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chloeseyeliner · 11 months

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(via @henry-fox-biggest-stan -and like she said, STOP IT)

red white and royal blue is not. just. porn.

disclaimer for what is about to follow (which I am not sure why, but I thought would be a good idea to show that I am not biased?? I am not sure): I am a person on the asexuality spectrum, 95% sure sex-repulsed (maybe 100%). I read smut, too, on ao3. I have liked books or fics that contain smut in my life as a reader, ever since I have been allowed to read them at 16. I have not liked some too, have found them 'too much' or something else- of course there are people who enjoy reading them and that's more than fine by me.

so, when I say (personally, not speaking for others in the fandom, of course) that this book is not just porn, I don't mean that I am offended that you think it contains smut. what I mean is that I am kind of disappointed (is that the right word?) that booktok (I assume, since I don't have a tiktok account, but I have seen stuff on reels) has limited this book to just fucking smut.

sure, it's not the deepest book you will read in your life; it's not, let's say, the book thief or ocean vuong. still, it does not mean that it is swallow or pure porn. at all.

(which, I'll say again, is totally okay if it's your cup of tea)

and sure, there are many scenes, especially in the beginning, where the two protagonists have sex, but it's implied most of the times, not graphically described. it has its part to their love story, as well- correct me if I'm wrong, but for example, from what I understand after reading it quite a few times, alex is helped to let his real feelings as regards henry come to the surface through them having this kind of relationship, like when he lets some of them escape the carefully locked cage he has put them into and he thinks that that's why they hadn't done something specific yet after that night at the karaoke bar. from what I have understood after all these times, too, alex and henry kept blocking their true feelings because of a variety of reasons, and kept holding onto the only piece of the other they were able to, and they found that through sex.

(again, correct me if I'm wrong, I just like reading between the lines and I am sure I may have missed something- anyway)

reaching the main point, red, white and royal blue is much more than just the "porn on paper" booktok etc. is making it to be.

it's love. love on your own terms. platonic love. sibling love. parental love. romantic love. second-chance love. heartbreak.

it's mental health in genereal but more specifically, it's anxiety; coming from your parents' divorce and your different reactions to it; coming from expectations, from your crippling fear of disappointing the whole world; from your own family. it's depression and someone being there for you, holding your hand even when all the blinds are closed. it's (paralysing) grief from losing a parent, a partner, your only supporter and your hero and how different it is between you and your own sibling or parent even though you live together and it's the same person you've lost. it's addiction and ways you can always come back to the surface from drowing in each one of them's deep ocean, because you are not alone. it's (undiagnosed) neurodivergency, maybe causing more anxiety to add to the basket.

it's picture-perfect posture and smiles until your breaking point- and protective arms around you.

it's politics- again, not the deepest political analysis you will ever read, but there are other sources if you want that. it's, more specifically, maybe a happy note through all the darkness surrounding the political world nowadays like a cloud. maybe... it's hope. wanting to fight for what's right.

it's emphasis on the importance of privacy, espeacially during these times, when everything and everyone can be posted everywhere without their consent or permission, and how it can be traumatic for the person or people exposed.

most importantly, this book is liked, loved even, by a great number of people around the world. and in my opinion, that's what counts the most, right?

also, one last note- it's heard a lot that it's just written by a white woman fetishing mlm relationships and mexican people. casey uses they/them pronouns and is definitely not doing any of these things, if we have read the same book.

so, um, let people enjoy maybe their next favourite queer romantic book, with very good humour and various themes, without throwing your prejudice at them; I won't hide that at first I was skeptical, too, after hearing and reading all of that here and there. but I was 17 when I selfishly found a comfort I have been searching for years through these pages for the first time.

(I won't elaborate further on that last one, though, it's personal)

oh, and before someone says yeah, but it's just rich people having sex ,okay, I am with you at this rich people part- I am not myself a part of this "upper class", not even close to it (laugh track). but I think that you'll find some great passages that leave you wanting to search for more class and sociological issues after reading it carefully. and you'll find that alex wearing his key to his texas home is not random. and you'll find that one does not develop a life-long love for star wars not to know an empire is not a good thing. I hope this make sense.

all in all, I am not attacking anyone here. I just wanted to defend it against these... distorted, may I say, statements as regards its content, and this post gave me the push I needed. if my tone seems off or mad or something similar, I honestly apologise, it's just a tone button hasn't been invented yet (I think. I hope I haven't missed anything. again).

take care and read whatever you enjoy- as long as it doesn't harm others, of course. yes.

#red white and royal blue #rwrb #rwrb book #I thought there would be more cursing in this #because in the internet my mouth is (in rwrb terminology) agcd-worthy but irl I am henry lol #but there wasn't much #ha #anyway I am not mad seriously the cursing is a joke too #just needed to get this out #bc okay the memes are funny but in moderation and not coming from straight (ha) prejudice towards the boom #*book #also I am sorry if there's not much coherence here it's like one how my brain works and two 2 a.m. and I have to get up early tomorrow so 😶

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astrronomemes · 11 months

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ON EARTH WE'RE BRIEFLY GORGEOUS: STARTERS

a collection of quotes, phrases, and sayings from the 2019 Ocean Vuong novel, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous. change & alter as needed.

"Grab your coat. I'll get you McDonald's."

"You have to get bigger and stronger, okay?"

"The human eye is God's loneliest creation. How so much of the world passes through the pupil, and still, it holds nothing."

"A survivor is the last one to come home."

"To be a monster is to be a hybrid signal, a lighthouse: both shelter and warning at once."

"You're a monster. But so am I — which is why I can't turn away from you."

"They say that trauma affects not only the brain, but the body, too — its musculature, joints, and posture."

"Stop crying! You're always crying!"

"Whether we want to or not, we are traveling in a spiral. We are creating something new from what is gone."

"Theories are for people with too much time and not enough determination."

"I don't know if you're happy, [name]. I never asked."

"It is a beautiful country, depending on where you look."

"It is a beautiful country, because you are still breathing."

"It is a beautiful country, because you are still in it."

"There are no animals here but us."

"Everything good is somewhere else, baby, I'm telling you. Everything."

"The most useful thing one can do with empty hands is hold on."

"I'm not scared of dying anymore."

"I fucking hate my dad."

"This is my superpower — to make a dark even darker than what's around me."

"What do you call the animal that, finding the hunter, offers itself to be eaten?"

"Sometimes, being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined."

"Do you remember the happiest day of your life? What about the saddest?"

"Do you think we'll still hang out when we're a hundred?"

"I don't like girls."

"I can leave, [name]. If you don't want me, I can go. I won't be a problem, and nobody has to know."

"For the first time in a long time, I'm trying to believe in heaven. In a place we can be together after all this blows over."

"They say every snowflake is different. But the blizzard, it covers us all the same."

"I don't celebrate my birthday anymore."

"They say nothing lasts forever, but they're just scared it will last longer than they can love it."

"I think I just deep-throated an invisible cock."

"I miss you more than I remember you."

"Too much joy, I swear, is lost in our desperation to keep it."

"If there's a heaven, I think it looks like this."

"Maybe in the next life, we'll meet each other for the first time — believing in everything but the harm we're capable of."

"Don't cry on me again. Don't you cry on me now."

"What have we become to each other if not what we've done to each other?"

"What are we if not what the light says we are?"

"All this time, I told myself we were born from war. But I was wrong, [name]. We were born from beauty."

"They say if you want something bad enough, you'll end up making a god out of it."

"I know you believe in reincarnation. I don't know if I do, but I hope it's real. Because then maybe you'll come back here next time around."

#rp meme #roleplay meme #rp starters #roleplay starters #dialogue prompts #rp prompts #roleplay prompts #rp memes #roleplay memes #sentence memes #sentence prompts #sentence starters

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taylortruther · 2 months

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hey rae (this just so happens to coincide with that anon) but we've talked about art and honesty before in relation to TTPD and yesterday my friend just so happened to send me this interesting study that she found (completely unrelated to taylor) they did about what drives creative people in creating art the most and most people answered with the constant search for the truth! which is soooo interesting when applied to taylors recent albums and also how that relates to what we're about to hear next week from her. Nothing i've said is anything new so my apologies but i just wanted to link this study cause it goes in deeper and i thought maybe you'd be interested in reading it too xxx https://www.jstor.org/stable/3331883

thanks bestie! i love the study of creativity and art, the philosophy of it, it's a very deep and difficult area of study. i feel like many people, especially creative ones with artistic outlets, understand this intuitively. we write, paint, compose, whatever to make sense of the world, our internal world, to connect, to show the truth of the human condition. it's what makes a good movie or a painting resonate; it's what makes us love taylor's music, or the work of ocean vuong or pablo neruda or shakespeare and so on and so forth. the cutting, ugly, sticky reality of humans and all their flaws... if that's not present in art, what's the point???

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intrepidacious · 2 years

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brooklyn, thursday night

summary: It’s the third Thanksgiving after the Blip, and you’ve become a habit Steve’s unable to shake.

pairing: steve rogers x reader

word count: 4.4k

warnings: some angst, some fluff (i mean, it's me); one night stand to two night stand to fwb to lovers kind of situationship; implied sexytimes

please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

prompt: this was written for layla's love in verse challenge and i loved this idea so much!! i found inspiration in "thanksgiving 2006" by ocean vuong—or rather, the poem found me, as poems tend to do. you can find it in its entirety underneath the fic

a/n: i seem to be making a habit out of posting holiday fics when it’s not, in fact, said holiday, and i can't even feel sorry about it. @heavenlybarnes thank you so much for this beautiful challenge!! i missed writing for steve, and this was the perfect opportunity 💛

masterlist | read on ao3

Brooklyn’s too cold tonight, so Steve keeps walking.

The serum has a way of warming his hands, but not his heart, coursing through his veins with hot vengeance he doesn’t like to stop and examine. He suspects he wouldn’t like what he’d find, because at the core, at the very core of him, there is a numbness where all the world used to be, and he despises himself for it.

He hates that part of himself on nights like this, that soft, aching vulnerability no genius scientist with their experiments could ever cure him from, or even just protect with their chemicals and radiation, all their balancing, imbalanced bullshit. That was never the point.

It’s just that he doesn’t feel particularly good at the moment.

So he keeps walking.

It’s November again, and the winter air is just as ruthless as that gnawing feeling inside that for the third year in a row, Steve doesn’t have anything he feels particularly thankful for. For the third year in a row, he finds himself walking down these streets, but he can’t fool himself enough to pretend to be aimless anymore. His feet find the way easily.

("You like to keep moving, don’t you?"

A tired smile. "I just fear I’m getting my directions mixed up.")

The sound of a lighter seems to echo on the empty streets, buried between snow and lingering unease.

***

The first year, you’re a stranger, and it’s all coincidence.

No one on the planet, hell, in the universe, probably, feels particularly celebratory, and so most windows are dark by the time Steve takes the first step outside. He’s known these streets for the better part of a century, and yet he’s never felt more like a stranger in them.

He buried his parents and went to war, and yet he’s never known grief or guilt like this.

There’s a cut on his cheek that hasn’t quite healed yet, from when his hand slipped while shaving the beard. Or maybe he was just trying to feel something. Red blood spilled like a reminder that he could put on the Cap façade all he wanted; he was still just human, and he failed.

You just got off your shift.

You have your apron wrapped around your hand as you lean against the side wall, hands shaking as you try to light your cigarette. The lighter is broken. He can hear you cursing over the howling of the wind.

("I never used to smoke," you tell him later. "My best friend always said it calms her nerves. I get it now."

So does Steve.)

"Do you need help?" he asks, even though he doesn’t have fire, not the one you could use right now. It’s his instincts that are hardest to shake, even on a day like this.

"It’s fine," you say without even looking at him, throwing the cigarette into your bag. "This is all just great!"

There is a tremor in your voice that he recognizes, that pent up frustration threatening to boil up at a minor inconvenience. You let your head fall back until it hits brick so hard he almost flinches, but you don’t even seem to notice.

You blink at him like you’re only just realizing he’s real.

"You want something?" you ask, and your voice is so sharp he feels the cut on his cheek reopening, but your eyes are soft. It’s disarming, that combination.

Steve’s dumbfounded for a moment, because he doesn’t really know why he stopped, either. Now that he’s aware of it, though, it’s impossible not to keep looking at you. And there’s that instinct, again. That gut feeling that tells him neither of you should be alone right now.

If he were Bucky, he might have told you that, with that half-smile of his that used to bring half the city to its knees. Bucky used to say all kinds of things to the girls he went out with, back in the day, and the rare occasion on which that backfired never seemed to deter him.

But Steve’s just himself, and he’s starting to feel creepy now, so he just says, "I think you’re the first person I talked to today."

You stare at him, and there’s that shift in your eye when you recognize him and hesitate for a second as you evaluate if he’s a threat. He wonders if there’s any getting used to that.

"Wow," you finally say. "Not gonna lie, but that’s kind of sad."

Steve huffs. "Yeah."

It’s the heaviness in your gaze that betrays you, your jawline etched in the cool smoke your breath trails behind. You lost someone, too.

What a strange thing to pick up on, he thinks, when it’s rarer to meet someone who hasn’t, but he still feels sorry in a way that seems oddly personal. The question of who is almost on his lips before he catches himself. Before he remembers that he doesn’t know you, and that he has no right to that sort of information.

You tilt your head, and a small crease appears between your brows. "Aren’t you freezing?" you finally say.

He shrugs. "I’ve been colder."

"Yeah." You nod, but he can see the gears in your head turning. Finally, you seem to swallow something down. "You got a second person lined up for the night?"

His mouth twitches involuntarily and he shakes his head.

"Me either. Great Thanksgiving, huh."

There’s a pause as you shift on your feet and he clears his throat, but neither of you moves. It’s a little uncomfortable, or it should be, but you toss your apron into your bag and cross your arms in a way that poses a challenge. Steve swallows heavily.

"I should—"

"How about we move this someplace warmer?" The question is accompanied by a glance that makes him step a little closer, makes him lower his head ever so slightly as you both consider each other, both of you waiting to see what will happen next.

And, yeah, maybe it’s selfish of him not to make up an excuse and leave you to your unlit cigarette, but damnit, why can’t he be selfish for a change? After a year like this?

So he says, "lead the way," and his voice doesn’t shake a bit.

("You haven’t been casual a day in your life," Bucky would’ve said, and Steve would’ve glowered at him. These are the things he misses; he can’t even be casually mad anymore.)

It’s not a long walk, and the wind does most of the talking. Neither of you is much in the mood for it. You’re shivering by the time you try to get your keys out, and when he holds the door open for you, you just give him a small nod.

"It’s out of order," you murmur as you pass the elevator, already unraveling your scarf. Steve follows, close enough that he could smell the lingering remnants of perfume on your hair if he took a deep breath. He doesn’t.

The building is old, all high ceilings and broken floor tiles, colorless. Every step trails an echo behind. Your neighbor’s striped doormat is barely visible underneath the pile of unread newspapers. The air is so cold he imagines he could still see his own breath.

You force your door open with your shoulder and then halt in the entrance, as if just remembering something. "You’re not allergic to anything, are you?"

"Not since 1943," he answers. It’s odd to admit it like this, even though you know exactly who he is. Somehow, he feels like he’s going about all of this wrong, but the thought of leaving seems even worse.

"Good," you murmur before you let him in and close the door behind him. "That’s good."

The hallway to your apartment is cluttered, but in a homely, charming way. Vibrant art prints and knick-knacks litter the surfaces and jut out of cardboard boxes, all of it covered with a thin layer of dust. You don’t turn the lights on, and so Steve only puts it together when the soft pattering noise stops at his feet and turns into sniffing.

"You have a dog," he says, surprised.

"My roommate does," you say, and then you catch yourself. He can see the short pause in your movements, even though you continue with a lightheartedness that is familiar in how false it sounds. He knows before you say it out loud. "Well, I suppose she’s mine now."

He sinks to his knees, slowly, because he ran out of speed a while ago. The dog wiggles her tail.

"Her name is Leia," you tell him. "You know, like Star Wars?"

It’s another reminder that he still hasn’t quite caught up with this day and age. He is spared an answer, though, because you’ve already moved on to the kitchen, switching on the lights as you go. Steve keeps petting the dog.

"Drink?" you shout, and it’s strange, how casually you’re treating this whole encounter while Steve’s own thoughts are still stuck on a merry-go-round. He doesn’t know if he can ever get off this ride again.

"Sure," he says lightly, because he’s been acting for years.

All of it just play pretend.

("You don’t mean that," you whisper later, much, much later.

"No." He brushes the hair out of his eyes. "Sometimes.")

You drink, and you sit on the living room floor, just chatting, really, because this is a strange situation for both of you. There’s an uncertainty in the air that grows hotter with every passing minute, and when the conversation lulls to a stop, it shifts.

You look at him, then, anticipation of something so thick between you he could cut it with a knife.

Steve has lived through a war and two very different worlds colliding within less than a decade, but this is still so new for him. And yeah, maybe it feels like he’s breaking some sort of rule here, crossing some moral boundary he’s not supposed to even look at, because that’s just how he was brought up.

But times have changed, as he’s all too painfully aware, and you’re still looking at him, eyelids heavy, and Steve decides, fuck it.

His voice barely sounds like his own when he asks, "Can I kiss you?"

The second you take to blink and nod lasts an eternity, but when you do, he finally stops listening to that nagging voice at the back of his head that tells him he shouldn’t. Instead, he carefully pulls the sleepy dog off his knee and scoots over to where you’re sitting, watching, waiting. Steve looks at your face one more time, slowly, deliberate, and then he leans in.

He’s not gonna lie; it’s awkward for a good while.

The angle is weird, and he doesn’t know where to put his hands because this is the first time he’s touched you all night, and it’s just a simple fact that he hasn’t done this in a spell. But then you tilt your head just so, and his hand settles on your thigh, helping you into his lap and yes.

For a moment he remembers what it’s like to stop thinking, to stop running and just be.

And then your fingers thread through his hair, tugging slightly, and Steve’s brain shuts off entirely, consumed by the fire that courses through his veins. By the time your breath turns shorter, he knows your rhythm and he’s all too happy to take his time to match it.

He’s not ready for anything more than a distraction, and you’re not offering.

(You tell him to be gone when you wake up. "I have another early shift and I don’t want to have to kick you out," you mutter, snuggling closer. "Ruin my day."

Steve doesn’t sleep at all. He sneaks out once the early morning sunshine starts tickling your nose, shoes in his hand, his hands growing cold once again.)

***

The snow starts picking up.

There’s a message from Natasha on his phone that he’s stared at and then closed again about a hundred times. It was a response to him canceling their dinner plans, again, and this time she didn’t leave it at the sad little OK she would usually put. Her words have started to bleed into his very consciousness like a song stuck in his head.

I don’t know what’s different lately, but I think it’s good for you.

Steve’s not so sure.

The way he sees it, he’s setting himself up to grow attached to something he has no right to keep, and he’s seen how that story ends too many times in his life. It’s one thing to care for someone and a whole other thing to care about them.

("It’s nothing personal."

Of course it’s not. The marks left on his skin vanish within a few hours.)

There’s a bunch of unused brushes on his desk in the tiny apartment he calls home, more than twelve blocks away. Steve bought them last week, in a spur of almost giddy inspiration, and he’s only realized the ridiculousness of that when he unlocked the front door, receipt long discarded on the way.

Now they’re sitting there, waiting for something to change.

He’s been brought back to the city of the living, and he should be feeling more guilty about it.

***

The second year, you’re an indulgence.

He’s almost walked by your apartment several times now, mostly on early summer mornings or nights far colder than they should be, but he could never bring himself to actually cross the street, turn the corner, climb the stairs. He doesn’t come closer than a two block radius, really. Not until today.

The truth is, he’s thought about running into you so many times he’s forgotten what he wanted to tell you. Why he wants to see you at all.

But Brooklyn is too cold and too empty, and the feeling uncoiling in his chest tells him this was always how this was supposed to go.

You’re sitting on the steps in front of your apartment building, reading a book in the light of the street lantern. Your eyes are watery from the sharp sting of winter air, but you look undeterred. Unhurried.

"I thought you might come," you say, and Steve gets the strange sense that you’re pleased.

(It was a lie, you tell him later. You were waiting for a friend, to take you to some party you didn’t want to go to. "I didn’t think you’d ever come back," you mumble into his hair, fingers tracing invisible patterns on his skin.

As if he’s had a choice in the matter.)

"I aim to please," he says, even though that’s not true, has never been true. Maybe it’s the way you look at him.

You look sharper than you did a year ago, as if all that pain has carved itself into blunt edges and curt glances. But your hands are still soft. He stares at them as if he might be allowed to hold them again.

"Somehow, I doubt that," you say, tilting your head. "New look?"

Steve scratches his beard. "Old look. I’m still deciding which one to keep."

You snort, and it sends a tingle down his spine.

"What?"

"Nothing. That’s just the most serious way I’ve ever heard someone talk about facial hair." You look at him solemnly, like you’re about to break the worst news to him. He already knows. "You do realize it’ll keep growing back either way?"

If he were Sam, he’d have joked with you, in that dry manner of his, maybe winked at you afterwards to reassure you that it was all just teasing, good fun. There was a lightness to Sam’s interactions with people he cared about that had always seemed so precious in hindsight; like it couldn’t be shared enough.

But Steve’s just himself, and his eyes are as tired as his body, so he just says, "I didn’t want to be alone."

You watch his eyes with such intent he feels himself getting uneasy. Then, you take your keys out of your coat pocket and unlock the door. You don’t look back as you tell him, "It’s getting late."

It’s all the invitation Steve needs.

"What were you reading?" he asks, stepping into the damp, cold hallway after you. The elevator is still out of order.

You hand him your book without so much as a glance over your shoulder. He doesn’t really look at it, either, just keeps staring at the little bit of skin peeking out where your scarf has shifted down. He can’t help but wonder if it tastes the same.

("Whenever I’m sad and I feel like killing myself, I read something by Sylvia Plath."

He listens to your heartbeat. "And what if you’re sad and you don’t feel like that?" he asks.

Your smile is melancholy and contagious. "A children’s novel.")

"You know, you never told me your name," Steve says once you get inside, his cheeks burning.

"So I didn’t," you hum with a tilt of your head that’s already starting to feel familiar, even though this is only the second time you’ve met. There’s the same challenge in it, but the spark in your eye is new, mischievous, like you’re also remembering what things kept him from asking something as simple as a name the last time he was here.

You fill in his gaps.

The knowledge feels foreign. Like he’s somehow been allowed to see a whole new side of you, even though it’s just a name, and not much more.

He smiles softly at the sound of it, and then, before he can stop himself, admits, "I’ve been thinking about you."

Steve’s seen your lips twitch before, but he hasn’t seen you smile. Not last year, when everything was still so fresh the very air tasted like sorrow, not even when you lay next to him with hazy eyes and he wiped the sweat off your brow. But you smile at his words now, and it changes your entire face, all the harshness of it disappearing to show something glowing underneath, something more hopeful than he’s seen in quite a while.

You take his face into your hands and kiss him like an answer, carefully, as if he’s something precious, as if you have something to lose. It’s difficult for him to focus, to stop himself from telling you that he’s not, and you don’t.

But then his thoughts cease being so loud again, one by one, and maybe that’s why he’s missed your touch for a whole year. The endless echoes in his mind finally turn silent.

He pours his thanks into each kiss that follows.

("Text me," you offer this time, and even though he’s not sure what kind of invitation you’re extending with those two words, he clings to them like a lifeline.)

***

Each step crunches underneath his boots and Steve is starting to regret not taking the subway. But the air had seemed so nice tonight, and the streets are quiet in a way that should be lonely and yet is the opposite of that.

Three years, and empty spaces have been cautiously, regrettably filled.

("I hate losing things. It drives me up the wall."

How does someone move on from something like this? Little by little, or not at all.

The worst part, he thinks, is that anything new will never quite replace what’s missing. Only repopulate the void.)

The first time you came to his place instead of the other way around, you forgot your scarf, and Steve had to talk himself into returning it for almost a week. Fine. Ten days.

It just smelled so sweet.

"There it is," you said when he finally did knock on your door again, relief so clearly written all over your face as if he’s been returning a long lost child.

And then you carelessly tossed it aside and dragged him towards you by the collar.

Not that he’s complaining.

The snow, however …

Steve blinks up against it, at the familiar streets set against a dark sky. It’s a scene that begs to be painted, long shadows and milky streetlights caught in a whirlwird of ice. He looks at it for a long moment, and then he continues walking.

***

This year, you’re a necessity.

This year, it’s not been twelve months. In fact, it’s not even been two weeks, but he’s still missed you. Brooklyn sheds all of its colors this time of year, and on the dreariest mornings he finds himself craving your presence more than usual.

It’s terrifying, this sort of protectiveness he feels for you. It’s not what this is supposed to be, not what either of you needs right now.

("So what?" Sam would’ve said, and Steve would’ve lowered his head. Probably. He’s running out of scenarios to run through his mind, and so every time he tries, it feels like he’s chipping away at precious memories, distorting them, losing them. "So what?"

Maybe. The future has never felt less clear.)

He’s found out that he craves you like a drug, and he knows it can’t be healthy, he shouldn’t be doing this, but damnit, can’t he have one good thing to keep again for a change?

Like the taste of your hot skin bathed in a strip of moonlight, or that glimmer in your eyes that lets him forget the remaining half of the universe, reduces it only to him and you, and every shared breath between you. He keeps replaying those moments when he’s not with you, can’t stop himself, really. It’s easier now that he knows there will be a next time.

Not forever, of course, but now is enough.

("Enough already?" You nudge your nose against his shoulder. "I thought your ambitions were greater than that, Captain.")

Steve stops in front of the elevator, considers it for a moment, then takes the stairs anyway. Some habits are hard to shake, and perhaps you’re one of them. Though he doubts it; you’re more than just that.

He finds your door unlocked, which should be a reason for concern but somehow isn’t. Maybe it’s the smell. The lights are on in the living room and he can hear an old record playing.

("Leia loves it when I play them," you’ve told him before. "I think maybe they remind her of …" You trailed off, like you always do.

He still hasn’t learned your roommate’s name.)

He leaves his shoes by the door and follows the sound, like he’s done time and again.

Today, it’s Ella Fitzgerald, and you’re dancing in the kitchen.

The sight stops Steve in his tracks, because suddenly there’s an ease to his step he doesn’t like, can’t allow himself, even though it shouldn’t really be a surprise.

("Why not?" Bucky might have said.

"Live a little, man," Sam could have said.

He hopes, thinks, wishes.)

Nat’s message burns a hole into his pocket. Coward, it whispers, and Steve ignores it. He watches you swaying around and moving your arms in a ridiculously elaborate way, unaware that you have an audience.

Light. Pure light shining through all your edges, and softening them to his gaze.

Leia senses his presence first, waggling toward him with flapping ears and a cheerful bark, and so he lets himself be welcomed, sitting down on the floor with a quiet laugh.

You turn, and your hips stop moving, which is truly the biggest crime of all.

"Hey, stranger," you say, your smile so clearly audible in your voice it makes Steve bite his lip hard before he dares to look up.

"Hey," he says when his eyes meet yours, his body relaxing immediately at the sight of you. "What are you cooking at this hour?"

"Wouldn’t you like to know." You continue stirring the pot on the stove. "But you can set the table once you’re done charming my dog."

"That could take a while," Steve chuckles as Leia keeps licking his hand. "I’m very charming."

You roll your eyes, but the smile stays.

"Come on, honey," you say, pulling him to his feet again, and it might have just been a slip of the tongue, but damn if his heart didn’t just skip a beat.

Steve’s been called many names in his life, but he’s pretty sure none of them have ever sounded as right.

On impulse, he leans over to brush his lips over yours, softly, smiling when your mouth chases his as he pulls back.

"What was that for?" you whisper with a light frown.

He blinks. "Food," he finally says. "I’m starving."

("Get up, then."

His tongue traces delicate patterns down your throat. "Why would I need to do that?")

It hurts his brain, this softness of yours that’s close enough to touch and yet feels so off-limits.

He’s kissed you a hundred times before, languidly, feverishly, carefully, but never pointlessly. Well, not without a point he would admit to.

You choose not to dwell on it, thankfully, and go back to your pot with a hum. Steve runs a hand through his hair and pushes himself back into the role you’ve both agreed upon. Friends, for the most part. He can live with that, of course he can. He’s lived through worse things.

(Neither of you has ever wanted to fix the other. It was nice, for a change, being a little broken. It only meant finding new places to fit together.)

He wakes up a little over three hours after to find you wrapped around him, hugging his arm to your chest so tightly he can feel it rise and sink with each and every one of your breaths. He watches you for a long while, still half-asleep, every cell of his body screaming at him not to move an inch. To just keep you right where you are.

For a second, he wonders if he could get away with stealing one last kiss before he sets out on the trek home, like he always does. As if you’d heard him, you start stirring under his gaze.

"Stay," you whisper into the dead of night, and he can feel his eyes close almost immediately. Your voice cuts through the darkness like he’s already dreaming. "Steve. Don’t go, please."

And so he lets himself settle into your side, pulling you closer, breathing you in, his lips touching your forehead, and you sigh.

Maybe next year, he can be thankful for something.

thank you for reading!! if you liked this fic, please consider leaving a comment and/or reblog 💛 to see more of my writing, check out my masterlist or follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications!!

Brooklyn's too cold tonight & all my friends are three years away. My mother said that I could be anything I wanted -- but I chose to live. On the stoop of an old brownstone a cigarette flares, then fades. I walk to it: a razor sharpened with silence. His jawline etched in smoke. The mouth where I reenter this city. Stranger, palpable echo, here is my hand, filled with blood thin as a widow's tears. I am ready. I am ready to be every animal you leave behind.

Thanksgiving 2006, Ocean Vuong

#loveinversewritingchallenge #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fic #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers oneshot #marvel fanfic #mcu fanfic #brooklyn thursday night

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earthtooz · 11 months

Note

hello! i love your works so much everything you write is perfect! i stopped writing more than a year ago but reading your works inspired me to write again 😊 it’s crazy how we are the same age but our level of writing is completely different, yours blew my mind 🤯🤯🤯 (in a good way!!!!!) i was wondering if you could give me some tips to improve my writing as i feel like i’m lacking in many departments (if you’re comfortable in doing so, ofc!) thank you! ❤️❤️❤️

this ask was send march 5th, and i'm happy to report that four months later, for the first time in a while, i think i'm finally at a point in my writing where i'm confident giving out tips that are not generic and stock standard. i do not know if anon is going to ever see this, but i hope you do, and i hope that you're still as inspired to write as you were when you sent this :) a lot can happen in four months!!

i'm just going to get straight into it. you'll find that the further you go, the more... catered the advice might be to you (it's long, and maybe a bit rambly, but i hope it’s useful in some sort of way 🥲)

# ONE - THE MOST BASICS:

the most DEVASTATING thing you can do for your writing is not have a purpose for each scene or snippet you write. give your scenes a point, don't let them be just images that you sit on the document to take up space! are you trying to prove that character x oc's relationship is growing? are you trying to show that it's breaking apart? are you trying to set up the character as someone who's beginning to fall in love and hates it? give everything a purpose. every word must be linked to your intention.

you know what they say about chekhov's gun, if you are going to mention some little thing, give it a purpose later! you mention reader likes sweaters? let character give them a sweater! this works in many-a-ways.

this all comes down to the planning, which i would give tips on, but i'm writing this part too late. i'm also trying to keep this first part brief because this is a very long post.

for english speakers, the second most devastating thing is to not know your grammar LOL (i cannot criticise those who speak another language as their first! kudos to you, keep doing what you're doing.)

# TWO - FIND YOUR STYLE: easier said than done, but it's an essential part of any art. writing takes time, and only time will evolve your skill and therefore, your style. if you do not like what you write off the bat and believe you are 'lacking' in some departments (no such thing, there is room to improve instead of being 'incapable' of doing something), then i always turn to some of my favourite authors, whether they are published or another fanfiction writer, turn to them and study them. DO NOT PLAGIARISE, just try and emulate what you see from their works and put them into your works, with your own sense of individual style.

i have my list of esteemed tumblr writings that i look up to, as well as writers that i adore. ocean vuong will always be one of my favourite writers, i listen to him frequently when i am stumped by my own writibg. he has this sort of creative aura that drips of his own idiosyncrasy that inspires me every time i try to listen to him, him just speaking calms and invigorates me so much.

so yeah, find your writer, and learn from them :)

# THREE - THE 'DEPARTMENTS': the departments that i have included are:

characterisation

dialogue

description and artistic expression (this one is long, bear with me.)

like i said earlier, there are indeed departments are writing that we all have room to improve in. i will talk about the few that i might find specific to fanfic writing because i am nothing like an actual author :,)

characterisation: a fickle little thing T^T the worst thing ever. to characterise properly means you know the character like it's your own, but in fanfiction that's just truly not possible :,) so i can try and give you my own tips on how i deal with characterisation.

listen to the english dub (or your first language) - DON'T CRUCIFY ME. PLEASE. BUT LET ME SPEAK. for my fellow fluent english speakers, listening to a dub in a language we do not understand can only go so far in the way we understand a character. when listening to english, we hear the intricate ways of their tone and personalities work, and what kind of dialogue best flows with them (toji fushiguro is excluded from this. never listen to that man's english dub.). when i was writing for bakugou- he's not the hardest character to understand, but with the help of the english dub, the dialogue that i wrote for him flowed a lot easier than if i had just tried to internalise his jp dub. he's gruff, and rude, and cocky, and his english va captures that in quite an adorable way! ofc you can never just ignore the original, the original is there to provide you the blueprint, but sometimes a little help explaining the blueprint goes a long way !!

characterisation can also be perfected through the subtle changes in dialogue that you see. a big part of character is how they talk, and even just the subtlest of changes can go far. let me start with the example "this is a really bad idea." if i were writing itoshi rin, then i would change the sentence fit to his speech and embody how he'd actually react to a 'bad idea'. he's curt, doesn't say more than necessary, and unashamed to be cold so he'd probably just say "this is stupid." before walking away LMAOO if i were writing someone like gojo, then the sentence also changes too. he doesn't mind talking and adding more to his point, so i would write something like: "you sure? this doesn't seem like the brightest idea." and if i'm really trying to sell a romantic relationship, i'd add a 'sweetheart' there or something.

dialogue: this is a personalised experience, so as is everything in writing. i have been complimented on my flow and dialogue a lot of the time but in truth, i am merely having a conversation with myself in my head. i try to become the character i am writing about and then i just chat with myself :3 it can be that simple. dialogue does not need to be something you over-complicate, i am my own, ethical character.ai.

description and artistic expression: look, i can't say much on this one except that you're all on your own. i am still trying to perfect my own skills in this department because this is perhaps one of my most vexing parts of writing. i truly am just not... as poetic and imaginative as i want my words to be, but i am trying and i am improving.

my biggest tip regarding description and artistry is: if the reader can imagine it, you don't need to write it. you don't need to fill in the gaps with actual scenes, if your characters are walking through the park as a filler for getting from destination A to B, then that park scene does not need to be as descriptive as A or B. a mere 'you took a shortcut through the park' will suffice. or even better, just go straight from A to B.

say my 'A' scene is starting at a cafe, and my 'B' scene is going to the mall, you could just go 'calling for the waitress to get the bill, you then find yourself in the mall within 15 minutes'. spend time on the gaps that require a bridge to cross, not the gaps that you can merely step over.

these kind of things appear in your planning and admittedly, i don't even plan ROFLLL but i have primary scenes that i have sketched out which i sometimes add to. like spider webs, when going from one thread to another, sometimes the journey is not all that important if it does nothing for your plot.

again, i find inspiration in a lot of the writers i look up to. a recurring motif is something i love adding, whether that be dialogue or a recurring item that symbolises something (like the hairband in between love and lies - a nagi fic). techniques like motifs or an extended metaphor add a lot of depth in your writing that you can't find otherwise. you can also omit going too over the board with reader's emotions too, or just the character's. if it's obvious that they are angry, sad, happy, you don't need to go too far in detail about said emotions.

another so crucial thing is to take note of the things you see in real life and apply it in fiction. the most mundane of things you are doing can have beauty in words.

are you at the beach? why don't you take a look around. tell me about the people that sit on towels, minding their own business. tell me about the way the sun sits high in the sky, unforgiving and burning before going into the main plot.

are you sitting on a bench, killing time? tell me about the breeze you feel, or perhaps the heat that overwhelms you. tell me about what you hear- bikes, children laughing, whilst you're waiting for your date to show up- all of these minute things, so long as you don't go overboard, will matter a lot to the imagination of the reader!

# FOUR: TAKE CARE OF AND LOVE WHAT YOU WRITE writing will always be hard :,) not a single draft goes by where i do not find inconsistencies and flaws, but i love them all the same. i love the drafts that i read over once and posted and i also love the drafts that i poured blood, sweat, and tears into. neither of them are more special to me because they were all born from a simple idea.

to look back on what you wrote and going 'i can do this better now' is beautiful, no? i love the end product for what i learnt on the way.

i know me giving this advice is kinda hypocritical because you'll find me going 'i hate this' in the tags, and you can choose to believe me or not, but i adore all of my stories the same. some of them i just hate that i couldn't give them the attention and love that they deserved, which shows through in the end quality. not that you guys seem to care, it's all in my head sometimes lMFAO.

# FIVE - KEEP THE POV CONSISTENT: now we are getting to the tips that i've been learning myself recently. how funny is it that i learnt this whilst reading from a writer that i so admire?

whilst reading a long fic, i noticed that the flow is satisfying because there was no swap of perspectives. the character was in the focus the whole time and the reader was the reactor, the catalyst being the character's actions and internal dialogue. on the other hand, the reader's thoughts and feelings being in the spotlight can also be significant.

i had always known that keeping the pov consistent would influence your writing, but i never knew how much.

which pov you might want to choose is all intuitive. writing is intuitive- every other tip that i have revealed is all intuitive and i'll cover more of this later. more importantly right now, which perspective you want to execute is all on you, and no one else. if you know your character, your storyline, and your skills, you will simply know how the story shall go. it is just as powerful to write it from reader's pov as it is the character's because it comes from your knowledge and authority as the writer!

# SIX - LEAVE THE COMFORT ZONE: this kind of returns to tip four. sometimes the only way to evolve is to do something we are bad at and that advice applies to writing too. writing is a path set by previous writers but it is not one that we have to follow all the time, why take a shortcut when the long way is prettier, and more rewarding? your journey of improvement is dependent on what you realise and give yourself opportunities to improve in.

for example, recently i have been trying to improve the depth of my descriptions and- don't laugh, but the way i've been doing so is as followed:

i input myself into the scenario, i empathise with the characters within the scene and i describe it. maybe it's emotional and the character can't look you in the eye because they don't have the heart to, not when their chest is filled with a smoke that is so unbearable that all they can focus on is not turning to ashes. maybe it's a happy scene and all you can look at is the character. maybe it's confronting, and the only thing you can think about is defending yourself against their clenched fists that will never actually hurt you, but you know damn well can break your walls in one swing. leave the comfort zone, write new au's and new dialogue pieces, write new metaphors and similes and use rhyme, listing, repetition- just try something new every time and let it be meaningful to the story.

# SEVEN - GIVE YOURSELF TIME. like the growth of your muscles or the mobility of your limbs, or the way your hands flow along the canvas or keyboard, writing is a skill that can only be improved with time. fanfic writing is intuitive and completely reliant on your own tastes.

i can sit here, speak for ages about writing, but the only way you can learn is to do. i have people who see what i do and praise me for being one of their favourite writers, and as honoured as i am every time, i am merely born from the six years i have put into this craft, as well as the hours i put into writing and planning what they see. if you could see the behind the scenes, you would go 'what the fuck am i looking at' LMFAOO.

when i write and then i reread and i know what it is missing, but i cannot speak about this like it is easy, like i have not spent the past few years of my life consistently writing for various characters and growing along the way. to be fair, you don't need to take six years to get good at writing, it can be a very smooth process! i don't think i was the brightest cookie at 12 ngl but i took my characters and rewrote them into different scenarios and here i am today, at 18 and (marginally) better.

as long as the urge is there, worship it, take the step and write. then post, if that is a step you want to partake in. simple as that :)

that's all for now! sorry this is so long, now that you've reached the end, i just wanted to say that i have no authority over what you produce and how you do it. these are simply just things i've learned along the way and i hope they can provide you some sort of revelation.

#please read the last sentence too beyond NO.7 :<#reinforcing that i am not some writing mastermind so please take all of my advice with a grain of salt!#earf's inbox hours ✌️

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stormyoceans · 6 months

Note

The dark season is nice for some, but quite hard for others.

To tackle this, we're launching once again this year's "Secret Helpers" and everyone is invited to join in!

How does it work?

It's very simple!

Choose 5 fan works. It doesn't matter whether they are gifs, video edits, fanarts, metas, analyses or fanfictions. Do you have something that has completely changed, inspired, destroyed or touched you? THAT'S what you need!

And now it goes on

Step 2: Write feedback to the creator of your favorite. No matter how long, how short, no matter what language, no matter if anonymous or under your official account, write what you liked and why. Jump over your shadow and let them know that this work of theirs has given you a good time.

Step 3: Spread "Secret Helpers" anonymously to others. No matter who you come across on tumblr or elsewhere on the internet, whether mutual or random, send them the instructions and let them keep spreading good news.

A lot of things are not going well lately. So we try to let those who give us a little break in the chaos know that we're glad to have them.

FAQ:

I have only seen one fan work that I liked. - No problem, write to the person anyway.

Isn't that weird? - Nope. (We are on the internet. Everything is kinda weird and ey, you don’t have to use your official account to send the feedback)

There. Are. TOO MANY! - 5 is a minimum number. If you have the time, write to as many as you want, everyone will be happy to get some compliments on their work!

The creators I like are all totally unknown - Especially for fanartists who don't get much feedback yet, each of those is worth its weight in gold. The fanfiction is amazing, but only has 2 comments? Become number 3! The fanart has 36 likes, but looks like a fucking work of art? Write that to the creator! Motivation is all babeyyy, regardless of whether it's the fandom favorite or someone completely new.

Have fun and good luck Secret Helpers!

THIS IS SUCH A LOVELY PROJECT!!!!!!!!! it's so important to spread positivity, especially to content creators who often have to deal with a lack of feedback and their works getting stolen, so im glad you gave me the chance to do this by sharing it with me, anon, thank you!!!!!!

i think that to follow the rules of the project i should probably write to the creators in private or by sending them an ask (?), but to try to give them more visibility and help them reach new people who maybe aren't familiar with their works yet, i thought i could talk a little about some of my favorites here (not that i have that many followers but you know. also for the two creators who aren't on tumblr i WILL make sure to leave them a nice comment too), so here we go!!!!!

in no particular order:

the entire vice versa web weaving series by @daymork. i tell you i wish i could have all these edits collected in one of those fancy ass art books with a hard cover that cost almost a hundred bucks just so that i could flip through it at any given moment to contemplate the beauty of said edits and cry myself to sleep holding it to my chest as i think about puentalay. i have no idea how jessi did it but every single quote she used for these is so perfect that no matter how many times i reread them they never fail to reduce me to a sobbing mess of a woman who is in dire need of receiving mental health care provided by professionals in an institutionalized setting. my point is. i love them. i love them a lot.

the quote by ocean vuong last twilight edit by @morkofday. i could literally put any of vish’s vice versa edits here because it’s like they’re all specially crafted to deal as much emotional damage as humanly possible to me personally, but in the end i decided to pick this one because, to this day, it’s still my favorite last twilight edit ever made. there's just something about it that stayed with me since i first saw it a whole year ago (im not even kidding when i say i think about it an average of twelve times per day) and even if it was done based on the mock trailer alone, vish was somehow able to perfectly capture the spirit of the show, not just by using that particular quote (which is incredibly spot on like when day and mork were talking about tenderness in episode 4 i thought of this edit right away and had to go punch through a wall to cope) but also because of the colors and the pictures that she chose.

the the man who can't be moved puentalay gifset by @seatawinans. you think episode 11 of vice versa has already reached the pinnacle of life altering emotional devastation and cathartic experience, and then you see this gifset and suddenly you find yourself decaying into subatomic particles to cope, committing grand scale larceny and arson to deal, and doing daily affirmations like 'this is affecting me a normal amount! :)' in front of the mirror every morning to survive. truly i have no words to properly express just how much the 'thinking maybe you'll come back here to the place that we'd meet/and you'll see me waiting for you on the corner of the street' lines over the glasshouse scenes make me sick in the head, it's the parallelism romanticism soulmatism of it all and somehow cassi managed to make it worse (read: better).

the underneath the stars by the cure morkday fanart by twitter user @bleu1te. i honestly love all of bleuité's puentalay and morkday works so much, there's just something so soft and tender in the way this artist draws them that every time i look at their art it gives me the same feeling of safety and comfort that i so deeply associate with these two pairings. i picked this one in particular because i fell in love with it as soon as i saw it, i love the colors, i love the starry sky behind them, i love their expressions, and most of all i love the hand placement. idk how to explain it, but i think the way they're touching just really conveys how much they adore each other.

the enchanted by taylor swift morkday video by twitter user @jimmyseagatitos. you know when someone punches you in the stomach and it hurts so much that you just start laughing hysterically? this is the closest description i can give to try to explain what this video did to me on a psychological emotional spiritual mental and physical level. and because apparently im a masochist i've been rewatching it only like 92649626 times in the span of three days. i also think it's pretty damn genius to end the edit on the 'i'll spend forever wondering if you knew' line of the song because it leaves everything unspoken just what mork never got to say.

this is obviously very far from being a comprehensive list (especially since my memory is pretty bad and my main interests are currently very limited ;;;;), so for the next couple of weeks i will try to reach out to my favorite creators (in private this time, i promise) and give them some love!!!!! and if anyone sees this, please consider doing it too!!!!!

#im not good at writing comments and i should have probably waited to do this on a day where i felt better about my english and my words but #i know myself and i would end up procrastinating this so i still wanted to try to do something #i've also never done something like this so please let me know if i did something wrong!!!!#secret helpers #m: ask #last twilight the series #vice versa

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lizzie-is-here · 2 years

Text

like the dawn

part xiii- healing

“a monster is not such a terrible thing to be” - ocean vuong

summary: the trials come to a close, but you’re still struggling with what’s left behind.

wordcount: 3.4k

warnings: cussing, tooth-rotting fluff, angst and comfort, mentions of violence, trauma, allusions to homophobia

taglist: @whelvedfeelingsstuff @sebsgirl71479 @rebloggingmyrecs @babyblublossom @local-mr-frog @thenyxsky @capsiclesdoll @moonlightreader649 @saranghaey @almosttoopizza @itsivymusic

a/n: ok i’m slowly getting a bit less busy so hopefully i can post a little more often now! but also a heads-up that i’ll be putting this series on hold soon to do a 12 days of christmas thing! i might try to finish this first, we’ll just see how it goes. sorry for the long wait, and like always, hope u enjoy! love u 🤍🤍🤍

previous part | series masterlist | next part

The better half of the next two weeks were spent in court, ignoring the press, and sneaking away with Steve and Bucky wherever possible.

Years of unsaid words flowed between you three, and you could feel your walls being broken down day by day. You no longer apologize for the extra space your wings take up, or feel the need to soften your voice.

You’re sitting on the couch one day, entranced in an ocean documentary when Clint, Nat, and Wanda walk in, sweaty and straight from training. The latter two join you, while the archer goes to the kitchen and starts making sandwiches.

“So… Anything interesting going on lately?” the redhead asks. You shake your head.

“Not really. Been trying to catch up on everything, so-” You gesture to the TV. “Figured this was a good place to start.”

Wanda tilts her head. “Where are Steve and Bucky?”

“Yeah, I’ve rarely seen you three apart,” Nat agrees.

She wasn’t wrong. You three have been less-than-subtle these past days, even risking kisses in the living room a few times.

“They’re on a run with Sam,” you explain with a smile. “Needed to burn some energy.”

Unbeknownst to you, the three Avengers knew that. In fact, they’d made sure Sam had joined the super-soldiers on their run. They’ve noticed how strange you’ve been acting, and Nat got a bit too invested in finding out.

There’s no malicious intent, but her curiosity overpowers any guilt she’d feel for her mastermind plan. That is, to annoy the three of you until someone tells her what she already knows. She likes the confirmation.

Clint flops onto the couch next to the assassin, stacking two sandwiches and biting into both at once. The way his jaw pushes back to accommodate the ridiculous amount of food reminds you of a snake you’d seen in the previous episode.

“So, has Barnes always been that buff?” Nat hums. She quickly glances over at you to watch your reaction.

Wanda senses a twinge of jealousy that you stamp down surprisingly well. But you don’t give away any physical clues.

“Uhh, yeah,” you begin. “Used to do push-ups in our apartment while Steve and I ate breakfast.”

The redhead grins a devil’s grin, sly and only noticed by Wanda and Clint. “Bet you got a nice view of that ass.”

That makes you cough. Spluttering and bright red, the nearby lamp flickers in time with your heart. She wasn’t wrong, technically, not that you’d admit it.

“I- I never looked,” you excuse, discreetly fanning your face. She hums, but doesn’t press further.

Meanwhile, the super-soldiers are receiving the same treatment from Sam.

“Oh, come on. You two need to get back into dating eventually,” the man sighs, watching as they prickle and stumble a bit.

“I’m alright with where I am,” Steve says, careful in choosing his words. “I don’t really feel like dealing with all of the modern dating traditions.”

Bucky huffs. “Yeah, that time you made me sign into Tinder might have been the worst ten minutes of my life. Made me wish I was still getting brainwashed.”

“Buck!” Steve protests, glaring at his- Well, what was the right title? “Partner” seemed off, “boyfriend”, maybe? Nah, too childish.

“I saw too much, Steve,” the brunet laments. “Some dude had a tattoo of Stark on his-”

“Alright, I get it!”

Sam takes the opening. “Well, is (Y/N) thinking about dating?” It’s impossible to miss how they exchange a nervous glance. “I mean, she’s pretty, she’s been adjusting well. I’m sure she wouldn’t have any trouble-”

Bucky snaps first. “Ok! Ok, ok, Sam, listen.”

Steve sighs. “Buck-”

“Listen,” he continues. “You can’t tell anyone about this.”

Bingo. The Falcon feigns shock. “Oh? What’s ‘this’?”

———————————————————————

By the end of the week, Sam knows all about you three, and Nat is 98.2% sure she say you making out in the kitchen one night. The 1.8% is because she was also extremely over-caffeinated, so hallucinations were always a possibility.

Wanda’s been complaining to Clint about how “emotionally suppressed” you all are, but they think it’s sweet nonetheless.

In all honesty, you don’t really mind if the team knows. The hard part is keeping your budding relationship away from the public.

If they find out, it’ll just pile on more stress to the neverending trials. Your relationship will be grounds for more invasive questions, and you aren’t ready for that. At least, not until the trials come to a close and you either end up free or in prison.

Speaking of prison, Tony’s lawyers had finally confronted Thaddeus Ross about your treatment on the Raft.

“There was no permanent damage done to Ms. (L/N),” Ross’s lawyer argues, enunciating his words. “We knew that, due to her enhancements, she would survive the dosage.”

You say nothing but frown slightly. It had been hours of pain and nausea. Your memory from that week is foggy and jumbled. There was definitely some permanent damage.

“During her interrogations, Ms. (L/N) confessed to having blinded soldiers and burnt them with her powers. It was only reasonable to be concerned and want to minimize damages.”

“And for Mr. Barnes, we used a special set of cuffs that sent an electromagnetic pulse through his metal arm, which was enough to contain him without the assistance of sedatives.”

You bristle at the way they speak about you. Like an experiment. Like HYDRA. It turns your stomach and plants a deep unease. The way Bucky shifts on the other side of Steve reveals that he feels the same way.

The blond captain doesn’t dare to hold your hands. Not now. Not with all of the cameras and eyes. His hand twitches anyway.

You manage through the first half of the trial, but the judge’s next words make your heart drop. They’re calling a witness forward. A last name that echoes in the back of your mind.

“What is your relationship to the defendants?”

You can’t make eye contact with the man.

“They killed my dad,” he says. The courtroom goes silent.

You swallow. He continues to describe how he found the governor dead in his office, a hole burnt through his chest and a ghastly bruise on his neck.

By the time he’s done, you’re so far gone that you don’t notice your hands shaking, or how everyone’s getting up to leave.

“Hey, hey, come back to us,” Steve whispers. You blink, tears welling up as you spot the man shaking hands with Ross.

Bucky follows your gaze, only to rip it away when he realizes. He glances at his metal arm.

He hates excluding Steve, but the words slip from his tongue before he can stop them.

“Заслуживаем ли мы этого [Do we deserve this]?” This. The possibility of getting out of this mess. Of legally washing your hands of the blood, even if the stains would stick around.

A part of you, long buried since the ‘40s, says that you do. It promises that you weren’t in control, that neither of you would have done this out of your own volition.

But it’s so much easier to take the blame. If you’ve grown so used to the heavy darkness, then who will you be when it’s lifted?

And you hate that you can’t answer.

———————————————————————

It’s late that night when you finally turn in. Locking the door, you drop your covers.

You grab pajamas and tug the curtains shut, hand grazing Steve’s as he turns on the TV. Bucky’s sitting on the bed and is definitely staring at the former’s ass. Not that you can blame him.

With a knowing smile, you run a hand through his hair. You feel a presence behind you, and a kiss planted right between your wings. You sigh, exhaling the stress of the day.

“None of that was your fault,” Steve whispers. It hurts to hear. When he’s met with silence, he patiently reiterates himself. “None of it.”

“That man from the trial, I remember the… the victim,” Bucky mumbles. “He told us he had a son. Not that it did anything for him.”

Nodding, you close your eyes as the memory washes over you.

A well-dressed man kneels on an ornate carpet. Your bow is drawn. He holds up a framed picture, pleading in strangled gasps. You loose the glowing arrow as the Winter Soldier holds him up by the throat.

“Is that what you were saying earlier?” the blond asks. The Russian. Reluctantly, you translate your worries to him.

“Do we deserve this?”

It stuns him.

“Yes, you do. You deserve to heal, to be happy,” he chokes out. Steve won’t admit how horrible it is to watch the both of you like this. So worn down and unsure. You never used to doubt yourself, always confident in your skills and wants.

But now you’re blaming yourself for murders you were forced to commit.

Bucky clenches his fist. “They took so much.” There’s no need for elaboration. “We’re not the same people we were back then, Stevie. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.” He takes the brunet’s hand. “You two are everything I want and all of the reasons I want it. None of us are the same.”

Slowly absorbing his words, the three of you lay down on the large bed, arranging for Bucky to be in the middle. Normally, that’s your spot, but you’re more than willing to abdicate for tonight.

“You’re too smart for your own good,” you chuckle, kissing Steve’s forehead before burrowing into Bucky’s side. Gently running your hand over the web of scars surrounding his shoulder, you allow your powers to flow for the first time in weeks.

A dim glow travels around the veins, casting golden light on the silver prosthetic. Even the residual power calms you as you trace small circles. When the nerves are a bit less inflamed, you stop, and he takes your hand, pressing his lips to your palm.

Steve mimics his motion on his metal hand, never batting an eye when it whirs and shifts.

“Love you both,” Bucky whispers. You parrot it back, the dim light of the TV casting a blue glow on you.

The blond speaks, muffled by his pillow. “Whatever happens, whenever it happens, we’ll face it together, okay?”

You link pinkies with both of them in succession.

“Deal.”

———————————————————————

“Whatever” ended up being the final trial, and “whenever” ended up being four days from then. Tony’s legal team had dragged in a large screen and started up HYDRA footage for the jury.

Even if they’d warned you in advance, you hated watching yourself succumb to the trigger words. It was almost as bad as watching Bucky do the same.

As your screams echoed through the room, many in the jury turned away. Not that you could blame them; it was a grisly sight. Tubes stuck out of your arms and the empty look in your eyes bored through any screen or recording.

But now it was time for the final verdict. You hung on every word, wings fluttering as a representative of the jury stepped forwards.

Her opening speech flies over your head, but then, she turns to you with a small smile.

“We, the members of the jury, find the defendants-“

Ross still has a smug grin on his face, but his confidence all drops away.

“-Not guilty.”

Your hands fly to cover your mouth, eyes watering as the trial concludes. Many reporters are clapping, and the judge offers a polite nod to the three of you before exiting.

You, Bucky, and Steve are instantly in the middle of a group hug, even as Vision awkwardly hovers around.

“We can get you two to Wakanda, T’Challa promised that his sister could help with getting those trigger words out of your heads,” Tony begins, still mid-hug.

Nat rolls her eyes. “Tony-“

“And once that’s done we can get you training, and even start missions if you feel comfortable,” he continues.

The redhead grabs him by the shirt, tugging him away and ushering the rest of the team with her.

“Let the lovebirds have their moment,” she chuckles once they get far enough away.

Sam runs right into the billionaire as he stops in his tracks.

“Lovebirds? What?”

Back in the courtroom, the three of you are still soaking in what this means for you.

“What do you guys want to do first, now that you aren’t enemies of the state?” Steve asks, leaning against a bench.

“I wanna go on a road trip,” Bucky hums. “Take a break before everything goes crazy.”

You nod. “Yeah, we could go down to the Grand Canyon like you always wanted.”

“You could fly it; that’d be cool,” he agrees.

The blond shakes his head. “You two are such nerds.”

Shrugging you stand to stretch from your seat. “You love us.”

Damn you and how right you are. He does. He loves you both a lot. And maybe now he can show it.

“Yeah, and I’d love to be able to kiss you two right now.” But it’s too public, and neither of you are ready. Or so he thinks.

“What, you want to tell everyone?” Bucky asks.

Steve blushes a bit. “Well- maybe not here, at the courthouse? That seems a bit… much.”

“Since when have you been one for subtlety?” you snort. “The only way you could be more noticeable is if you wore a traffic cone on your head.”

He falls silent, and you and Bucky exchange a look.

“Listen,” the latter begins. “We’re both comfortable with it if you are.” The last thing any of you want to do is push the others over their limits.

He thinks, really thinks about it, and steels his resolve. The three of you have waited long enough. “I’m ready.”

You entwine hands with Steve in the middle, and make your way to the front doors of the courthouse. The team is waiting, and Nat, Sam, Wanda, and Clint sport knowing grins. Tony looks a bit pale.

The crowd is bigger than usual today. More signs, more cameras.

“We didn’t really map out the logistics of this, did we?” Steve whispers. Bucky, apparently done with waiting, grabs him by the collar and pulls him in.

When they part for air, the brunet whispers, “Fuck logistics,” before Steve leans to kiss you, gently holding your face in his hands.

The crowd only screams louder, and, in a subtle bit of one-uppery that you recognize in Bucky instantly, he dips you in his kiss.

When you center yourself back in reality, the team is excitedly hurrying up to you. You can’t find it in yourself to give a shit about the crowd. Whether they’re clapping or screaming obscenities, they’re just background noise.

Wanda comes up to you, and without any warning, pulls you into another hug. Chuckling, you pat her back while listening to Tony rave.

“So, you three-“

“Yes, us three,” Steve interrupts.

Stark blinks for a moment. “Wait, you’ve all been sleeping on your tiny-ass bed?”

You shrug. “A queen bed is hardly tiny. We only had a full sized one back in our old apartment.”

“Yeah, but the three of you weren’t all squeezing on that one with your ten-foot wings and the extra inches on Cap,” Sam says.

You can see the gears turning in Tony’s head, but leave him to his scheming. Peter’s equally excited, shaking in place. Or that could be the energy drink he had. You weren’t sure.

“Scott, are you crying?” Rhodey asks over the crowd. The man sniffles before squeaking out, “No! I’m just… Ok yeah I’m crying.”

The rattling of the barriers is your cue to head out. Some of the crowd are pressing past the guards as you pass by.

An elderly man catches your eye, smiles, and tips his hat before disappearing in the throng of people.

Once in the bus again, you take your usual spot with your boys.

“You sure know how to stir up a crowd,” you laugh, taking Steve’s hand.

Bucky grins. “He’s been doing that since those USO tours-“

“Hey! You promised you wouldn’t bring those up,” the blond whines.

“They were really entertaining,” you hum. “Especially the first time I saw you and yelled at you in front of the whole camp.”

He only grumbles, placating when Bucky kisses his forehead and struggles to not laugh more.

“We’re sorry, we’re sorry,” he manages, smiling. You agree, gently tapping him with one wing.

Despite promising not to tease him further, you don’t let up until you get back to the compound, happily retiring to your rooms to change out of the stuffy formal wear.

You’re tugging on some pajama shorts when two arms wrap around you. One metal, one warm.

“Pasăre [bird].” You hum, leaning into the touch.

“Hi, Jamie.”

“‘M tired,” he whispers. You reach up to run a hand through his hair.

“You’re always either tired or hyper, love.” He shrugs, awkward due to your wings blocking the movement of his arms.

You hear familiar footsteps heading down the hallway. “Steve,” Bucky calls.

“Yeah?” The blond has a few bowls of fruit in his arms. “Figured you two were tired.”

“That’s what we were just saying.” You pluck a small orange from the bowl, peeling it slowly. “I think we should ask Shuri about it when we head down.”

“When’ll that be?” he asks. You shrug, discarding a spiral of orange peel in the bowl.

“I’m pretty happy with hanging around for a while,” Bucky says, laying down beside you two on the bed and taking an apple slice. He carefully avoids your wings from where you’re laying on your back.

You pop an orange slice free and pass it to Steve, and as you do so, notice a small cut on his finger.

Taking his hand, you roll over. “What did you do now?” you ask. It’s a tiny cut. Hardly worse than a paper cut.

“Nicked myself on the apple slicer. Turns out Nat sharpens the kitchen tools in her free time, ‘just in case’, whatever that means.” You chuckle.

“May I?”

He nods.

As you work, Steve watches you. He’s always done a lot of observing. It’s how he got good at art, how he got good at strategizing, and, eventually, leading.

He’s never seen a close-up of your powers on him. The last time you used them on him, he was, to be blunt, dying on the banks of the Potomac.

He knows that Bucky knows your powers well. They’re like a safe space for him. They provide memories that aren’t just the cold walls of HYDRA.

But they’re new to Steve. The first thing he notices is how your hands move. With Wanda’s powers, her hands are tense and shaking. The sheer force of the power she holds looks almost painful.

Your hands twist and bend in fluid motions, and though they have the slightest tremble, the differences are like night and day.

The second thing he notices is, well, the powers themselves. The only magic he’s encountered is Thor’s and Wanda’s. Maybe Vision, if the Mind Stone counts. All of their powers radiate a humming noise. It crackles and reminds you of their destructive force.

Your powers are silent. And they almost bloom from your hands. The gold light floats into small shapes, before fading away. When the light touches the cut, the skin sews itself back together.

“…Wow,” he breathes out. You tilt your head.

“What?”

He holds up his hand. “‘What?’? You just healed my hand, sweetheart, I’d say that warrants a ‘wow’.”

“Or two,” Bucky cuts in, pecking Steve’s hand from over your shoulder. You grin when the latter blushes, the slowly setting sun barely peeking through the curtains.

The three of you are tangled together, talking in hushed voices as your hands trail over each other.

Maybe you’re tired all the time now. Maybe the nightmares come every night and the public deems you a killer. And maybe they’re right in some ways.

But you have your boys the way you wanted them all this time. You have a little room and friends who care about you and two bowls of fruit and a TV that you only watch documentaries and cooking shows on.

And you think that that more than makes up for it.

#marvel #marvel x reader #x reader #avengers x reader #avengers #steve rogers #bucky barnes #like the dawn #steve rogers x fem!reader #steve rogers x winged!reader #steve x bucky x reader #steve rogers x reader #stucky x winged!reader #stucky x reader angst #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x bucky barnes

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transboysokka · 5 days

Text

A scar’s width of warmth on a worn man’s neck.

That’s all I wanted to be.

Sometimes I ask for too much just to feel my mouth overflow.

Discovery: My longest pubic hair is 1.2 inches.

Good or bad?

7:18 a.m. Kevin overdosed last night. His sister left a message.

Couldn’t listen to all of it. That makes three this year.

I promise to stop soon.

Spilled orange juice all over the table this morning. Sudden sunlight I couldn’t wipe away.

All through the night my hands were daylight.

Woke at 1 a.m and, for no reason, ran through Duffy’s cornfield.

Boxers only.

Corn was dry. I sounded like a fire,

for no reason.

Grandma said In the war they would grab a baby, a soldier at each ankle, and pull . . . Just like that.

It’s finally spring! Daffodils everywhere.

Just like that.

There are over 13,000 unidentified body parts from the World Trade Center being stored in an underground repository in New York City.

Good or bad?

Shouldn’t heaven be superheavy by now?

Maybe the rain is ‘sweet’ because it falls

through so much of the world.

Even sweetness can scratch the throat, so stir sugar well. - Grandma

4:37 a.m. How come depression makes me feel more alive?

Life is funny.

Note to self: If a guy tells you his favorite poet is Jack Kerouac,

there’s a very good chance he’s a douchebag.

Note to self: If Orpheus were a woman I wouldn’t be stuck down here.

Why do all my books leave me empty-handed?

In Vietnamese, the word for grenade is ‘bom’, from the French ‘pomme’, meaning ‘apple’.

Or was it American for ‘bomb’?

Woke up screaming with no sound. The room was filling with a bluish water called dawn. Went to kiss grandma on the forehead

just in case.

An American soldier fucked a Vietnamese farmgirl. Thus my mother exists. Thus I exist. Thus no bombs = no family = no me.

Yikes.

9:47 a.m. Jerked off four times already. My arm kills.

Eggplant = cà pháo = ‘grenade tomato’. Thus nourishment

defined by extinction.

I met a man tonight. A high school English teacher

from the next town. A small town. Maybe

I shouldn’t have, but he had the hands

of someone I used to know. Someone I was used to.

The way they formed brief churches

over the table as he searched for the right words.

I met a man, not you. In his room the Bibles shook on the shelf from candlelight. His scrotum is a bruised fruit. I kissed it

lightly, the way one might kiss a grenade

before hurling it into the night’s mouth.

Maybe the tongue is also a key.

Yikes.

I could eat you he said, brushing my cheek with his knuckles.

I think I love my mom very much.

Some grenades explode with a vision of white flowers.

Baby’s breath blooming in a darkened sky, across

my chest.

Maybe the tongue is also a pin.

I’m gonna lose it when Whitney Houston dies.

I met a man. I promise to stop.

A pillaged village is a fine example of a perfect rhyme. He said that.

He was white. Or maybe, I was just beside myself, next to him.

Either way, I forgot his name by heart.

I wonder what it feels like to move at the speed of thirst - if it’s fast like lying on the kitchen floor with the lights off.

(Kristopher)

6.24 a.m. Greyhound station. One-way ticket to New York City: $36.75

6:57 a.m. I love you, mom.

When the prison guards burned his manuscripts, Nguyên Chí Thięn couldn’t stop laughing - the 238 poems already inside him.

I dreamed I walked barefoot all the way to your house in the snow. Everything was the blue of smudged ink

and you were still alive. There was even a light the shade of sunrise inside your window.

God must be a season, grandma said, looking out at the blizzard drowning her garden.

My footsteps on the sidewalk were the smallest flights.

Dear god, if you are a season, let it be the one I passed through to get here.

Here. That’s all I wanted to be.

I promise.

- Notebook Fragments, Ocean Vuong

#good poetry

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harmonyowl · 1 year

Text

what form of love does your ship embody?

I was tagged by @direwombat to do this uquiz, thank you so so much hun this was really fun! Blythe and Grace don’t really have a set ship, so I’ll just be doing Elethara and Athralan.

If you’d like to do this I’ll be tagging @deputyash, @strafethesesinners, @enderevynne, @kittiofdoom , @aceghosts, @strangefable, @dumbassdep, @sstewyhosseini, and @shellibisshe and anyone else who wishes to do this is welcome to tag me! 💜

Elethara Suledin embodies

LOVE AS A CHOICE [ love is beautiful because it's built deliberately ] when casey mcquinston wrote "that's the choice. i love him, with all that, because of all that, on purpose. i love him on purpose" and when jenny slate tweeted "i just want someone to grab my little face and scream on purpose, on purpose i am going to care about you" and when jodi picoult wrote "after fifteen years, love isn't just a feeling. it's a choice" and when the good place said "if soulmates do exist, they're not found they're made"

Solas embodies

LOVE AS RELIGION [ love as the sole object of your reverence--nothing about you is holy, but maybe your love for another is ] when sappho said "in the crooks of your body i find my religion" and when the cast of les mis sang "to love another person is to see the face of God" and when halsey said "i found God, i found him in a lover" and when katherine philips wrote "to the dull angry world let's prove there's a religion in our love"

Athralan Suledin embodies

LOVE AS TENDERNESS [ love as gentleness after a lifetime of cruelty ] when ocean vuong said "sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined" and when pablo neruda said "like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar" and when anais mitchell wrote "all i've ever known is how to hold my own, and now i wanna hold you, too”

Dorian Pavus embodies

LOVE AS BEING KNOWN [ love is knowing all of someone and loving them anyway ] when tim kreider said "if we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known" and when joe wright said "The idea that these two people know each other, knew each other when they first saw each other. That they recognized each other from their future" and when micah nemerever said "it was a relief and a horror to be known so perfectly"

#these honestly fit so good it’s scary #elethara embodying a love that is chosen fits so so good #particularly in the time travel/soulmate au’s #and solas’ being about reverence and utter devotion is 👌👌👌#and the perfect pairing of athralan embodying tenderness whilst dorian is vulnerability #🥹#elethara x solas #solavellan #athralan x dorian #pavellan #dragon age inquisition oc #dragon age inquisition #dai

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choysum · 6 months

Note

to you, for a moment, just to you.

that burning lover never recognized a single reference I made. you and I, we speak to each other in coded poetry and we decipher nearly all of it at a glance. the surgeon’s wife with her chapped hands, the peach song, triassic cuddle, red and blue me and you over and over web weaving richard siken kintsugi poetry that eats you back love as a dog love as a cat just crush me mary oliver!! with the flat of the knife, as garlic, as love. what would I do, to have so many of your words in me they leak out my fingernails, to be so coated my friends could read your name on my cheeks.

you live on the same continent as my first lover. I breathe, I breathe, and I wonder why it should be him and not me. the burning one crumples to ash and I know these letters are not much more substantial. we could leave it to the summer, if that’s easier. I’ll never know your face under my hands. maybe it’s better to chalk it all up to the romanticization of a stranger. frame it as a gustav klimt moment, lock me away into the box of people who wouldn’t understand you if you spoke only in french. I would catch every fifth word perhaps, amour, you know the nouns were always my strong suit.

if we say goodbye in winter, you picked a good month for it. decembre and its endings, you know. I see them everywhere. I’m always mourning some life or another. I wonder what you mourn, how you think. is your mind a maze of words words words, poetry and language and song? I imagine one of those grand bells, bejeweled on the inside. I fit a ruby pebble from my meteorite to the wall, and it is tiny beside the emeralds but please take it anyway. please imagine me, hands soaked in river water and promise I can’t fulfill. I braid the gossamer and the thistledown and the nettle, stinging and filament too fine to wend together, but when you write letters into the grey anything is possible. that apartment in the city and every home after it, the garden and the wallpaper. keep me-! and for a moment you do.

I am pressing every kiss to your neck. I’ve been waiting since childhood and still I know I will never grow up to your lips. come down, come down… not rapunzel, then, another tale. I don’t stop talking, never stop talking. someday one of the stories to pass on my breath will be yours. I will speak your name (I know it, e, what a traitor I am to know your initial and never give you mine) and I will keep your voice soft in my ear every time I read je t’aime. I will think of the thousand parallel lives we are not living together. I will remember the orange you could not peel for me. I will eat ivy for the rest of my life so that I might become it next time for you, so that you might eat of my leaves and I will finally know what it is to live in your mouth, however briefly.

(- not too romantic, that part; ivy is mildly toxic and should not be consumed by either one of us. violence and poison and sickness down to the soul, however, poets are no stranger to these. you and I get no story beyond the one we write. ocean vuong tells the whole thing in a sixteenth of the words that I use, and far better. you and I, you and I, you and I, beats echoing into each other ever softer until the cave itself forgets we are there. read me in the next cumulonimbus and remember.)

i haven't slept and the rain won't stop before the sun rises and then settles back down to sleep and i think i want to stay in this moment that you wrote to me for a long while

isnt it the greatest thrill to find such a complementary soul? all i ever wanted when i was 10, 11, 12 (brief respite when i was 13 and then it drowned me more than ever) was a best friend. i wanted a friendship like anne found in dianna, i think i would have done anything. i still would, if I'm honest about it - and of course i am. i think there was something wrong with me when i was born i dont know how to make people love me (and stay) / hello i am a cat what is my existence, what is that? why it and not me, please can you look at me and love me too

these are substantial to me. i met a friend from chicago online more years ago than i can remember and we wrote back and forth and called and i sent them silly birthday presents and we grew up and applied to uni and college and now i hope to visit them in the foreseeable future. i can tell this is going to be a long response and im sorry. how can we lose when we're so sincere ! people also ask: where else can i put it down. lets exchange hands and yes, multiplied by 1 everything is the same but a process has happened. we would have each other's hands.

i used to have a gustav klimt poster on my wall, my first moving out purchase. i couldnt keep such a box closed my dear, my rattlesnake. i was always bad with nouns, i prefer the doing, the clever games to fit detail upon detail into a single latin conjugation - i could teach you, if you like? please let's intertwine our red strings together further. i want to be difficult to leave. i want to be easy to leaveif that's what you want. tell me what to do what to believe in, won't you? ill ask so well

i traverse the llandscape of your mind this winter, frostbitten and tentative but i will leave a trace nonetheless that only you will find, and you will burn it to ash lest another agent discover it, won't you? in this timeline or the next. my thoughts are getting muddled i think you will still understand i think you'll still understand what I'm trying to have you understand

i would cry for the sake of your hands, my love. all the nettles but i fear the swans will remain that way forever.

you kiss the back of my [neck] and i want to cry, only the sun has come this close, only the sun. i am so stricken with desire for the tenderest of gestures right now that i occasionally wonder what i would give up to lie beside someone afterwards

always bring your notebook, never stop writing. always keep talking there is space in the world for your words and there is a vacuum here devouring itself anticipating them in earnest. you have my name, my face, my city and a multitude of my confessions.

a sixteenth sounds beautifully poetic,i wish i knew whether you refer to something specific or just want to conjure semiquavers

write soon, here or at the email. eat well <3

#thistledown stranger

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