you’d slept with in the heat of the moment.

In that sense, you’d woken up to a pressing awkwardness, him offering breakfast and coffee, but portraying distant nonchalance otherwise. And when you felt like none of this was going to go anywhere, you told him you had to go, finding some kind of excuse to leave.

Since then, an uncomfortable radio silence had found its way between you, and the only thing he had these days to remember you was the pink-orange flower that slowly bloomed on top of his desk.

Lying across the bed, Seokjin opens his eyes with a smile on his face, remembering how he’d looked at you in confusion when he’d first seen you standing at the threshold of his entry, smiling wide with Ally in your hands. Yes, you’d named the plant Ally - always one to give non-living things names.

Wrong.

Ally is very much alive. You’d made that clear that day. Plants take in carbon dioxide and release oxygen - yes, that’s what you’d lectured him with when he’d joked around. His apartment needs some freshness, you’d told him.

Now that he’s inhaling the air around him, it almost feels like he can smell Ally, which is total nonsense of course. He has honestly grown to love this small, spiky thing, especially after finding out the meaning behind it.

Affection.

Something he has felt for a long time now. Affection for the way you scrunch up your nose when you’re annoyed. Affection for the concentrated gaze you adopt when you’re reading a good book. Affection for your words, for the sound of your voice; he loves the sweet, honey-coated, soft tone that he swims in every time you speak.

Seokjin gets up, stretching his limbs and getting dressed when he looks at the clock, noticing that it’s time to go. There’s this boring gathering this evening, organized by some of your colleagues who thought it might be a good idea to come together and strengthen your bond as a student body or whatever.

The only reason he’s going is because he knows you’ll be there. He doesn’t care about getting himself drunk or talking about philosophical theories today - all he wants is to make right what he ruined back then. He just needs to tell you what words float inside his heart, hoping for you to reciprocate his feelings the way you’d responded to his kiss that night.

Gathering all this ardor for you, with only your name on his tongue, he closes his door behind him, summoning all the energy his body can deliver.

You’re easy to find in the small crowd. The room isn’t too filled, the atmosphere peaceful and pleasant when he steps in, running his hand through his soft, brown hair when he sees you. Breathing in and out in a steady rhythm, he approaches you, trying to mask his eagerness, hands pocketed to exude a relaxed demeanor.

When you finally notice the tall figure come closer, recognizing him as none other than the man you’re so in love with, your heart beats just a little faster and you tilt your head in wonder. After barely sparing you a glance in your classes, he has apparently finally decided to give you some attention.

Memories come crashing back; images of your last encounter flooding your mind as you press your tinted lips together, still feeling the phantom touch of his mouth on yours. He still looks the same, but his hair has gotten a little longer, almost covering his eyes entirely before he brushes the bangs away.

“Hey,” he greets, breathing in deep as he sits down in front of you, “long time no talk.”

You nearly counter with a sarcastic remark, but then contain yourself, only shooting him a breathtaking smile. “You’re right. Busy lives. How have you been doing, Jin?”

“Good!” he answers way too fast, clearing his voice before he continues. “I’m doing good. And you?”

“All good. Been writing some more lately.”

Seokjin nods as his eyes widen and his mouth forms an ‘O’, glad to hear that you’ve picked up your hobby of creating beautiful poetry again. He’s even read some of your poems, and you’re truly talented, working around words so easily as if they were his own heart.

“Oh, wow! I- um… I took care of Ally. Do you remember her?” he stumbles over his words, ears growing increasingly red. He’s such a dork and you can’t help but smile a little.

“That’s nice to hear. I bought one of these myself a few days ago. Reminded me of you.”

“That’s great! T-that’s…” What is he trying to say? There must be something that he had prepared, but for the life of his, he can’t remember anymore. All he knows at the sight of you is that he wants to grab you by your waist again, pull you in to press you against him. He wants to feel your lips, move against them in soft, then needy motions.

He just wants you as a whole, if not forever, then once.

Just one more time.

And when he sees you wait for him to speak, fumbling with your fingers with your eyes far away from his, he whispers the word “courage” to himself once before his hand reaches out to grab yours and settle on your palm.

Your gaze shifts to him immediately, his abrupt action causing confusion in you as your heart rate spikes up. But when you see the expression on his face, you feel like you know.

“Y/N, I- we… we need to talk,” he finally declares, his thumb gently ghosting over the skin of your hand, such a simple gesture sending shivers down your spine.

Yes, he doesn’t have to say much. You know what he wants to talk about; after all, there aren’t that many possibilities of what he could want at your first encounter after being somewhat estranged all this time.

“I’m not sure I want-”

“No, please,” he interrupts, squeezing your hand tighter in his. A few weeks ago, his warmth would’ve felt like a safe haven for you, pulling you out from the dark grounds of an ocean if it needed to - but right now, you feel like you’re drowning, like you’re sinking instead of swimming up. “There’s so much I’ve been wanting to tell you and there were so little opportunities to do so.”

Half-fearing, half-anticipating what he’s going to say, you search for the walls you’ve managed to pull up, accepting that Seokjin will never want you in that way. You think you’ve moved on, but now that he’s so close, on the brink of either confessing or rejecting you, you feel tense - and both options aren’t ideal for you right now.

You wait until he’s ready to talk, watch his chest rise and then fall, his eyes meeting yours, but looking like they’d rather not before-

“I’m in love with you,” he finally breathes - and as he mutters his last word, the air around you becomes suffocating, the sounds muffled and his touch heavy.

Is that better than being rejected? You don’t know. You really do not know; and the shake of your head and furrow of your eyebrows show him that something is plaguing you that he might not want to hear.

“Y/N.” His tone is calm, steady, different from your hazardous heart that’s breaking right in front of him, and he doesn’t even see it.

“Why did you not tell me that back then, Jin?” you inquire, pulling your hand away and settling it on your lap. “We slept together. Why did you let me go?”

This… this is awkward. It’s ridiculous. Seokjin shouldn’t have decided to talk about this in a crowd, surrounded by people who know nothing about what’s going on between you two. But now that he did, his heart sinks, his mind in a painful fog, and he puffs out some air, calming himself.

“Let’s leave,” he suddenly suggests, and you think you can see the faintest glint of panic in his dark eyes, “clear it out somewhere else. At my place?”

Again, you shake your head, chuckling lightly but not decently. “I can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t. There’s someone…”

Jin is quick to cut you once again, his breathing suddenly erratic. He’s been in love with you for years - no, he can’t take the thought of you having a boyfriend now, choosing someone over him. “Someone else? This fast? Y/N, why did I never-”

He stops mid-sentence, and it happens just timely as you were going to hold out a hand to silence him anyway.

“Jin. Listen,” you start, leaning in closer, “there’s someone who offered to guide me through a scholarship. Not here - in a different city. And as much as I’ve always wanted you, I can’t do long-distance relationships.”

Your words ease the pain inside him, his mind suddenly relaxing as he takes in your confession. You want him. You’ve always wanted him. Is all of this real?

“Where- where are you going?”

“It’s too far away. I wouldn’t see you more than a handful of times a year. I can’t do this,” you admit, your eyes stinging as you swallow the lump in your throat.

You see him tilt his head with a sigh, and you’re on the verge of breaking when you see his mouth twitch, that familiar movement that mostly means despair. This always happens when his grades are worse than he expects. It happens when he talks to his little brother who lives miles away. Mostly, you see it when you watch - or used to watch - movies together, especially Pixar and Ghibli ones tearing him up in no time.

And now, it’s happening because of you.

“Is there no way for you to stay?”

You bite your lip, chewing on it until you taste your lipstick. “I don’t think so. And it’s… a big chance for me.”

Seokjin’s jaw clenches and he nods, relief turning into sorrow as his expression shows understanding on the surface while his blood is boiling with pain on the inside. He’s angry with himself - he truly is. But he’s also sad about the fact that you never approached him.

And while waiting for the other in silence, phones in your hands, but the courage to message each other so far away, you missed it. You both missed it and he hates it.

“Then I hope you’ll get everything you want, Y/N,” he finally says, standing up as he grabs his thin jacket. It’s probably not that fresh outside yet, he can carry it - maybe hide his fumbling hands that clearly show his nervosity and distaste to this whole situation.

All he can think of is to get away before he breaks.

Yet, he comes closer to you, hovering above you before he leans down. Not caring about your surroundings, only seeing you, his heart only beating for you, he presses his lips onto your forehead first, wanders to your nose, both your cheeks and your earlobes as he says in between each kiss, “whenever… you decide… to come back… I’ll be here…”

Then, he cups your face, looking at your beautiful, full lips, missing how they feel on his before he kisses you gently. His mouth moves delicately, sweetly against yours, bittersweet memories and feelings streaming back as you internally forbid yourself to cry.

“Waiting for you,” he finally whispers, lips brushing yours, and every fiber in you tries hard to hold back. To not pull him into another room, kiss him more fiercely and bring back the fervent heat that you’d indulged in the last time.

His thumb brushes your cheeks softly, his eyes registering you gulping hard as he says his goodbyes, so he can leave. There’s just no way he can stay here any longer. “Don’t cry. I’ll be here, sweetheart.”

And then, his warmth is gone.

Fighting the urge to follow him, you watch him walk away, mind going crazy as you see him face the ground. You can’t falter. You need to focus on your studies before anything else - you don’t want to regret your choices; and if what he says holds true, you might just be able to wrap him into you forever when you come back in a year or two.

Maybe it’s not over yet.

The sun has set by the time Seokjin arrives home. All the sunshine from today morning has vanished, warming someone else, somewhere else now, leaving him in the dark as he lets himself fall on his bed.

An absolute disaster, all of this. And what an idiot he is. Why did he not insist on inviting you over? Ask you if there was any way you’d spend this one last night with him? The lingering feelings of your soft lips strengthen his despair tenfold, and he hates himself for not fighting for a night or a day with you. After all, you’re not going away just yet.

But deep down he knows why he did what he did: being together again would just hurt you both further, the small flame that both of your pain is becoming a searing wildfire. At least he knows for sure that this is what would happen to him. He knows it’d be near impossible to let you go if he woke up beside you.

What if Seokjin searches for scholarships, too? Your grades are similar - if you can get one, why not him? The picture of having you around, falling asleep next to you, studying together and bantering over food and movies - it’s so intriguing that he knows what he’ll search up tomorrow.

Then again, you have your people; he doesn’t know anyone who can guide him through this, give him a fast opportunity to study somewhere else, be near you.

He doesn’t know. Not how to get you back, not how to feel you again; his brain comes up with nothing helpful, no plan he can actually execute successfully.

Slipping out of his pants, he lingers at the corner of the bed, his arms leaning on his thighs as his fingers tangle between them. Seokjin shakes his head as he physically feels his heart break, each broken piece fighting the other and torturing him, no matter how much he tells them to calm down.

And despite not knowing what to do, what to feel, how to erase the image of you and your face from his mind for the time being, he remembers something else.

When he’d looked for the meaning of the aloe plant, he had found many sources, some beautiful descriptions, and some poetic definitions that connected it to an emotional feeling. While the flower holds the meaning of affection, the memory of another word comes flooding in, ironic to the fact that aloe is supposed to heal, used to mend injuries and pain.

And thinking of this particular word, all he does know at this agonizing moment is that he identifies with your plant’s meaning.

He knows that all he feels is grief.

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broadway-ghoul · 3 years

Text

I’m home sick rn and I’ve been binge reading everything I can get my hands on. Including checking all 476 works with the Yomo Renji tag on Ao3...

Ahem

Here are all the kinda Yomo-centric ones, or atleast where he playes a kinda big part.

Popsicles - nsfw , Yomo/Uta. Uta fucks Yomo into the mattress. First part kinda made me wanna die of second hand embarassment but the ending’s worth it. 7/10

Precious moments - fluff, Yomo and others being adorable. I’ve re-read this so many times and it’s so cute, Hinami bullies Yomo into braiding her hair. 100/10

V. - fluff/angst, five stages of Hikari’s life. Heartbreaking, but so so good. I:Brother, II:Husband, III:Daughter, IV:Son, V:Self. 100/10

Safe Heaven - Haise’s hurt and he follows his instincts. I actually quite like this one. 8/10

A penny for her thoughts - a drabble collection starring Touka. Chap 2 contains most Yomo. 10/10

Gift horses - Uta participates in valentines day, much to everyones annoyance and my amusement. 9/10

Promised land - Touka and Ayato throughout the series. Not my fave but still good. 6/10

Send to - Kaneki tries to send spicy text to Touka, he accidentally sends them to Yomo. Deadass almost had me in tears. 100/10

Hope - Yomo and Ayato have a short conversation at :re when Touka’s away. I waws hoping Ayato would figure it out, but alas. 7/10

:re - unfinnished work but the first chapter can be read as a stand-alone. Sweet and sad at the same time. also Yomo can’t read- 7/10

Tradition - Uta makes something new for Ichika every year. very wholesome. 9/10

Choosing; Being Chosen; Nothing More - Ichika being surrounded by people who love her. Yomo and Ichika and Uta chap 5. Very sweet. 9/10

A storie like this before - Stories about Hikari and Arata. I like it. 6/10

Unmasked - Uta plays therapist for Hide. Not much Yomo but still 5/10

Memento - Yomo hates hit birthday but Uta got him a gift anyway. Holy mother of god, its so bittersweet. 100/10

Vectors - Angst, canon typical content but starring Uta and Yomo, 8/10

Father figure - Arata’s alive, it’s got the grammar of a 10 yo and it’s not really good but Ii’m putting it in anyway. 2/10

Osaka - Kaneki’s blind. Hide and Yomo helps. Its sweet. 9/10

Wouldn’t be so bad - angst, Nishki loses his crap(understandably) and Yomo has to restrain him. 7/10

Beam - Hide ft. Anteiku Bonding. Hide being the sunshine that he is. 9/10

Hold me closer - there’s only one person who gets to see Yomo greive. Yomo has a mental breakdown and Uta comforts him. 100/10

And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take - Angst, death, Yomo/Uta, this one hurt like a mf. I think this one’s my fave. 200/10.

the truth about presents - the wrapingpaper is determined to make Yomo’s life hell. Yomo/Uta. 9/10

Take me, tease me - nsfw, Yomo/uta. Chap 1 and 3. I like chapter 1 much better than 3. chapter 1 = 10/10.

Glimmer - fluff, Yomo never grew out of his habbit of sitting in high places. 8/10

Welcome home - unfinished, but oh it’s so good. Very sad it’s discontinued. It had so much potential. Human AU! Yomo returnes to Anteiku after 10 years to make amends after he abondoned everyone and everything. 9/10.

The Raven - a poem about our favourite Raven, I know nothing about poetry but I thought it was pretty good. 7/10

The fools journey of fatherhood - discontinued but can be read as multiple short stories, Anteiku gang tries to survive taking care of Kaneki’s child, chap 4 contains the most Yomo. It’s so funny 8/10

Marble Investigator (Amon weighs more than a tree) - Both Amon and Kaneki pass out after their firsrt battle and Yomo carries them both back to Anteiku. Yomo is unbothered by Touka’s rage. 15/10 it’s so funny guys.

Scratches - Yomo fucks up but Uta’s there to take care of him, thankfully. 10/10

Acceptance - Yomo’s perspective on when Haise and the other doves visit :re. sad 9/10

Remain - Yomo fondly remenising about his and Uta’s relationship throughout the years. 8/10

Unfinished buisness - snfw ,Kaneki and Touka get cockblocked by their own child. They give the child to Yomo to babysit so they can fuck in peace. mostly Touka/kaneki smut so 5/10.

snowfall - it’s snowing in the 4th ward, Uta’s inlove with Yomo. 10/10. it was peacefull to read.

Sunshine - Itori/Uta/Yomo. It’s a very well written story, highly recomend. Itori and Uta meeting Yomo and later deciding to bring him into their relationship and how their life goes. Chap 5 can be read as a stand alone but i recomend the whole thing. 9/10

Tangled. - Yomo/Uta being cute. Uta touches Yomos eyes, with permission. 9/10

Christmas - Uta has to dress up as santa because Ichika is getting suspicious as to why uncle Yomo never gets to meet santa. Its so cute help 100/10

Enjoy!~

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hercleverboy · 3 years

Text

jealous

spencer reid x reader

summary ↠ spencer comes to terms with the fact that the reader will never love him the way he loves her.

category ↠ angst

warnings/includes ↠ heartbreak, unrequited love.

word count ↠ 2.6k

“But I always thought you’d come back, tell me that all you found was heartbreak and misery.” — Jealous by Labrinth

‘I'm jealous of the rain

That falls upon your skin

It's closer than my hands have been

I'm jealous of the rain’

Spencer loved the rain.

Well, not exactly. He loved to watch how it fell from the grey, angry clouds above as he sat warm and cosy in his apartment. He loved the rain if he was safe inside. He wouldn’tlike to get caught in a downpour, however.

He watched contently as the droplets fell against the window, staining the glass and jarring his view of the street below. It made him feel peaceful, and he would argue that there was no better sound to read to than that of the rain.

His focus dropped from the copy of ‘War and Peace’ in his hands, his mind focused on something else entirely.

Not so much something but someone.

Y/N had been Spencer’s closest friend for years at that point, having met him a few months after he’d started working at the BAU.

They spent pretty much any moment they could together. Spencer took her to museum exhibits and art galleries and she would listen intently as he rambled. He’d always stop mid-sentence and blush, apologising for getting ahead of himself but she’d simply smile and shake her head.

“You don’t ever have to apologise for sharing your wonderful knowledge with me, Spence. You know I could listen to you all day,” She’d say, “Keep going, please?”

He never could say no to her.

If there was anyone in the world he felt most comfortable with, it was her. She never ridiculed him or babied him like the team had a habit of doing. If there was a case that ended poorly she never pushed for him to confide in her, giving him the time and space to disclose his feelings when he was ready (something he was incredibly grateful for.)

For a long while, things were strictly platonic for Spencer. One day she was his best friend, the person he felt the most himself around, and the next day it was something more. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment in which his feelings for her changed, or what had caused them too. Since when had her welcoming hugs begun feel so warm? At what point had her giggle caused the butterflies in his stomach that he’d only ever read of in great poetry or love stories?

He tried to push the feelings away, he really did, but ultimately his attempts to avoid his newfound affection for her were fruitless. Nothing could be done, he finally had to face the facts. He was in love with her. In love with every adorable quirk, every smile, and every part of her; even the parts she deemed unworthy and ugly, he loved them all the same.

He wanted her to be his so badly.

There was only one slight problem.

Y/N wasn’t his to have. She had a boyfriend, a long term one at that. She was in a committed relationship with a man that wasn’t Spencer and he’d still allowed himself to fall in love with her.

Nice one, Spencer.

Spencer looked up at the clouds above him, frowning at the sight of the different shades of grey they were. He looked over at Y/N who walked alongside him. He’d gotten them tickets to a Russian Film festival, and he’d insisted she went with him so he could do a simultaneous whisper translation while they watched.

“It looks like it’s going to rain.” He broke the comfortable silence between them, his voice wavering slightly.

She looked up, a grin coming to her lips at the sight. “I hope it does, you know I like the rain.”

He chuckled lightly at that. “I do too! But who wants to be caught in it and end up soaking wet?”

She gasped in mock hurt. “I’m sorry Mr. 187, maybe I want to get caught in the rain, like a scene in some cheesy rom-com.”

He shook his head at her, his gaze dropping back down to look at the pavement beneath them.

Then the downpour started, just as Spencer had predicted. The rain was heavy and cold, essentially soaking them in seconds.

Spencer ducked under nearby shelter, pulling his coat tighter around him. He looked back over at Y/N, surprised to find her stood out in the rain, her arms outstretched and a grin on her lips.

“Y/N! What are you doing? You’re gonna get cold!” He shouted out, trying to make himself heard over the loud pelts of rain.

“I’ll be fine!” She called back.

“You know there’s a widespread myth that you lose the most body heat through your head. Studies have actually concluded that you only lose about ten percent of heat through your head.” Spencer shouted, and she turned to him with a smile, one that dismissed his facts. “You’re not even wearing a jacket, Y/N!”

“You know as well as I do, Doctor, that there’s no direct correlation between the rain and getting sick, so don’t even try that with me.”

“You’re right, but there’s a very real chance of hypothermia. Actually, last year it was reported that approximately 700 people in the US died of hypothermia-”

“Spence!” She grinned, politely interrupting his statistics. “Come join me! Live a little!”

He shook his head adamantly. “I’m okay, thank you. But you carry on.”

He watched on in awe at the sight before him. He pushed all the statistics on the probability of her getting sick to the back of his head, focused on how she looked it that moment. Her body was lit only by pale moonlight and dim streetlamps, but Spencer thought she’d never looked more beautiful.

He should’ve told her, then. Should’ve told her how much he loved her, how he could give her everything she craved, more than her boyfriend ever could. He wondered how he would put into words that he’d find a way to give her the world if she asked for it.

But he said nothing.

He could envision himself saying it.

He allowed himself to dream of speaking the words, how her face would light up and he’d finally get to hold her the way he yearned to. He thought of how proud Garcia would be of him since she’d practically been begging him to make a move ever since she learned of the situation. (” It’s not that simple, Garcia. She has a boyfriend!” “That’s a minor detail, Reid!”)

He could picture himself saying the words. He could see how she’d look over at him with those adorably furrowed brows and stunning eyes. The rain would pour over them like in the scene from Pride and Prejudice, as he finally dared to say the words he’d held onto for so very long.

‘I love you, most ardently.’

His very own Elizabeth Bennet.

But he said nothing.

Instead, when she came back over to him, her figure shivering as the cold finally set in, he simply offered her a cheeky grin. A simple look that said, ‘I told you so’. He quickly shrugged off his jacket and placed it over her shoulders, waving off her protests that he was going to get cold now.

As if that mattered, as long as she was warm.

Any attempt to sleep seemed useless. No matter how many poems he read to himself in his mind, sleep simply wasn’t coming. With a frustrated huff he moved to lie on his back, staring up at the ceiling defeatedly. Although he wished it wouldn’t, his mind travelled to Y/N. His heart lurched and just the thought of her, accompanied by the newest of the plethora of emotions he was feeling- jealousy. He wondered if her boyfriend knew just how lucky he was to be lying next to her, to have the privilege of holding her close, of telling her he loved her.

Spencer wasn’t a possessive man, he knew very well that Y/N didn’t belong to him, nor did she belong to anyone. She wasn’t an object to be had, and Spencer would never treat her as such. However, he found himself wishing to a being he wasn’t sure he believed in that she would be his. Perhaps it was selfish and wrong, to hope that she’d turn up heartbroken on his doorstep so that he could pick up the pieces of her broken by another man. It was definitely selfish to wish her so much heartache so that he could ultimately get what he wanted.

He recognised that she didn’t owe him anything. She didn’t owe him her love in return for his. But that almost made it worse; that this situation was nobody’s fault. It wasn’t Y/N’s fault for not returning his affections, nor was it her boyfriends’. It wasn’t Spencer’s fault either, he knew that deep down. He knew that no matter how many times he wished he’d told her sooner, before another man had swept her away, it wouldn’t have changed her feelings for him.

It almost brought him to tears. It’d be easier, he thought, easier if she did something that made me hate her. But he didn’t hate her, he didn’t think he ever could. He loved her more than he’d ever loved anyone or anything and there no words to describe the burning pain in his chest as the realisation that he was all alone dawned on him.

Y/N didn’t love him. At least, not in the way he wanted her too.

He could almost kid himself into thinking that she was going to knock on his door, tell him she’d left her boyfriend and confess her love for him. It was silly, and really doing him more damage than good to indulge in this self-serving fantasy he’d created, but it was the only thing that gave him enough peace to finally fall into slumber.

He nearly said it one day.

It was a Friday evening, and they were sat together at his apartment, having just finished watching a bunch of films. Y/N was mid-tangent about an interesting fan theory she’d read up on, while Spencer sat next to her trying to clear his thoughts.

His mind was screaming at him, this is it, it said, this is your chance. He knew it was selfish, quite possibly the most selfish thing he’d ever do. Especially when she was with someone else, the man she was building a life with- and Spencer was going to tear it all down with three simple words.

The most selfish thing he’d ever do.

And some part of him, some silly, hopelessly romantic part of him told him she wasn’t going to reject him. No, instead, she would admit she loved him too- and everything would be okay. Right?

“Y/N I-“ He interrupted her, and she looked over surprised as she stopped talking. She took in his tone of voice; how pained it sounded. She watched at how he cringed for interrupting her, his trembling hands coming to clutch fistfuls of his beige coloured cardigan in a nervous attempt to calm himself.

He evidently had something he needed to get off his chest.

“Yeah, Spence?” She prodded when he didn’t speak.

“I- I have to tell you something, something I should’ve told you a long time ago.” He rushed out, his voice shaking. He knew he’d have to force himself to say the words. He told himself to stop thinking so hard and just say them, because he knew all too well that he wouldn’t get the opportunity again.

“Okay. It’s okay, take your time. It’s just me.”

“I-I” He stuttered, trying to force the three simple words to leave his lips but he couldn’t seem to do it. He desperately wanted to, and it ached because he could feel them on the tip of his tongue.

Then his eyes met hers, and he stopped. His brain seemed to grant him a moment of clarity among the chaos and overwhelming thoughts. He tried to profile her, to use what he knew about human behaviour and how he’d read once that the eyes were the windows to the soul. He recalled how happy she always was when she spoke of her boyfriend, and Spencer couldn’t deny that from what he’d heard, he treated her well. Like she deserved. It shattered his heart all over again, but how could he sit there and tear away the happiness of the woman he loved? He knew what him confessing would do to her. She’d go into overdrive trying to compensate for not feeling the same, overexert herself trying to be the greatest friend she could be — and all the while she’d smile, as though the knowledge that she’d (unintentionally) hurt her best friend wasn’t killing her inside.

He couldn’t do that to her.

Not as he stared at her now, her worried eyes on him as she tried to figure out how to help him.

He couldn’t hurt her like that.

Spencer would hurt himself a hundred times over if it meant she was unharmed. He supposed that was what the meaning of love really was. Sacrificing yourself for the one you love.

He gave a sad smile and shook his head. “Um, you know what? It’s nothing.”

Her eyebrows knitted together as she scoffed. “Seriously? You’re gonna leave me hanging like that?” Her tone was amused although she feigned disappointment.

“Guess so.” He forced a chuckle, and Y/N opened her mouth to speak before the sound of her phone ringing cut through the air. She looked over at it, a small smile reaching her features at the sight of the name that flashed across the screen.

“Is that your boyfriend calling?” Spencer asked quietly.

She nodded. “I’ll tell him to call back later.” She moved her hand to click decline but Spencer’s voice stopped her.

“No. It’s okay. You should answer it now, it might be important.”

She seemed hesitant but nodded nonetheless, moving a few paces away from him before answering and talking softly into the phone. A few minutes later she hung up.

“Everything okay?” Spencer questioned.

She hummed. “Of course. He just wanted to know if I wanted to grab dinner with him, but I told him I’ve got plans with you-”

“No- no- you should go. With him.” Spencer breathed out.

“Are you sure? I thought we were gonna order in from that Chinese place you love?”

He gave her a small shrug. “We can take a rain check. You should go, I-I wouldn’t want you to be late for dinner.”

She frowned over at him, pocketing her phone as she moved closer to him. She clasped his shoulders in her hands and pulled her to him in a hug. He tensed at the initial contact, but eventually he relaxed into her hold and wrapped his arms around her.

“You know you can tell me anything?” She promised, her voice soft, warm.

“I know.” His voice broke, and his throat burned with the sob he was holding back.

She pulled back, concern on her features as she hesitantly let go of him. She promised she would give him a call later that evening before leaving the apartment.

Spencer stood for a moment; eyes fixated on the door as it closed behind her.

He wondered how he was ever going to move on from her, from the dreams of a future that was so close but just barely out of reach.

Ultimately, he wasn’t jealous of the man who got to have her.

He was jealous of the fact that she was happy because he could only wish that he was happy too.

‘It's hard for me to say, I'm jealous of the way

You're happy without me’

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