#prompt: ways to say i love you

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

#i feel like I'm going to reread this and want to add other stuff #but I also just want to post it and get it out there #fun fact i scribbled a bunch of lines down at 2am bc i didn't want to forget them #im bad at multiple drafts #my writing #dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #danny phantom #batman #i live to make everybody dramatic #but also i subscribe to a world where clockwork doesn't know how NOT to be dramatic #lol he's a ghost from all of time he doesn't know how to speak to humans and tailor it to the century let alone the decade #and his favorite little girl who calls him clocky loves how he speaks so #he doesn't need to change for nobody #nor feels inclined to #also I feel like as god he's way more inclined to threaten to get what he wants than like...be vulnerable #jazz: let's unpack that #clockwork: we never do #jazz: are you saying that because it's true or because that's what you want to be true? #clockwork: ... #also I cannot take credit for BITCH I MIGHTWING #wish i could #that is cash money right there #shoutout to 11thsense

[mediumgayitalian]

“I had a dream about you last night.”

“Oh, did you.” Will grins at him over his shoulder, up to his elbows in blood and fluids.

Nico kicks him. “Focus, stupid.”

“Yeah,” snarks Chiara, whose blood is currently splattering Will’s shirt. She reaches over and flicks Will on the forehead. “Focus in stitching the gaping gash in my leg, Solace.”

Nico frowns around his juicebox. “Hey. Lascialo stare. Only I call him Solace.”

“‘S my last name, Neeks.”

“Uh-huh. Everyone else can figure out something else to call you.”

“Possessive, are you.”

Nico smiles. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What’d you dream about, anyway?”

If Nico didn’t know Will so well, he’d take the casual tone for what it was. But he does, in fact, know Will and his horrible poker face, and notices the purse of his lips, the flick of his eyes in Nico’s direction every three seconds.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Everyone would,” huffs Chiara. “I have about forty dollars resting on you, di Angelo, and I will not be losing it.”

Nico sticks his tongue out at her. “Masticare lo zoccolo, zitella.”

“Hey!”

Will’s shoulders shake so hard he has to pause, trembling with the effort to hold back his laughter.

“I am trying to do a medical procedure, you two.”

Nico and Chiara speak at the same time.

“Yeah, in flip-flops.”

“Oh, are you? You’ve been flirting so long my numbing cream has started to wear off.”

That knocks Will back into doctor mode, eyes narrowing in focus. He is especially freckle-y today, not that Nico notices. And the sun is shining out the window at just the right angle to make Will’s curls look luminous. And his tongue sticks out of the corner of his perfect mouth, when he concentrates. And, gods, he’s wearing a shirt but the muscles in his /back/ —

“I can’t work with you oglin’ at me, Ghost King.”

“I’m not ogling at you.” Nico is a beautiful liar. Ignoring Will’s smirk, Chiara’s snickering, and his own flush is easy. “Why would I ever ogle at such an ugly person?”

“Because you’re in love with him, stupido. It’s embarrassing.”

“I think you should check her eyes, too, Solace.”

“How about you check deez fuckin’ nuts —”

“Alright,” Will says exasperatedly, before they can escalate too much and end up knocking a shelf off the wall. Again. “You’re done, Chiara. Take this ambrosia and scram. Don’t do anything strenuous and rip your stitches, ‘cause I’m not doin’ them again.”

She wastes no time bounding out of there. As soon as she’s gone, Will turns to face Nico, grinning.

“So,” he says, stretching out the syllable, grin wide and crooked, “you had a dream about me?”

Nico glances both ways, making sure no one’s watching. Then he darts forward to press a kiss to Will’s lips, relishing in the smell of his herbal shampoo, the chapped skin of his lips. Will grabs the side of his face and holds him longer, far past the quick peck he’d aimed for, kissing him until he smacks his boyfriend’s shoulder and pulls away, laughing. Will grins triumphantly, like he has the upper hand.

And, well.

Nico can’t have that.

“Yeah, lemme tell you about my dream.” He smooths his hands over Will’s shoulders. “This shirt was gone, for starters.”

“Mm. What else?”

“We certainly weren’t in the infirmary.”

“No?”

“No,” Nico breathes, breath hot on Will’s ear. He shivers. Nico smirks. “My cabin, dark, some low music playing…”

Will gasps. “Yeah?”

“…No one to bother us, you looking pretty as a picture on my bed…gagged.”

“Kinky.” Will shudders, hands sliding into Nico’s hair.

“Mhm. My dream come true.”

“That’s your dream?”

“Yes.” Nico pauses. “Dark, comfortable, warm…” He grins, wide and sharklike. “And finally, finally…quiet.”

It takes a second for it to sink in.

“Oh, you jackass!”

Nico cackles, stumbling back at Will’s shove. “Your — your face!”

“You jerk! I despise you!”

“Oh my gods,” he wheezes. He tries to calm himself, but one look at his boyfriend’s bright red cheeks sets him off again. “Oh my gods!”

Will huffs. Despite his embarrassment, he’s visibly struggling to hold on to his scowl, mouth twitching. “I’m breaking up with you. I’m gonna go date someone who appreciates me.”

“Nobody appreciates you more than I do, Sunshine,” Nico says, grinning. He presses a kiss to Will’s glowing cheek. “You’re just so easy to tease.”

Will rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I gotta work. Leave me alone.”

Nico presses another kiss, lingering until he feels him smile. “Okay, okay. I’ll see you at dinner, okay? Te amo.”

“…I love you too. Asshole.”

#this one is so silly teehee #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #nico di angelo #will solace #solangelo #will/nico #nico/will #teasing #banter #innuendo #chiara bienvenuti #100 ways to say i love you #100 ways #dialogue prompts #fic #my writing #longpost

[witherbythesword]

if the theory of sam reich being replaced by .. evil wizard dalton reich (and i cant believe i am partaking in this discurse) is true..

i've seen some people asking the question about what those childhood tapes mean. Well i am one of the ancient ones that owned vhs tapes and you know you could replace whats stored on those tapes with overwriting it with new material but it would slowly degrade the quality as the magnetic tape the information is stored on isn't necessarly made to be re-recorded on indefinetly which would also explain the degrading quality of the gamechanger episode.

So my theory is that dalton reich wants to erase sam from history and to do this he is slowly erasing any proof that could hint on sam and dalton being two different people. One thing he appearantly needed to do is overwrite these old vhs tapes of sams childhood.

#game changer #dropout tv #Sam Reich #having worked in an archive i think depending on quality of the tape and what generation it is #you can record and re-record on it 5-10 times #which would fit the loops on the episode kinda #listen i wanted to be cool but i love time loops OKAY #I am actually in disbelieve that no one tackled sam to the ground #like brennan did during the dance thing in the “second place” episode #and screamed “DANCING IS A SIN” #to keep Sam from kicking the god damn camera #i also feel like i've been hexed with the wenis curse #you see all those text about it and think.. well... how bad can it be? truely? #and the answer is simple #EVERYBODY DO THE WENIS #THE WENIS IS A DANCE #EVERBYODY IS A GENIUS #WHO KNOWS IS IN ADV (gunshoots.. sirens blaring in the background.. and a wet thud sounds right next to you) #also.. not to be like alu head levels of conspiracy but by now the nimber of accounts #saying the dropout cast should be hunting down sam as the final game changer episode of the season #is suspicious to me #like... if that turn out to be a fixitman situation of people being IN on something #am just going full balls to the wall riz gukgak tatooing night yorb on his chest levels of insane by now 👍 #also the sfx needed thing #reminds me about how jacob always does his own buzzer sound #because clearly the normal buzzer sound was always there #also.. the red shining buzzer reflecting in the prompt screen..that wasn't always that way right?

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 12

Geralt has a thing for biting. Jaskier has a thing for not looking like a mauling victim the day he performs at a very prestigious court. Geralt agrees he'll hold off on the biting for a few nights, so Jaskier is "presentable." But now he looks unclaimed. He looks like he has nobody that loves him and watches over him. Nobody that can bite him in the heat of passion. Geralt sucks it up and decides that he'll just have to come along to make sure nobody gets any ideas about doing anything to his bard. And so what if he spends most of the night staring longingly at Jaskier's neck like some kind of starved vampire? Who says you get to judge? *grumpy witcher noises*

#fanfiction prompts #geralt x dandelion #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #witcher fanfiction #the witcher #geralt loves his bard! #writing prompts #established relationship #odaxelagnia #Geralt's fangs #plot bunny #kinda spicy but still could be just some funny fluff #possessive geralt (but in a “i have witcher senses and am emotionally constipated” way) #(Not in a “If I see you talking to a single other person i'll kill us both” way) #a little possessiveness is hot #what can i say #i only dig my hole deeper when i reveal my next prompt idea is most likely one i had about werewolves #cant we all just be silly kinky weird queer freaks? #my target audience is technically myself

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Twenty-First Day of Gift-Giving

Twenty-One I Love Yous

"I love you more each day."

"We fit perfectly together."

"I think I have always loved you."

"There is nothing I would change about you."

"I really love this about you."

"Every day with you is a dream."

"I don’t think I could stop loving you."

"You are perfect in my eyes."

"I simply adore you."

"I feel whole when I’m with you."

"My heart dances every time I look at you."

"I miss you every day you are not here."

"Everything I do is for you."

"You are my whole world."

"My heart wants to be with you."

"You truly are perfect just the way you are."

"I feel whole when I’m with you."

"I am obsessed with you. Not in a creepy way."

"I don’t ever get enough of you."

"I wouldn’t want to go one day without you."

"Can you feel how well we work together?"

24 Days of Gift-Giving

#24 gifts #ways to say I love you #day 21 #24 days of gift giving #writing prompts #prompt list #writing inspo #advent calendar #creativepromptsforwriting #writeblr #writing ideas #writing inspiration

[airborneice]

“What’s this one supposed to mean?”

“Hmm..beauty or strength, sometimes.”

“Perfect.”

@sketchbookweek Day 2 - Wilderness / Witchcraft

going back to my roots of drawing sketchbook being gay in a field

#update I’m doing the silly coloured speech bc I realised i didn’t make it super clear who’s saying what jjghgd #Hilda sketchbook #sketchbookweek #hilda the series #sketchbook ship #art tag #sooo this was the first drawing I did for skbk week and let me tell you guys #it fought me. every. step of the way #i spent like 3 evenings working on the sketch just to scrap it and redo it on the next one #I’m so rusty with art I haven’t been able to do anything remotely ambitious in so long sooo yeah :’)everyone lower your expectations please #however I do think this came out kinda nice #spiritually I guess it’s a redraw of that drawing from 2020 so seeing a bit of improvement is nice anyway #i love these prompts btw I wish I could’ve done both #the flower is a jasmine btw. every website on the internet had a different idea of its meaning so I picked the ones I liked 😌 #is it worth mentioning that I had some doodles I wanted to post for day 1 but I literally could not get them done on time :’) #an attempt was made but ah well. onto the next

[mappingthesky]

not a prompt necessarily but I’m always down for planymphia angst 🙏🙏🙏

in response to multiple asks i’ve received for planymphia angst… here is this <3

i know baby, no attachment

None of this had been in the plan.

It was the first thing they’d talked about that first night in Jane’s apartment; Neither of them were looking for anything serious. They were both unavailable, incapable of making any promises. Not now. Not yet. It would be clean, simple, no strings attached. Just two people using each other. Innocently, admittedly using each other, but using each other nonetheless.

They’d been on the couch in Jane’s dimly lit apartment. Jane was an obvious sort of gorgeous. It was the first thing Nymphia had noticed about her, what drew her in on that first night they’d met: she’d been wearing something meant to lure you in, hypnotized by the clinging of her clothes to her body, the wave of her hair, her eyes tightlined and sharpened like knives. Jane was almost lethal to look at, all done up and primed to kill; the most magnetic friend-of-a-friend Nymphia had ever been introduced to. She was somehow even more gorgeous now, sitting on the couch in her casual clothes, her face aglow in the light of the television, her auburn hair pulled up into a messy top knot. She was painfully, effortlessly attractive, and, much to Nymphia’s surprise, only so much of a smooth talker. She came off suave at first, all punchlines and quick remarks, but after a while Nymphia could start to see her thinking. Jane would be in the middle of a sentence, flying through it, hurtling towards some revelation, and then she’d catch herself. She’d pause, freeze on a word and scoff at it, like she was considering whether whatever she was about to say would be worth the sentiment. And then she’d go a bit shy, averting her eyes and playing with the pilling on the upholstery, giving away just how carefully considered she was. And just when Nymphia was starting to think that Jane was completely nervous to her core, that Nymphia might actually have the upper hand in this situation, Jane would bring it back. She’d pick her head up and let the words go, say something so stunningly direct and devastating. It left Nymphia a little breathless, a little too endeared, a little too eager to kiss her.

They could have guessed at the chemistry, but it didn’t come close to the real thing.

What happened when Jane’s skin hit Nymphia was the sort of collision that produced suns and planets and supernovas, flinging particles off into space with enough pressure to form entire worlds. Nymphia could practically see the stars behind her eyes, fluttering shut when Jane was hovering above her, hand between her legs, finding some undiscovered place that Nymphia didn’t know had been there all along, waiting to be found. Jane turned Nymphia’s body into something more than it was before, transforming her irrevocably. Jane was a comet crashing through her atmosphere, and Nymphia was awe-struck, staring at the sky and watching the sparks shower. You can’t be prepared for such life-altering things, it's what makes them so devastating.

What neither of them could have predicted was the ease of what came after - the lying in bed, talking about it. The debrief. Nymphia was a bit too happily fucked, and unwilling to share the extent of her satisfaction. She was worried she would come off easy, inexperienced somehow. Jane, however, was endlessly attentive. She wanted Nymphia’s experience of the encounter, all the details - what she liked, what satisfied her the most, what she wanted more of. Her sheer desire to please was enough to pull the details out of Nymphia. She was rewarded when Jane allowed her to relive it, this time through Jane’s eyes. Jane’s gaze was far off with remembering, a smile playing at her lips as she recounted her experience of Nymphia in such erotic detail, every telling arch and shudder, and the whole thing was so overwhelmingly flattering that it sort of made Nymphia want to do it all over again.

Nymphia had known better than to pack an overnight bag. She thought she had, anyway.

Her eyes were closed and she was nearly asleep when she’d mumbled, ‘I should be going soon.”

Jane just chuckled. “You’re half asleep already.” Her fingers trailed up the curve of Nymphia’s thigh. “Just spend the night. If you want to.”

Nymphia's eyes were suddenly open, “Yeah?” Jane traced stars onto her hip.

“Mhm,” Jane hummed, eyes flickering up, then back to the curve of Nymphia’s waist.

Nymphia closed her eyes, savored in the feeling of Jane on her skin. A long moment passed.

“D’you cuddle? Or is that against the rules.”

Jane’s hum was an amused look at you asking so soon. She was already pulling Nymphia to her chest.

That first night turned into a three-day sleepover, because of course it did. Nymphia and Jane stretched themselves over the long arc of the weekend, sharing the sort of welcome, unexpected ease that you can’t put down, the kind that you’ll happily destroy your routine over and resign yourself to picking up the pieces after the fact. One weekend became another, and then occasional nights at Nymphia’s apartment with the door shut and her duvet crumpled at the end of the bed. And then they added the weekday rendezvous: Nymphia meeting Jane at her place after work on Thursday evenings, promising not to keep her up late and failing miserably, leaning her head on Jane’s shoulder in the morning as she locked the door on her way out. And then Nymphia was bleeding into Jane’s week, her Tuesdays and Wednesdays, her breakfasts and dinners, her late-night ice cream cravings and subsequent walks to 7-11. And then it was all too regular: Nymphia and Jane, Jane and Nymphia.

It's been a few months now, and there are so many things Nymphia loves about Jane.

She loves how Jane drives with one hand on her thigh, or with her fingers in her mouth. How she looks over to the passenger seat with that special look that's reserved just for Nymphia, and makes her feel like the only person she's ever wanted. She loves how she listens to her music loud, sings along when she’s drunk and tossing her hair, or when it's Sunday morning and she’s at the stove and there’s a record spinning in the living room. Nymphia loves how unabashed Jane is, how bold. How she never hesitates when it comes to the people in her life, how to be loved by Jane is to be fiercely defended by her. Nymphia loves how Jane kisses her in the middle of her sentences, especially when she's talking too much. She loves that Jane is so rough. How she can fuck her like she hates her. She loves how Jane can be so tender. How she can fuck her soft and slow, as reverent as religion. How Jane can make a mess of her, then put her back together again.

There are so many things Nymphia hates.

She hates that Jane is so impulsive, how she strikes so thoughtlessly, how she has to return to the wounds later to draw the venom out of them. How Jane is so stubborn, so set in her ways, so inflexible. How there’s two Janes - the one she’s with now, the one she is around her friends. The one who doesn’t kiss her, hardly touches her aside from a possessive arm around her shoulder or a tap on her knee. How the real Jane, Nymphia’s Jane, emerges as soon as they’re alone together, the one who will see her downturned gaze on the way home and coo what can I do, princess? Hmm? What can I do to see that pretty smile? Nymphia hates that she forgives Jane so easily, that she crumbles every time, that she loves Jane completely and entirely and beyond any measure of hurt that she could unknowingly inflict upon her.

She hates that she’s still sitting at this party, long after Jane promised they’d leave. She hates that Jane’s friends clearly like her; they laugh at Nymphia’s jokes, compliment her shoes, send knowing glances and winks across the room every time Jane so much as mentions her name. She hates how, when they ask what they are, Jane is all too quick to brush them off.

It's obvious that Nymphia’s upset by the way she pounds up the stairs, by the way she wordlessly digs through her purse for her keys, by the way the anger and the hurt and the disappointment emanate from her like poison.

“I just can’t believe they asked that,” Jane scoffs. Nymphia says nothing, gritting her teeth as she turns the key in the lock.

It should be obvious, but Jane is a bit too self-absorbed to notice.

“Like, we don’t even know what we are,” Jane says, and Nymphia feels sick, because she thought she did. “Why would she put me on the spot like that? In front of everyone?”

Nymphia pushes into the apartment, beelining for the kitchen.

“I mean, it was weird, right?” Jane continues, relentless. “Why do they need to know so bad?”

“Yeah,” Nymphia’s voice is hard, laced with venom. She chucks her keys onto the counter with a little too much force. “Why would they?”

“Right,” Jane doesn’t notice. “It would be nice if they could just let us-“

“I don’t know why they could possibly be so confused.” Nymphia interrupts, working off her thigh-highs.

Jane misses a beat. “Wait. Are you-“

“I can’t fucking imagine why they’d think that we’re together.” Nymphia lets her boots drop to the floor, one gut-wrenching smack after the other.

Jane blinks, brows knit together. Nymphia straightens up, fumbles with things on the counter that don’t need to be fumbled with. “Are you upset about this?”

“Why would I be upset?” Nymphia picks up a stray mug, sets it down again. “You just told all of your friends that we’re nothing serious. Why would I ever be upset about that, Jane?”

“I didn’t say that, Nymph,” Jane starts, already on the defense. “I said that we’re something.”

“Oh, right. My bad.” Nymphia scoffs. “We’re something. Let me know when you’re ready to illuminate me on whatever the fuck that means, Jane.”

Jane recoils at Nymphia’s profanity, unfamiliar with her frustration. She’s never seen her like this- so hurt, so ready to retaliate.

It's not funny. Jane shouldn’t laugh. She really shouldn’t, but she’s viscerally uncomfortable and horrifically unprepared for this situation, so she does anyways. “Are you really angry about this?”

The whole thing is white hot and embarrassing, and Nymphia has tears in her eyes when she turns and whips her purse to the floor.

Jane jumps. “What the fuck?” She’s wide-eyed, both hands held up in shock. “Nymphia. Are you serious right now?”

“I don’t know Jane,” Nymphia bites. “Are you serious?”

“What?”

“I kinda thought you might be,” Nymphia steps over her bag. “Y’know, because you cut me a key to your fucking apartment. I thought maybe that constituted we were more than,” she curls her fingers in the air, “something”.

Jane shakes her head, jaw tight and temple pulsing. When she speaks, it's in a lower voice, almost ashamed. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“You never want to talk about it!” Nymphia’s voice cracks, a desperate wail. Jane’s mouth opens, already halfway towards defending herself until she looks at Nymphia and sees her bottom lip quivering, the spilling over of her tears. Jane looked back with a concerned, almost panicked expression, lips frozen and slightly parted.

“Do you love me, Jane? Do you even fucking like me?”

Nymphia surprises herself with the question. She’s so amped up, so high on adrenaline that she lets it all out- the culmination of weeks of words she’d bitten back, suddenly pouring forth from where they’d been collecting in a lump in her throat.

“No, seriously, do you? Because I can’t fucking tell. I think you do, because- because you say all these beautiful things, and you spend so much time with me, and you take such good fucking care of me. So you must fucking love me, right? But when your friends ask, I have to sit there and listen to you tell them that we’re something. Like it’s so fucking confusing to you. Like it's a goddamn secret. Do you know what that feels like?”

Nymphia is fully pacing now, walking the length of the kitchen over and over again. Jane follows her with wincing, pained eyes.

What Nymphia hates, more than anything, is that she doesn’t hate Jane at all. Not for any of it.

“I’m fucking in love with you, Jane, alright?” Nymphia whines, hands whipping through the air with frustration. “I’m so in love with you, and everybody fucking knows it. Your friends, my friends, my mom, everyone! But no one seems to have any goddamn clue if you love me too. And you know what? I’m not sure if I do, either.”

When she finally expels the last of the words from the hole in her heart, Nymphia looks up through her tears. She can barely stomach the sight of Jane, lips parted and wordless, unsure of what to do with the outpouring of Nymphia’s heart. She stares at her, eyes twisted in pain, then looks to the ground, like Nymphia’s words have slid off her and collected in a puddle at her feet. Nymphia just cries, a pained and exhausted whimper on her lips as she pushes past Jane and into the living room. She collapses on one end of the couch, pulling her knees to her chest and hiding her face behind one hand, hot tears sliding down her cheeks and into her mouth.

Jane stands in the center of the room with her back turned, still facing the phantom of Nymphia’s words that may very well haunt her kitchen forever. Her head is spinning, because how the fuck did this happen. Nymphia is openly sobbing behind her, and the sound is so gut-wrenching that Jane is nauseated.

Nymphia makes a horrible, shuddering gasp for air and Jane finally breaks, crossing the room and dropping to her knees on the floor where Nymphia sits. She doesn’t even look at her, just sobs, and Jane can physically feel her heart fucking breaking.

“Nymphia,” she says, placing her palm on Nymphia’s knee. “Nymph. Hey.”

Nymphia shakes her head, face contorted with tears. She flinches at Jane’s hand like it fucking hurts, and Jane winces as the guilt slices through her. She exhales a sharp puff of defeat and drops her head in hurt.

Nymphia just cries and cries, and the reality of the situation sinks in Jane’s stomach with every sob. She’s sick to her stomach with concern, worried that Nymphia might actually fucking hyperventilate, and then she’s gently begging the girl to breathe. She goes to reach for Nymphia again and pauses, scared to reach out, scared to hurt Nymphia, scared that she’ll recoil from her again. It’s then that Jane knows, for the first time in all of her life, what she wants. She knows, right as it threatens to slip out of her hands.

“I’ve never done this before.”

Jane hears her own voice. Her words hang in the air for a moment, floating like smoke between Nymphia’s shaky, shattered breaths. Jane looks up.

“This,” she says, a tentative hand on Nymphia’s knee. “What you and I have. I’ve never-”

The words are hard for Jane to stomach. They don’t pour out like Nymphia’s do. They catch in her throat, feel wrong in her mouth. She’s not sure they’ll be enough.

“I’ve never had this with anyone,” she says. “I’ve never wanted to. Not until now.”

Nymphia wipes at her eyes, shudders a bit as her breathing quiets.

“I, um,” Jane glances down, scared to look. “I don’t know how.”

Nymphia finally looks at Jane, so small and nervous and crumbling at her feet. She wants to take her hand, to show her, to be endlessly patient even if it kills her. The desire is so enormous, even now. She almost hates herself for it.

“I know I’m fucking it up,” Jane says to the floor, her voice tiny and wavering. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.”

“I just need to know,” Nymphia whispers.

Nymphia swallows hard, and then Jane looks up and its so fucking harrowing, so moving, because Nymphia can see the guilt in her eyes, the desire, the glimmer of words she can’t figure out how to say. She watches as she considers, catches herself, lets it go.

“I do.” Jane says. Nymphia’s heart plummets, because she knows what she means.

“I don’t want to say it now,” Jane says. “I don’t want it to be an apology. I want you to know I mean it. Is that okay?”

Nymphia nods and Jane mutters over and over I do, I do, you know I do.

It's beautiful and tragic and overwhelming, and Nymphia wants to crash into Jane, to merge together and surpass the need for words entirely. It's too soon to know yet if it's for better or for worse, only that she does it - that she reaches out and takes Jane’s hand.

“I don’t know if I’ll be any good at it.” There’s a hint of a smile on her lips, a bit of Jane laughing at herself. “But I want to try.”

Nymphia just nods and feels more tears streaming down her cheeks, and Jane’s crying too, and then they’re crashing into each other. Nymphia is leaning down and throwing her arms around Jane, who is sitting forward and clinging to her like she’s scared to let her go. Like she caught a shooting star in her bare fucking hands.

It's a whisper against her hair, but Nymphia hears it. “Can I try again?”

Nymphia could hate herself for it for all of forever. She’s prepared to. Jane doesn’t know what she’s doing, and she doesn't either. Nymphia nods anyway.

It's a new world, one of their own making. It's unexplored, uncharted, and they’re venturing into it together, hand in shaking hand. It's dangerous. She’s doing it anyway. She might hate herself for it. It might be the bravest thing she’s ever done.

#take a shot every time jane says something 3 times in a row in one of my fics #also. too many commas. AND WHAT ABOUT IT #i just want you to know i’ve had this one in mind for literal weeks #and i had it in my drafts on AO3 AND I FUCKING LET IT EXPIRE #AND THE WAY I HAD TO WRITE THIS FROM MEMORY… #i love u guys. u better be grateful <3 #WOOOO ANGSTY #with a hopeful ending #because i am sooooo nice ::) #prompt #she writes #planymphia #chappell roan inspired OFC #shoutout 2 my muse also. u inspire me #but not with angst. just with ur brilliance #OK BYE

[skyward-floored]

Febuwhump collab alt day - “I love you”

And here’s the last febuwhump fic (...on the 27 of March lol. what can I say, I get easily distracted).

This one was suggested by @webhead3345, and it’s really more hurt/comfort then anything, but after the last one some comfort is probably nice XD I hope you enjoy it!

And thanks to everyone who suggested characters/prompts for these! I appreciate you all so much <3

Today’s lovely art

Ao3 link

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Having six kids could be a challenge sometimes, Malon was willing to admit.

It would be difficult enough normally, but with five of them having superpowers, two being adopted, and all of them rambunctious boys who sometimes forgot their house was on the small side... it could be a lot sometimes.

But Malon always did her best, and Time along with her. Even when it got overwhelming, even when they disagreed, even through the sleepless nights and stress and fear and countless other worries from essentially living underground, they both tried their hardest to raise their kids well, and keep them safe and happy. Malon could only hope they were succeeding.

Especially in regards to their two adopted boys.

Hyrule and Wild had both been through such awful things, both due to factors they couldn’t control. It wasn’t always obvious, and they were both so strong for their ages, but sometimes the scars that had been left on them both reared their ugly heads, and one or the both of them would fall apart for a bit.

Malon always tried to pay attention and help when one or the other of them was stuck in a bad period. She had plenty of practice with Wild, and usually knew how to comfort him, but Hyrule could be a bit of a mystery still. She was still figuring out what tended to set him off, how he acted when he was upset, how his reactions tended to differ from Wild’s, and most of all, how to help.

And at the moment, she was at a bit of a loss as to what to do.

Hyrule had been acting quieter then normal recently, fading to the background of the typical chaos his brothers brought with them. He mostly just nodded if someone asked him something, and seemed a little more distant, taking longer to respond to things, and keeping to himself.

Malon wouldn’t have worried too much about most of that, but then she noticed the shadowed circles appear under his eyes, ones that only seemed to get darker with every passing day. It soon became obvious Hyrule wasn’t getting nearly enough sleep with the way he began to stumble around, and Malon’s worry doubled.

And then Wild started to act in a similar way, unusually quiet and withdrawn, tired-looking and cranky, and that really got her worried.

Malon just wasn’t sure how to go about getting to the root of the problem. Wild and Hyrule were both tight-lipped when things bothered them, and got defensive if pushed, and Malon knew a direct confrontation could be disastrous. She’d tried some light prodding, but hadn’t been successful in the slightest.

She could guess what it was that was bothering the two of course, and had a pretty good idea of what it might be, but she also didn’t want to assume and end up making things worse. Time didn’t have any ideas either when she discussed the problem with him, but he’d been swamped at work lately, and was barely thinking straight.

So Malon was left to try and figure out the problem mostly by herself, her worry growing by the day.

It finally reached the point where it was affecting her own sleep, and Malon found herself startled awake late one night after a week had gone by from the start of her sons’ odd behavior, and found herself completely unable to fall back asleep.

Time was snoring softly beside her, and Malon laid there for a while, trying to let the sound lull her back to sleep. She didn’t have any luck though, her brain too full, her mind too awake. She finally sighed, getting nowhere, and carefully slipped out of bed and pulled on her bathrobe. She made sure not to disturb Time at all, then walked down to the kitchen to try making herself a cup of tea.

The kettle didn’t take long to heat, and Malon yawned as she set her tea to steeping, walking into the living room with it to sit and wait for it to finish.

Then stopped in her tracks, realizing she wasn’t alone.

Malon hadn’t noticed on her way in, but there were two odd lumps huddled on the couch, both quiet and still. She stepped closer to study them, and realized one was Hyrule, wrapped tight in a blanket and staring silently at the ground.

He wasn’t the only there either, but whoever it was beside him was bundled up so tightly that Malon had no idea who it even was.

She could certainly guess though.

Worry crested over her, and she set down her cup, walking forward and shuffling her feet just a little to make sure Hyrule heard her coming. He startled a little anyway when he noticed her, but didn’t shield or run, just went back to staring at the floor.

The lump next to him shifted a little, and Malon saw a strand of long blond hair fall free of the blanket.

“Hyrule? Wild?” she asked gently, and Hyrule swallowed, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. Wild didn’t move. “It’s awful late you two, what are you doing down here?”

Hyrule didn’t look at her.

“Sorry, it’s nothing,” he whispered.

“If it was nothing, you both wouldn’t be out here and not in your beds,” Malon gently pointed out, sitting down on the couch beside them both. “What’s eatin’ you?”

Hyrule kept looking at his feet, a few sniffles escaping him.

“I-I, we just can’t sleep,” he whispered, not meeting her eyes. “That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Malon asked gently. Hyrule gave her a tiny shrug. “Well... is there a particular reason you two can’t sleep?”

Hyrule went silent.

The lump at his side shifted, and Wild poked his head out, Hyrule moving so he was more tucked against his side then before.

“...bad dreams,” Wild whispered after a few minutes, voice shaky. “‘Rulie too.”

Malon’s heart sank.

“Both of you?” she asked worriedly, and Wild nodded, rubbing at the shadows under his eyes.

“Sorry,” Hyrule whispered even more quietly.

“Honey, you don’t need to apologize,” Malon said, and turned so she could meet his eyes. “Neither of you do, it’s okay. Do you want to talk about them?” she asked in a softer voice.

Wild shook his head, and Hyrule shrank down in his blanket.

“No.”

Worry prickled at her, but Malon nodded, and didn’t say anything for a moment, Hyrule still letting out an occasional sniffle. Wild shifted where he was curled up again, and somehow he and Hyrule ended up snuggled against Malon, Wild’s head in her lap, Hyrule’s resting on her arm.

A shuddering sigh escaped Wild, and Malon ran a hand over his head, fingers ghosting past his scars.

She let out a quiet sigh of her own, looking at them both. She’d finally gotten the answer to what was bothering them (and had been bothering them), but she felt no better knowing the reason.

The nightmares must have been especially bad as of late.

Malon adjusted Hyrule’s blanket, continuing to run her hand over Wild’s head. She dearly wished she she could take away what was troubling them both, and let them get a full night’s sleep for once, but unfortunately that wasn’t a power she possessed.

Malon wished it all the same though.

Hyrule sniffled again, and Malon shifted her arm so it was resting around him, loose enough he wouldn’t be nervous, but tight enough to offer comfort. He leaned into it, and Malon ran her hand over his hair as well.

“Mom?” Wild whispered after a bit, and Malon hummed questioningly. “Why’re you awake too?”

“Did we wake you up?” Hyrule asked worriedly, and Malon shook her head.

“No sweetie, you didn’t. I just couldn’t sleep either,” she admitted, and Wild peered up at her, worry shining in his eyes.

“...was it cause of nightmares?” he asked softly, and Malon ran her hand over his head again.

“No, not tonight. But... sometimes I have them.”

“...What about?”

Malon sighed, thinking for a moment before she spoke. Wild and Hyrule certainly didn’t need to know everything about nightmares she’d had, especially the worst ones, but maybe a few details would help them feel better.

“Well... I worry about you boys, and your father. All sorts of things, really. And sometimes my dreams take my worries and just twist them up and make them worse then they really are. It’s hard,” she said gently, “to remember they’re not real sometimes.”

Her boys seemed to think about that for a minute, both staying quiet.

“...Mine’re like that,” Hyrule whispered. “With the mostly real things.”

“I never remember mine,” Wild admitted, voice still shaky. “Just... just how bad they were.”

“Oh boys,” Malon said softly, and Hyrule sniffled again, hiding his face in her arm.

She’d thought the ache in her chest couldn’t get any worse, but apparently it could, and Malon held both of them tighter, running a soothing hand across both their heads. Hyrule and Wild relaxed at the motion, and Malon kept it up, beginning to softly hum.

She couldn’t take her sons’ bad dreams away. And she couldn’t take away the memories that brought them on, and continued to plague them even afterwards. But she could comfort them now, let them know everything was okay and that they weren’t alone, no matter what their nightmares tried to tell them.

Not on my watch, she thought as she continued to hold them tight.

Wild and Hyrule’s eyes began to droop as she hummed her family’s song, and Malon watched as they both slowly nodded off, still snuggled tight against her.

After several minutes, both were soundly asleep, faces relaxed from the tension that had been there before. A part of Malon wanted to just stay here with them all night, but she knew her back wouldn’t like it if she slept upright on a couch, and they’d all be more comfortable in their own beds. So once she was sure they were both asleep, she shifted Wild and Hyrule around, careful not to wake them. Then Malon pulled them both up into her arms, standing and walking back to their rooms.

Despite her efforts not to jostle them, both Hyrule and Wild’s eyes blinked open as she moved, and they watched her walk up the stairs, barely awake.

“You can carry us both?” Wild murmured doubtfully, and Malon smiled as she easily reached the top of the stairs.

“Darlin’ I’ve lifted cows twice your size before, this is nothing.”

Hyrule giggled. “Really?”

“Really.”

Hyrule and Wild both let out sleepy giggles at that, and Hyrule set his head back against her shoulder, eyes slipping closed.

Malon dropped Wild off first, setting him down in his bed and attempting to fix his blankets. Somehow they’d gotten all tangled around and folded in on themselves, and it took her a moment to straighten them out enough to tuck Wild in.

“Goodnight hon. Sleep well,” she said softly.

“You too,” Wild mumbled sleepily, and curled up under his blankets.

Malon gave him a kiss, and noticed a furry head poking up from Twilight’s bed, blue eyes shining at her. She put a finger to her lips, then carried Hyrule out of the room, hearing pawsteps cross the floor after she was gone.

She brought Hyrule to the room he shared with Four and Wind, stepping lightly so as not to wake anyone. Malon set him down once she crossed the room to his end, and tucked him in like she’d done for Wild, adjusting his blankets around him, and fetching the stuffed rabbit he usually slept with that had fallen halfway under the bed.

Hyrule watched her sleepily the whole time, still clinging stubbornly to consciousness. Malon lingered a moment even after she finished getting him settled, running a hand over his head, and Hyrule relaxed into the touch.

“Goodnight honey,” she said softly as his eyes finally drifted shut, and she stood and began to walk out the door.

“...Mom?”

The whisper made her pause, and she looked back at Hyrule, his eyes open again.

“Yes sweetheart?”

Hyrule blinked sleepily, barely hanging on to wakefulness, but Malon heard his next whisper loud and clear.

“...Love you.”

Malon looked at him in astonishment, warmth blooming in her middle at the sound of the words from her son. She blinked back a bit of a sting in her eyes, then walked back over to Hyrule, smiling at him.

“I love you too honey,” she said softly, and kissed the top of his head. “Sleep well.”

Hyrule smiled back at her, and his eyes closed again, Malon knowing he was truly asleep this time.

She adjusted his blankets just a little more, then straightened and crept out of the room, back to her own bed. The anxiety and tightness that had been keeping her awake had finally settled, and her eyes felt heavy as she slipped back to where she and Time slept.

“...Everything alright?” Time whispered as she got back into bed, looking at her sleepily. “You’ve been gone a while, I was about to come looking for you."

Malon smiled as she got under the covers, and nestled up to Time with a sleepy sigh.

“Yes. Everything’s fine,” she replied, setting her head under his. “Nothing to worry about.”

And something to celebrate, she thought as she closed her eyes, Hyrule’s whisper still warming her heart.

#Hyrule doesn't vocalize his feelings like... ever #so this was a big deal for Malon #she'd never heard him say I love you before #incredibles au #linkeduniverse #linked universe #lu malon #lu hyrule #lu wild #febuwhump #alt prompt #linked universe fanfic #writing from the floor #and that's (finally) a wrap! #thanks y'all XD #if you have an opinion on what I should work on next for this au do send it my way #I've got a couple things in progress but I never know what to work on lol

[ikram1909]

Xavi, Gavi and Pedri with a little fan 😭😭😭

#not funny I cried #the way Xavi prompted the kid to say he loves Gavi #and Gavi's big smile after #and Xavi's laugh 😭😭 #THAT'S MY FAMILY GIVE THEM BACK TO ME 😭😭 #also Xavi ADORES Gavi that's his son fr 😭 #also Pedri baby I hope the bums you left behind prove you right next week 😭 #pablo gavi #baby waby #pedri gonzalez #xavi hernandez #fc barcelona

[revvethasmythh]

Still, as always, thinking about how Veth's story is such a complex look at womanhood and motherhood and what it means to be a woman and a mother who wants things. Because Veth's story is about wanting, just as much as it's about learning to be brave. Veth presumably comes from a very traditional small town, married her (effectively) high school sweetheart when she was quite young and had a child almost immediately, which, while based on love, might also have been an effort to fit in and become an independent adult in her town, away from the mockery of her brothers. The things people in town didn't like about her were her strangeness and her collections of bits and bobs and oddities. The shiny things that she wanted. In some ways, that was the wedge between her and her community, the strangeness of how she desired things and wantonly kept them. Even marrying and having a kid so young could be an extension of this. Veth wants things and strives to get them

All of that in heightened after she's turned into goblin. It becomes "the itch" to steal and to horde shiny, beautiful things, which is particularly poignant considering how ugly she finds herself, even uglier than she thought of herself when she was still a halfling. She wants to surround herself with beautiful things. She wants to help Caleb. She wants to be her again. She wants.

And it's okay for Nott the Brave to want things, because Nott the Brave exists outside of social contracts. She's already a monster--there's no need to pretend to fit in. It's freeing, to be able to want things as much as you want and people won't bat an eye. As much as she hated that body, she loved the freedom it gave her. The freedom to be transgressive in a way she was unable to be as Veth Brenatto. Because, much as she loves her family, isn't being a woman and mother something of a cage to her? Those labels put her in specific boxes, they determine how she should behave. So much of later development hinges on these questions: "What does it mean to be a good woman in this society? What does it mean to be a good mother?" She is SO hard on herself for not being with Luc enough, which is absolutely understandable, but she also wants this life of adventure. Does that make her a bad person? A bad mother? To want something that isn't her family?

And then Caleb. Probably the most unfortunate thing she wants, something she knows she can never have. Because she has Yeza and she loves him and he's her husband. They have a social contract that she must abide by. But Caleb's right there and she wants him. Does that make her a bad woman? Does that make her a bad wife? It's just one more thing that makes her different from her peers, her inability to be content with what she already has. And, at the end of the day, I think this is what we should think of when we talk about Veth's relationship with motherhood and womanhood. How transgressive it is for her to so deeply desire when clearly, from the way she grew up and the messages she internalized, it wasn't a woman's place to want more than she was afforded, nor was it a mother's.

#love the theme of veth wanting stuff. love it so much #anyway *blasts Trouble with Wanting and holds it up like boombox to all of you* #veth brenatto #the mighty nein #critical role #also can I just say that I'm still so impressed with how well sam navigated themes of womanhood and motherhood? #like he really. he really hit the nail on the head. showed the way those identities can be confining. how scary transgression can feel #this is prompted by nothing other than me having FEELINGS #nott the brave

[stevethehairington]

i love you prompts: 98 w/ romantic steddie? 😌

lou!! thank you for sending this in!! ooh this is a good one!!

98. "Take a deep breath"

It’s late when the credits finally start to roll onscreen.

Steve guesses it’s sometime close to midnight, or maybe a little after, but he’d taken his watch off earlier before he’d gotten elbow deep in dirty dish water, cleaning up after the mess they somehow managed to make whipping up a simple dinner of grilled cheese and tomato soup. It sits on the kitchen counter, all the way across the room, and the nearest clock in the Munson trailer hangs beside the phone, too far away for Steve to see from his spot on the couch.

He can’t exactly twist in his place to try and catch a better glimpse of it, or get up to fetch his watch either. Not while Eddie leans up against his side, arms crossed over his chest and neck bent awkwardly so his head can rest against Steve’s shoulder, fast asleep.

When they first put the movie on, the two of them had started off on opposite ends of the already pretty small couch, but as it progressed, they’d gradually shifted closer and closer — in the name of sharing popcorn easier, to whisper their movie commentary directly into each other’s ears rather than speak over the film, and, eventually, so it seems, so that Eddie could use Steve as a pillow. 

Not that Steve minded or anything. He liked it, in fact — likes it. Likes having Eddie so close, likes feeling the warmth of his body pressing up against his own, likes the fact that Eddie is comfortable enough with him to let his guard down like this.

Eddie hasn’t been sleeping all that well as of late, so when his head tipped onto Steve’s shoulder a little over half an hour ago, Steve just slouched a little lower to ease the angle of his neck and reached for the remote to turn down the volume. It had been a little hard for him to hear it after that, but he hadn’t really paid it much attention after that point anyways.

Now, though, the movie is over, and it’s late enough that Steve’s verging on overstaying his welcome. He knows he should probably wake Eddie so he can let him know that he’s going and say his goodbyes and head out.

But Eddie just looks way too peaceful. Steve doesn’t want to wake him.

Instead, he decides that he can just leave a note. In case Eddie does wake up to find him gone. He’ll know nothing bad happened to Steve, just that he went home for the night and that they’ll see each other tomorrow — because chances are they will. They hardly went a day without spinning into each other’s orbits now.

Except, Steve doesn’t want to just leave Eddie on the couch either. He knows from personal experience that the Munson’s sofa is not exactly the most comfortable thing ever. Every time he falls asleep on it, he wakes up with a crick in his neck and an ache in his back. He doesn’t want that for Eddie.

His bedroom isn’t far, just down the hall, and Steve will feel a lot better if he gets Eddie to his bed before he leaves. So, he does his best to maneuver out from beneath Eddie, cradling his head as he removes it from his shoulder and lowers it to the cushion instead.

Steve takes a second to roll out his shoulders, then he slips one arm under Eddie’s back and the other behind his knees, which are curled to his side. As carefully as he can, he lifts Eddie from the couch.

Eddie stirs, but he doesn’t wake, thank god. He just smacks his mouth a little and buries his nose into the collar of Steve’s sweater, and Steve lets out the breath he didn’t even realize he was holding.

Eddie’s lighter than he looks, but still pretty heavy, and Steve doesn’t want to drop him, so he takes it slow as he follows the path towards Eddie’s door at the end of the hall. It’s, thankfully, already open, so all he has to do is kick out a foot to push it wide enough to fit through.

The blinds in Eddie’s room are still fucked up — broken enough that the slats droop down in a way that gives the morning sun the perfect opening to shine right in and wake him up before it’s time. Eddie complains about it constantly, but he hasn’t made any sort of attempt to fix them yet, and right now, Steveis grateful for that. The glow of the moon is bright enough to seep in through the gap, providing just enough gentle light that Steve can see where he’s going.

He makes it to the side of Eddie’s bed without issue, and delicately deposits Eddie onto his mattress. Again, Eddie shifts, rolling slightly onto his side, but he still doesn’t rouse.

The blankets are shoved to the end of Eddie’s bed, and Steve stifles a snort at that as he reaches for them and starts to pull them up and over Eddie’s body. He knows Eddie runs cold, so he takes a moment to tuck the corners in and add an extra blanket to the top so that he’s nice and cozy.

Then, unable to help himself, Steve brushes Eddie’s bangs to the side and leans down to leave a soft ghost of a kiss to his forehead.

He’s just starting to straighten up and pull his hand back when quick fingers dart out to curl around his wrist, trapping him there.

Steve freezes, eyes snapping back open to find Eddie, awake, blinking hazily back up at him.

“Steve?” Eddie asks, groggy, still somewhere halfway in between awake and asleep.

“Hey, yeah, it’s me,” Steve whispers. “You fell asleep, I just brought you to your room so you’d be comfortable,” he tells him.

Eddie smiles then, this sleepy, goopy sort of thing that makes something warm settle in Steve’s chest, and he tugs on Steve’s wrist. “C’mere,” he mumbles, and Steve thinks maybe he has something he wants to tell him.

So he leans in closer.

And closer.

And closer.

Eddie tips his chin up, and Steve thinks he’s going for his ear, so he can whisper his sleepsoft secret. Only, his mouth doesn’t go anywhere near Steve’s ear. Instead, it lands against his own in a—

In a kiss.

It’s chaste, tender, just the sweet press of lips against lips. It catches Steve off guard at first, but the surprise settles, and Steve is about to let himself melt into it.

Then the moment shatters.

Eddie jerks back, bolting upright as he scrambles far enough back in his bed that he hits the headboard. His eyes are wide open now, fully alert and not a single trace of sleepiness anywhere on his face as he stares at Steve. His hand, the one he’d had around Steve’s wrist just seconds ago, hovers over his own mouth, like he can’t quite believe what it has just done.

“Oh, oh, fuck,” Eddie chokes out. “Shit, shit, shit, I’m so— I didn’t mean to— fuck, you have to— please don’t—”

“Woah, hey, it’s… it’s alright, Eddie,” Steve says, holding his hands out in what he hopes is a placating gesture. He doesn’t come closer, doesn’t want to frighten Eddie further, but he wants Eddie to know that there’s no reason for him to be so scared. He’s not… he’s not mad. Or upset. Or anything that Eddie probably thinks he is right now. Not even close.

Eddie’s words start to fail him as his breathing begins to hitch, and Steve can see the rapidfire rise and fall of his chest. His eyes are on Steve, but he’s not looking at him. He’s looking through him, like he’s somewhere else right now. Like he’s spiraling into every single bad place his mind can take him right now.

Steve recognizes it for what it is — a panic attack.

“Eddie,” Steve tries, forgetting politeness as he moves to the edge of Eddie’s bed and kneels against the mattress. He reaches out to rest his hand on Eddie’s shoulder — to give him a point of contact, something to focus on. Something to ground him. It’s what usually helps Steve whenever he’s having a panic attack, finding an anchor, to bring him back down.

Eddie’s hand flies out to grasp at Steve’s wrist, and Steve lets him pull it from his shoulder so that he can curl his fingers around Steve’s palm instead. His grip is tight, nails biting into Steve’s skin, but Steve doesn’t care.

“You’re safe,” Steve reassures. “You’re safe and I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Eddie nods, but Steve isn’t so sure his words have reached him. Not when he still looks so panicked, and his breathing is still coming out too fast.

“Hey,” Steve says softly, rubbing his thumb over the back of Eddie’s hand. “Take a deep breath,” he instructs.

Eddie’s eyes settle onto Steve’s face, still hazy but doing better at focusing. Steve smiles at him, nods encouragingly. “Come on, do it with me, deep breath in.”

Steve makes a show of inhaling again, holding up his fingers to count to three before he starts to let it all back out in an exhale. He goes through it twice before Eddie catches on and starts to mirror him.

They follow the pattern until finally Eddie’s breathing returns to normal and the panic seems to subside.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, once Eddie’s shoulders slump and his head drops forward, his hair hanging like a curtain around his face. Steve hasn’t let go of Eddie’s hand yet, and he doesn’t plan to.

Eddie lets out a humorless laugh, but he doesn’t look up. “Depends,” he starts. “Are you going to… to fucking… hit me or shout at me or something?”

Steve’s face screws up, mouth tugging down into a hard frown. “What?” He asks. “Why would I do that? Because you had a panic attack?”

Eddie snorts. “No,” he replies, like he can’t believe that’s what Steve thinks this is about. He stays quiet for a second, two, three. Like he can’t quite bring himself to say it. “Because I— because I kissed you,” he finally breathes.

“Oh,” Steve says softly. He watches Eddie for a moment, doesn’t like that he can’t see his face. He wants to see his face. So, with careful fingers, he reaches out to brush Eddie’s hair back, to tuck it behind his ear.

Eddie’s breath catches as he does, and his gaze flickers up to Steve’s, briefly, before fixing firmly on his lap again.

“Eddie,” Steve starts, “I’m not mad that you kissed me.”

It takes a second for his words to sink in.

When they do, Eddie’s head snaps up. His eyes land on Steve’s, wide and surprised and searching. “You’re not?”

Steve shakes his head. Lets a little smile grace his lips. “Nope,” he confirms. “Not one single bit.”

And, well, in for a penny, in for a pound, right? He shuffles a little closer on his knees, presses further into Eddie’s space. “In fact…” he trails off. Does a little searching of his own. “I wouldn’t mind if you did it again,” Steve finishes after he’s sure that Eddie isn’t going to push him away.

Eddie’s eyebrows lift this time, the pull together. Steve wants to smooth out the little wrinkle that forms between them. 

“Are you… you’re serious?” Eddie asks.

“Serious as a heart attack,” Steve replies.

The corner of Eddie’s mouth twitches, then a smile breaks out across his face. “Holy shit, you’re serious,” he says, followed by a breathless little laugh.

Steve can’t help but laugh too, and he nods and starts to tug at Eddie’s hand to pull him in this time. “Yeah,” he says. “Now that that’s been established, you think I could get another one?”

Eddie looks at him like he’s won the lottery. “Jesus christ, yes, yes please,” he says, and the hand not caught in Steve’s comes up to bunch into the front of his sweater as he meets him halfway.

It’s a little offcentered, a little overeager on both of their parts, but it’s perfect.

When they break apart, Eddie presses his forehead against Steve’s. “Were you leaving?” He asks.

“I was,” Steve answers. “I don’t want to now,” he admits.

Eddie chuckles and lets go of Steve only just long enough to peel back the covers Steve had so lovingly tucked around him not too long ago.

“So stay,” Eddie says.

With his welcome so graciously extended like that, who is Steve to say no?

So he stays.

100 ways to say i love you prompts

#asks #cheatghost #steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #ways to say i love you prompts #mack writes #macks ficlets #oop got a little carried away with this one lol #also i just wrote this all like over the last 2 hours & i did NOT read it over when i finished lmfao so apologies if there are any mistakes #also did not know how to end it so sorry if its very abrupt LOL

[greenerteacups]

Hi! I am an ardent fan of your writing, and I hope to be as sorted and planned as you some day in my own writing journey.

My question is: you have a keen eye when it comes to planning character personality, dynamics, and such. I've also been wading through your ask replies, and your insights into how you write people and how you make them play off of each other is so wonderful to read. If it's not too personal a q, how did you learn how to write like this? Did you go to school for writing, does it come from years of observing people, do you have reading list recs for "how to write real people and real interactions"?

Thanks! This is a really flattering question. I'll try to answer it honestly, because I wish someone had been brutally honest about this with me when I was a young writer.

I didn't go to school for writing. I started doing it when I was about nine years old. It sucked very badly. I kept writing throughout high school, and it still mostly sucked, but some of it was occasionally interesting. ("Interesting" here does not mean "good," by the way.) I took a break in college, and then came back. I've been writing ever since. Sometimes, I feel good about it. A lot of the time, I don't!

I hate giving this advice, because I remember how it feels to get it, and it's the most uninspiring, boring-ass, dog shit advice you can get, but it's also the only advice that is 100% unequivocally true: you have to write, and specifically, you have to write things that suck.

I do not mean that you should make things that suck on purpose. I mean that you have to sit down and try your absolute hardest to make something good. You have to put in the hours, the elbow grease, the blood, sweat, and tears, and then you have to read it over and accept that it just totally sucks. There is no way around this, and you should be wary of people who tell you there is. There is no trick, no rule, no book you can buy or article you can read, that will make your writing not suck. The best someone else can do is tell you what good writing looks like, and chances are, you knew that anyway — after all, you love to read. You wouldn't be trying to do this if you didn't. And anyone who says they can teach you to write so good it doesn't suck at first is either lying to you, or they have forgotten how they learned to write in the first place.

So the trick is to sit there in the miserable doldrums of Suck, write a ton, and learn to like it. Because this is the phase of your path as an artist when you find what it is you love about writing, and it cannot be the chance to make "good writing." This will be the thing that bears you through and compels you to keep going when your writing is shit, i.e., the very thing that makes you a writer in the first place. So find that, and you've got a good start.

Some people know this, but assume that perseverance as a writer is about trying to get to the point where you don't suck anymore. This is not true, and it is an actively dangerous lie to tell young writers. You are not aiming to feel like your writing doesn't suck. You are aiming to write. You are aiming to have written. Everything else is dust and rust. And of course, you'll find things you like about your pieces, you'll find things you're proud of, you'll learn to love the things you've made. But that little itch of self-criticism, in the back of your brain — the one that cringes when you read a clunky line, or thinks of a better character beat right after it's far too late to change — that's never going away. That's the Writer part of you. Read Kafka, read Dickens, read Tolstoy, you will find diary entries where they lament how absolutely fucking atrocious their writing was, and how angry they are that they can't do better. A good writer hates their sentences because they can always imagine better ones. And the ability to imagine a better sentence is what's going to make you pick up the pen again tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Which is what I mean, and probably what all those other annoying, preachy advice-givers mean, when we say: a good writer is just someone who writes every day. It's that easy, and that hard.

#by the way a lot of this draws on ideas inspired by 'letters to a young poet' by rainer maria rilke if you're interested #that's a formative text for me as an artist #it won't teach you how to write but it will teach you how to think perhaps #and once you know how to think. well. life is just pretty good #and i can't say the writing gets easier but when life is pretty good i find myself enjoying it a lot more #this word vomit was prompted by the question 'how do you write real people and real interactions' #because that's like — i'm not trying to be pedantic but— #that's kind of just 'how do you write literature'? #because that's all literature is. what are human beings? how do you write a person? how do they interact with each other? #like shoutout to the void if you know for sure how to write real interactions then please for the love of god tell the rest of us #because i think most of all authors in history have just been giving it our best stab #'this is how the world looks for me. is it how the world looks for you?' #so my advice on that score is: try to see how the world looks for you #and then try to share it with me #don't worry about whether it looks the same for me. it won't

[mediumgayitalian]

“I made this for you.”

Nico stares, blankly, and the freckly hand extended out to him. Twisted around the long, calloused fingers, snagging on a black-lacquered chipped nail, is a bracelet.

Hesitantly, Nico takes it.

It’s woven in some way. He doesn’t recognize the exact pattern; Annabeth probably would. Not a braid, certainly, not any particular shape he can recognise. It’s bi-coloured, a twist of black and yellow, strings wrapped around them in an aborted spiral, almost. There’s a snag a third way into the bracelet, a tiny little error betraying its homemade status.

Under the guise of still inspecting the bracelet, Nico peers through his eyelashes. Will’s attention has long since shifted to somewhere to the left of him, rocking back on his heels, teeth gnawing into his lips as he hums. No longer extended out between them, waiting for Nico’s next move, his hands pick at the colour on his nails, picking off the polish chip by chip.

Dozens of similar bracelets stack his wrists, his ankles; rainbow of colours clashing horribly with the mint green of the cheap plastic shoes.

“What…” He pauses, clearing his throat. He feels Will’s attention on him, the warming rays of his soft smile. Surely this can’t be…

“It’s a friendship bracelet! We were makin’ pottery in Arts ‘n Crafts; I got distracted and the whole thing went squelch.” He blows a raspberry, smacking his fist into his hand. Nico jumps. “Totally collapsed! Anyways. Made a friendship bracelet for all my friends, yellow for me, black for you. I got a matching one!” He holds up his his wrist. It takes Nico a second of squinting to find the matching one — yellow and black, twisted, just like the one he’s wearing, nestled against the others like he’s been wearing it for years.

I made one for all my friends.

“You, uh.” His palms sweat. He tucks them behind his back before Will notices, although the twinkle in his eye tells him he might have an idea. “You’ve done this before.”

It’s not much of a question. Will takes it as one anyway.

“Mhm. You don’t have to wear it, if you don’t want to, I can take it —”

Nico wrenches himself away. Will blinks.

“Absolutely not,” he says, before he realizes what’s coming out of his mouth. “You made it for me. It’s mine.” In a flurry of movement, he tugs the bracelet over his hand, twisting the loosely hanging part around his thumb.

Slowly, giving him time to pull away, a freckly hand comes back into his space. When Nico — frozen — doesn’t flinch away, they rest on the jut of his wrist, the scar on the palm of his hand.

“I got it,” he murmurs. Nico glances up to find Will already looking at him, blue eyes wide and imploring and soft.

Nico has never associated blue eyes with softness. Intensity, maybe. Clarity. Softness, to him, has long been the understanding brown of Reyna’s, the softly glowing embers of Lady Hestia’s. The golden glow of Hazel’s, especially, ever-smiling. (The gentle, endless, sun-warmed clay brown of Bianca’s. Too big for her face, hidden behind her bangs; except, of course, when Nico was overwhelmed and miserable and needed her, needed her, needed her. Or when the lawyer came to their room door, steel-faced, giving the same news, and Nico would slide a small hand in hers, squeezing.)

Will’s eyes are soft, though, he realizes. Like cotton candy at DC fairs, like grape hyacinth, like the blanket he toted around as a baby. Like a sunny smile and golden hair and teasing winks when everything is too too much.

“There.”

With a gentle tug, the loose strings of the friendship bracelet tightly pull the bracelet snug against his wrist. Looser, barely even touching, Will’s fingers follow the contours of the bracelet. He lingers. Nico wonders if he can feel his pulse, pounding, endless.

“Thank you,” he manages, finally. His throat is dry. “For.”

The rest of his sentence won’t come out. Before he can panic, Will smiles; beams, really, eyes crinkling shut, and the short breaths clattering his lungs fizzle out entirely.

“Oh,” he says, several things slotting together at once. “Oh.”

“Anytime,” Will responds grinning, squeezing Nico’s wrist once more before bouncing off. “See you around!”

He’s far gone before Nico finds his voice again. But he smiles, still, eyeing the pretty bracelet, and whispers, “You, too.”

#will making nicos first friendship bracelet. yeah #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #nico di angelo #will solace #solangelo #will/nico #nico/will #dialogue prompts #100 ways #100 ways to say i love you #my writing #fic

[marmar-woff]

It is something valuable to me.

#mairuma #mairimashita! iruma kun #m!ik #iruma kun #welcome to demon school iruma kun #ameri azazel #irumeri #iruma susuki #Azazel Ameri #Susuki Iruma #1000 ways to say i love you is the prompt #really iruma what is that shit? the level of oblivious man #but hey you can keep saying it i am loving it

[restinpeacesensei]

bath

(hello!!! please be polite and respectful; im very sensitive and i am not comfortable with comments like 'hot/sexy' or anything objectifying 😭😭 but something like 'he's pretty' etc is welcome! thank you so much!! 🥺💖💖)

#boueibu #binan koukou chikyuu bouei bu love! #cute high earth defense club love #akoya gero #gero akoya #my art #this is from 2015 from like the first two months i was in this fandom #it was made for a 1draw prompt on twitter #and ive never posted it here all this time #bc i KNOW if i'd posted it at the fandom's peak i would have gotten comments i was uncomfortable with #i know i probably robbed myself of hundreds of notes by not posting it then.. but if i'd been uncomfortable it wouldn't have been worth it #all the years that i spent feeling miserably uncomfortable all the time bc the only way i knew how to interact with the world was #'throw yourself out there and let everyone else say whatever they want' #which was actually traumatizing honestly. like trying to have a semi-intimate personal relationship with countless strangers #but i didn't know how to express my feelings or wishes and as a result they had no reason to think of them #discovering my right to state my wishes and boundaries has been life-changing #and with that i finally post this #thank you so much to everyone who's listened and treated me with respect and understanding 🥺 im so grateful for your kindness!! \;;////;;/

[abutterflyscribbles]

when a character says 'I can't live without you' I often think it would be more powerful to say, 'I don't want to live without you'. Life will go on, the world will turn, but a light has gone out of it that cannot be replaced even if new ones are lit. I want to be with you, I'm choosing to be with you, I could live without you but I would be losing something incredibly precious that brings a certain richness that nothing else ever will.

'I can't live without you' sounds kind of coercive to me. I can't live without you I don't have a choice so you don't have a choice unless you want to destroy me, do you want to destroy me? Without each other we have nothing, are nothing.

#a butterfly scribbles #ideas #prompt #prompts #someone else please say this better #I mean if you want to write about characters that can't live without each other that's your prerogative #I get tired of how it's supposed to be the ultimate romance or even normal and healthy and just thrown into stories willy-nilly #like in pride and prejudice darcy is all 'I'm in love with you against my will and better judgement' like there's no choice involved #elizabeth is unimpressed 'too bad so sad' #and guess what? his life goes on. in some ways it gets better as he improves himself #it wasn't a plan to win her back. whether or not they ended up together I think he would have ultimately been okay #I think that's great #my life is good but you would make it so much better please be a part of it #I shouldn't write when it's past my bed time