#and write her daily poem before sleep

[madamescarlette]

You ever have to be like, "no babe you're not bone-breakingly heart-rendingly sad, you just had less than five hours of sleep"? Yeah.

[wonder-mei]

Letting Life Lead Part 2 (MK1 Bi-han)

Reminder: this is not lore accurate to the Mortal Kombat universe. I write because they're hot. I also do not have a beta reader or I read my fanfic from top to bottom to see any errors. I'm lazy okay.

I forgot to include an idea in the previous fan fic so here’s a sequel. Consume it well.

—

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Ever since she was a teen, many of her friends and girls around her age got into relationships with people they were interested in. Some until it led to marriage and some broke up. And from that she learned; not everyone can have happily ever after with their first love or when someone thinks their partner is the one. 

But there is one conversation her friends always frown upon. Arranged marriage. They said it is too out of time and unethical because of how it won’t give that person no choice to defy. When the rumour of her getting arranged with the oldest son of the Lin Kuei clan grandmaster. Her friends sent her condolences which she understands because everyone describes Bi-han is as cold as his cryo power and very stern to be the best for his clan. 

And they were all wrong. Very wrong about him. 

The wife of Bi-han turns her head towards the door slides and her husband enters with his arms on his back hiding something. “Welcome home” she greets with a smile and drops the brush she has been using for hours on the wooden table in their room “What’s that?” 

Bi-han approaches her and places a box wrapped in cloth on the table. She curiously unfolds then opens the box and reveals her favorite sweets inside. She smiles cheekily at Bi-han “Your Po Po won’t like this” even with that word she eats them anyway.

Just this evening before the maids cook lunch she requested for her favorite sweet but out of nowhere Bi-han’s grandmother came into the kitchen “You cannot eat that food! They are unhealthy”

She then came into their bedroom with a frown in her face “What’s wrong?” Bi-han asked but she didn't answer,one of her quirk when she is upset. Bi-han sighs leaving his wife alone to soothe her emotion off alone as she is comfortable to do it on her own alone. He went to the maids asking what happened to his wife and it was his grandmother once again being strict with her wife. 

Now Bi-han can now be at ease seeing his wife eating the food she craves today. He caresses her head as she eats. He then holds the paper she wrote a poem on, a talent of hers. She writes her thoughts and nature as her hobby. It reads;

The sun arise at dawn,

And the moon moves away for it to shine,

Even the sun is brighter than the moon,

The moon is still there for the sun,

Even it is not a star,

Giving light to earth,

The moon will be by the sun’s side,

Nonetheless and forever.

Bi-han smiles as he reads the poem. He stands up to put it on the wall with the other poems. His wall used to be blank and nothingness and now the walls are covered with poetry she had written. Even the poem she dislikes, he still stick them on the wall saying ‘Still written with your heart’

After she finished eating. They both sleep for the night together. And the morning came, they both ate breakfast together. The grandmother came in to join too. “Young lady, I told you to wear Beizi! It is the clan’s tradition for the women to wear Beizi everyday” she nags pointing at her Aoqun attire.

Bi-han sighs, gripping his fists under the table. His wife is pouting again at the nagging “I told her to wear Aoqun today”, he said with a gruff. The grandmother scowls in annoyance. His grandson is backing up his wife again as he always does. The old lady left the couple alone. The wife hugs his arm as a Thank You. Bi-han knows she is fond of wearing Beizi as her daily attire every day. Bi-han would occasionally back up his wife in whatever situations. 

“You have been married to her for 6 months and she is still not pregnant. It seems like she is useless!”

“It is my decision to not have a child now”

“Why is she not wearing blue? She is your wife and it’s symbolized she is your property”

“I told her to wear that”

“A married woman shouldn’t walk around the village!”

“I made her to walk outside”

“She still acts like a child! She’s very childish”

“I will teach her”

But he didn’t. He let her be herself. Bi-han understands that she is his wife but she is still young and has a lot of experiences to discover for her curiosity. She can still hangout with her friends or play with the clan’s kids. Even though she was given a lot of freedom, she still respected him as her husband and set her own limit for his comfort. 

What are the odds, a man as cold as Bi-han is the greatest husband every woman wishes for. Her friends are jealous that her husband worships her like a deity and loves her as her own. From fear to adoration the women view Bi-han but he won’t even take a glance at them. He already has his wife who sees good in him just from the first glance they shared. No judgement in her eyes,only acceptance.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

P.S: i don't know how to write poem so i'm sorry if it's bad lol

[steviesbicrisis]

Steddie - Percy Jackson AU

AKA the struggle of finding the perfect Valentines gift for a son of Aphrodite

Eddie keeps staring at the flowers on display, feeling more pathetic by the minute. He hears a voice inside his head telling him he should make the flowers himself, but he shakes that voice away fast, it sounded way too similar to his dad's. Pretty arrangements were never his forte anyways, and he needs the prettiest one.

What kind of flowers should he buy? is even flowers a good idea? should he go for chocolates? can he be more basic than this? probably not, but tomorrow will be valentine's day and he has no other ideas.

He snatches the bouquet with the most pink and yellow flowers, Steve always wears soft sweaters in either one of those colors so he thinks it should be fine.

💐🍫🎸💌

An hour later, Eddie stomps into another store, mumbling to himself. They aren't even dating yet, so why is this so complicated?

Why, of all the people at Half-Blood Camp, did he have to fall for a son of Aphrodite? how do you even attempt to romance someone who had the Goddess of Love as a mother?

He taps his fingers nervously on the glass counter, there are way too many options and he doesn't even know where to start.

He goes back to his cabin with a cheesy heart-shaped box filled with peanut butter chocolates - Steve would never admit it but he goes crazy for peanut butter - and places them next to the flowers.

🍫🎸💌 💐

Right before dinner and after hours of overthinking, the chocolate idea feels too lame in Eddie's eyes.

"So is this for Steve?" Robin asks. He's pretty sure she's smirking but they're talking just outside of her cabin, Apollo's, and the sunlight is just at the right place to make it shine too much for his poor eyes. He used to be jealous of Robin for having such a cool dad, but lately he feels much more content being stuck with Dionysus.

"It is not!" he replies, too quickly to be believable.

"Don't worry, your secret is safe with me" she pushes him inside the cabin, then picks up a piece of paper and a binder.

"This is a list of Steve's favorite songs. I know you don't like any of these so" she gestures at the binder "I've got all of my music sheets in here. No need to thank me, Munson. But remember to give them back, I have a great aim and your cabin is a weapon range from here."

Eddie passes most of the night learning Against all Odds by Phill Collins while looking nervously at Robin's cabin through his window.

🎸💌 💐 🍫

It's Valentine's day, and Eddie is absolutely fucked. The flowers aren't pretty enough, the chocolate is lame, the song is overused and he's out of ideas.

He finds himself at Athena's cabin with only a few hours of sleep and right before breakfast.

He waits for Nancy to get out.

"This is about Steve" she states, not even questioning it, and Eddie doesn't have the energy to deny it.

"I'm running out of ideas Nancy! this was supposed to be a casual thing, no pressure! but then I mentioned it to him and he got so excited about receiving something from me and now there's no casualty anymore! There's anxiety, and he's surrounded by romance on a daily basis how am I supposed to compete with that?" Nancy listens to his rant quietly, not showing any particular reaction.

"So, how can I help?" it might seem like a cold response but that's exactly what Eddie needs.

He gets out an hour later, his stomach grumbling, his body pleading for a few hours of sleep, but with a poem about Steve's sun-kissed freckles and soft hair. Nancy wasn't much help with that, but she re-read it and made sure there weren't any mistakes and that his writing was clear enough.

"Eddie wait" Nancy calls for him as he's going through the door "you know how it is on valentine's day... Steve is one of the most admired kids in Aphrodite's cabin. So, whatever happens, don't let it get into your head okay? he likes you a lot."

💌💐🍫🎸

It gets into Eddie's head. Big time.

He was never confident about the gifts he prepared but he thought at least one of them would've been fine.

That is until the parade of Steve's presents begins.

After the tenth bouquet of flowers he receives, Eddie stops counting.

At breakfast and lunch, he has a pile of chocolates on his table and it stands up even amongst his brothers and sisters who had received chocolates as well, just not as many.

The gift Eddie is most confident about, the poem, has to be ruled out as well since with most of the bouquets and chocolates Steve has also received white envelopes with his name written on them, in much nicer handwriting than Eddie's.

The song, Eddie's weakest gift since it isn’t his cup of tea and he had to learn it overnight, is the only thing he has left.

Despite it all, he gets ready for it. He doesn’t like the song but he loves a big gesture, so he goes to his cabin in the afternoon to grab his guitar, determined to surprise Steve with a romantic serenade.

When he comes back, he notices a big fuss around the amphitheater. Curious, he gets close just in time to see one of Robin's brothers guiding Steve at the arena's center, a guitar in his left hand.

Eddie rushes away, he doesn’t need to see anything more.

🪨🪨🪨🪨

His gloomy state guides him to the lake's shore. It's cold but quiet, plus Eddie's favorite pastime consists in picking up rocks that catch his attention.

He throws a couple of them in the lake, kicks a few big ones, then sighs. A part of him hopes Steve is so busy with all his admirers that he forgets about him and his promise.

He crouches to have a better look at the smaller rocks at his feet. One catches his eye almost immediately: it's round, smooth, and mostly dark brown with gold cracks. Eddie cannot explain it, but it makes him think of Steve.

He's getting up with the small stone in his hand when he hears footsteps behind him.

"I knew I would find you here" Steve's smile makes Eddie's knees go weak, even at that distance.

He stops once he's standing next to him, both facing the lake.

"I guess you know me pretty well" Eddie points out, his eyes fixed on the water.

"Oh, I do" Steve smirks, confidence radiating from every fiber of his being. Eddie supposes that anyone would feel great about themselves after a day spent accepting any sort of gifts.

"So, I came to collect something" Steve breaks the silence, sounding less confident than before, more nervous if anything.

Eddie can't tell him about all the lame gifts he got for him, let alone go back to his cabin and grab one of them.

Before he can think too much about it, he takes one of Steve's hands and drops the rock on his palm "Here, happy valentine's day".

He realizes what he has done only after Steve's hand closes into a fist around the gift.

Eddie's eyes grow wide, his gaze flickers nervously between the hand that was holding the stone - the right one which he mentally renames as the traitor - and Steve's.

He tries to come up with excuses, but no sound comes out of his mouth.

Finally, as he's ready to jump in front of him and say something like "ahah this is a joke! I got you", Eddie looks at him.

Steve is radiant.

Eddie has rarely seen him smile like this, never at a stupid rock he had randomly collected. He is pretty sure this isn't the first rock he has ever given him, either. It's just a thing that Eddie does.

But Steve is beaming at the rock in his hand like Eddie has given him a piece of jewelry or a gemstone.

"Thank you Eddie, I love it" only then Eddie notices that he is also blushing.

"Are you sure? It's just a rock" he replies, nervously.

Steve raises an eyebrow at the question "yeah, but it's very pretty. And you love rocks."

"Oh," Eddie says, dumbly.

He finally understands why Steve was so excited by the idea of Eddie gifting him something for Valentine's day, why both Robin and Nancy told him he was stressing too much over something Steve would've liked anyways.

Steve would've loved anything as long as it came from Eddie.

"Now I feel bad," Steve speaks, oblivious to Eddie's internal epiphany "my gift is very lame compared to yours."

"You got me something, pretty boy?" he leans closer to him, into Steve's personal space. He smirks when he notices Steve's blush reaching his ears.

"Of course I did" he huffs "but you have to close your eyes if you want it" Steve looks away as he says it, clearly embarrassed.

He'd love to tease him about his red face but he decides to play nice and close his eyes.

He flinches when he feels Steve's lips on his. He slides his arms on his shoulders and around his neck, to make sure Steve doesn't misinterpret his surprised reaction. Steve puts his arms around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

Someone might say that gifting a kiss for Valentine's Day is very lame but Eddie realizes that, as long as it came from Steve, he would've loved it anyways.

I wasn’t planning to write anything but then I had some free time and I got inspired! Please forgive me if I wrote something unrealistic for the Percy Jackson world but I’ve read the books years ago, I don’t remember much!Happy Valentine’s Day to everyone but especially to my mutuals, I hope you have an amazing day 💘

[kuromhiel]

Heartshakers club

Female!Reader

Love Club Series!

╰┈➤ Kazuha, Heizou, Venti, Childe, Scaramouche, Ayato, Albedo

Being gorgeous isn't a sin so why should receiving love letters be? Silly, receiving love letters aren't a sin, but my man said it is.

🌷Kazuha

Receiving love letters weren't so common to you before, now receive them every now and then when you were in High School.

Kazuha found it very annoying but he had to keep his cool, he likes you, so he understands why you have so many admirers. But it seemed so unfair how'd you love the love letters that other people made for you.

But again, he forgot, he actually loved you and you loved him. Seeing the love letters you received did made him feel a little jealous but what can they do? You're already his, and he is yours.

No one can compete your relationship with just silly notes and papers in envelopes. He's better at writing love poems and haikus.

Actually, he was your very first admirer.

And you received a love letter from him, first.

🌹Heizou

He wanted to be a detective when he finishes college, so he better start off a few lessons, first. Real lessons. And those lessons are finding you gives you love letters.

He might find it a little risky, but you were in discomfort. He has feelings for you, feelings he can't control. So he has to do what has to be done.

He walked up a few stairs the next day, seeing you talk with a man. He stopped on his tracks and hid behind the wall. Listening to his confession.

"I'm sorry, I like someone else." You said, Heizou's smile appearing but heart also sinking.

'Who does she like?' He thought, looking at the man's shoulder slump. 'Deserved.'

"W-who do you like?" The man asked, [Name] basically walking down the stairs now and saw Heizou looking straight at her.

Heizou's eye widened, embarrassed he'd been caught.

His crush turned around, grabbing his hand making him go beside her.

"Him."

🌻 Venti

Love letters with kissing marks? He found it gross but also funny. A man wearing lipstick just to kiss on the envelope? Hilarious.

He was your best friend, you've been closed since you've transferred to this school.

He can't control the way his heart beats when he looks at you, and the way he'd admire your smile and beauty. And he surely can't control his anger when someone sends you love letters on a daily basis.

He'd rant about how weird and cheesy those love letters were whenever you'd read it out loud or smile at it, telling him you found it cute.

One day he opened your locker first, knowing your code surely because you told him about it. He took a peak inside and saw a certain envelope. It looks like there was no kissing mark on it? He raised his brow, confused at the new change.

Opening it, he saw his name first. Shoot. It was a love letter for him?! He felt his cheeks warm up and heart beat faster. He couldn't help but smile widely as he read the letter made for him.

He flinched when he heard the locker slam shut. Making eye contact with the embarrassed girl.

"I guess I'm the one who receives love letters now."

🌺Childe

Knowing he's a man with very different names, you found it rather suspicious when you received a love letter with another name you haven't heard of before.

"Childe?" Your eyebrows raised, your friend was behind you putting a hand on your shoulder as he took a peak at your love letter.

He awkwardly coughed, looking away as the girl stared at him dully. She brushed the envelope away, placing it back in her locker.

The next day [Name] received another love letter, from Ajax. Who were they? How are they brave enough to put their name?

"Tartaglia!" She shouted across the room, waking up the sleeping ginger head. He walked nervously infront of the girl, afraid of getting caught.

The girl crossed her arms, suspicious of his looks. He sighed, explaining that he was the one that wrote all of it.

Only to be told by the girl that she actually didn't know, earning an also cute giggle from her. He felt his cheeks turn warm as he explained the names were given to him several times.

"No matter how many names you have, you're still the same person I will always love."

🌸Scaramouche

Receiving love letters on a daily basis made him feel nothing. You asked about how he feels about you receiving those and he gets mad every single time he explains that he doesn't care.

After being tired of the same reaction, you'd show him the love letter you received today. He huffed, rolling his eyes as he read it out loud for you.

He read the last few words in disgust, whispering so he wouldn't feel embarrassed. "I love you, [Name]." Were the last few words of the letter.

He cringed, looking away as he scrunched his nose. He turned to look at the smiling girl, realizing that he fell into her trap. His cheeks started turning red, he scowled at her antics.

"I love you too, Scaramouche."

🌼Ayato

Funny thing, he also received quite a lot of love letters. He would let you read them while he looks at you with a smile. Wishing it was you writing to him.

After you showing him a love letter, he assumed you also received tons.

"Oh, you have a lot of admirers, too?" He teased, looking at the flustered girl who rolled her eyes playfully.

He read it for her as they both sat in the quiet room, she smiled at him, admiring his features as the sunlight was directed at him.

He pulled out another love letter from his bag after reading yours, a rose along with it.

He gave it to you with a shy smile.

"I didn't know we were going to give love letters to each other at the same time."

💮Albedo

He was a smart man, but people were too intimidated to give him love letters. Instead you were the one to give it to him as many females would ask you to be their messenger.

Receiving love letters for you also was a common thing, both you and him were popular in school.

The poison in Albedo's tone when he replies whenever you'd talk about the cute writings and doodles in the love letters you'e received confirmed that he was jealous.

Once you showed him a love letter while you were both in science class, the teacher taking a break. You showed it to him proudly as he poured a type of liquid in the paper, it exploding infront of your face.

The pink powder spreading on your face as you coughed, the smoke started to disappear as you see Albedo look at you admiringly.

He put a hand on your cheek, rubbing away the pink powder in your face.

"I'd rather be the one to write you a thousand love letters while you talk about it to me with a smile."

[nanowrimo]

Pro Tips from a NaNo Coach: How to Keep Writing When it Feels Impossible

NaNoWriMo can seem like a daunting task sometimes, for NaNo newbies and veterans alike. Fortunately, our NaNo Coaches are here to help guide you through November! Today, author Shameez Patel Papathanasiou is here to share her advice on how to set yourself up for noveling success:

National Novel Writing Month is almost over. Some authors managed 50K In A Day (my wrists scream at the mere thought), some are steadily hitting that 1667 daily word goal, and others have fallen behind—and that’s when writing starts to feel impossible. 

Don’t. Give. Up! 

Even if you’re under 50,000 words by the end of November, you’ll come out with something: perhaps 20 000 words, exciting characters, or at the very least, a new idea. 

Keeping at it when you’re juggling a full-time job, parenting, and surviving a pandemic is tough, but you can do it. Here’s how: 

1. Sprints

This concept is not foreign to any seasoned WriMo. My personal favorite is a 10-minute sprint because regardless of how busy I am, I can find 10 minutes, be that after I inhale my lunch or the 10 minutes I usually spend creating stories in my head before falling asleep. 

With some practice, you can write between 250 and 500 words in a 10-minute sprint, and if that is all you’re doing every day, that’s okay. Consistency is key. 

2. Writing-On-The-Go

For years I thought I had to set up my space and get in the zone, but one night, after years of being stuck in bed beside a sleeping toddler, I stopped doom-scrolling and opened a Google Doc on my phone instead. Within months, I had an 80,000-word first draft. 

While I realize that some of you use Word or Scrivener to draft, it would help to keep a Google Doc handy for those days you find yourself waiting at the bank, outside your kid’s school, or even for when you’re lying in bed a little bit too cozy to get up and fetch your laptop. 

Trust me, you won’t remember the idea you’re promising yourself you’ll remember. Write it down or send it to yourself in a voice note. Your phone is a powerful tool, use it!

3. Writing Buddies

This is another thing that NaNoWriMo has blessed me with. While writing is often seen as solitary, it doesn’t have to be. Having a close group of friends who write not only means they’re there to encourage you and keep you company, but they’re also there to critique your work and to cheer for you on the days you doubt yourself. 

4. Don’t Compare

Don’t compare word counts, don’t compare the time taken to get published, don’t compare the number of awards, don’t compare anything. Your writing journey is your own for more reasons than even you know. It will happen when it happens in the way that it is meant to happen. If your writing buddies are succeeding before you, remember that there are also others behind you. 

A line from one of my favorite poems comes to mind: If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Which leads me to another line from the same poem: 

5. Be Gentle with Yourself (And Your Work)

First drafts are supposed to be messy. They’re your first attempt at a project, which makes it your worst attempt too. And in every revision, you will create something better and more beautiful. Acknowledge this and allow yourself to play around with characters and worlds, to feel joy in the story you’re writing, to vomit out the roughest form of the story you’ll one day share with the world.

We’re almost there, and no one else can write it the way that you do. Do your best!

Shameez Patel Papathanasiou is from Cape Town, South Africa. She is a civil engineer by day and an author by night. Her literary adventures take her to worlds filled with magic, monsters and someone to fall in love with. Shameez fell in love with fiction at a young age. Her parents fondly recall her first handwritten story completed before the age of ten, titled The Treasures of Zombie Island, which surprisingly featured no zombies at all. She has been writing ever since. Her debut fantasy novel, The Last Feather, is out now—it, at the very least, features a feather.

[farthngdr]

Alma and The Price of Love

Warning: Tinhat spoken here.

If you are sensitive about theorizing about the lives of real people, turn back now. You will be a happier person if you do.

*************************************************************************************

So much energy--restless energy, pent-up energy, anxious energy.

That has been the vibe of Misha’s flurry of social media posts ever since Jibcon12 ended.

Just imagine, a weekend where you’re living your dream. You’ve never lit up brighter, laughed with more incendiary joy, burned with such fierce beauty..

How can you NOT come down with a thud after this weekend is over?

But come down you do.

Con-goers know well that feeling of the comedown after the emotional highs of a convention weekend. It is a well-known phenomenon. But just imagine if you were him. From those heights of love, how far can one fall? Because the next day you wake up, and he’s gone.

Again.

In “The Price of Love,” which Alma posted not long after Jibcon12, we see that she/he can’t sleep. Those of us who are familiar with Alma’s love poetry have seen this before. The divine and hellish perturbation that comes when your thoughts are obsessively returning to the image of your absent beloved. It’s so hard to come down after bliss. 

Alma’s loneliness, in the bed, alone, the missing, the longing....This is Alma’s familiar pain. In other poems we have learned of the excruciating--even madness-inducing--sense of loss and longing after Alma’s love departs.

“It is dreams of you keeping me awake.” After that exhilarating, utterly exhausting fever dream in Rome, days and nights in Rome, it is their love place, the location of their secret ceremony, of pledging their eternal love to one another, that “magical” blessing.

No wonder Alma must hide tears of loneliness behind the tinted glass--the ever-present sunglasses. When Alma/MC cries, everybody can tell. Their eyes swell up, their nose turns red--there’s no disguising the tears. So when Alma knows the tears are coming, the sunglasses...well, it’s the only way to hide.

[Note: Misha was the only person wearing sunglasses at Jensen’s wedding ceremony. (It was not a bright, sunny time of day.) Here, he watches as Jensen walks down the aisle.]

Alma always makes it clear when she is writing a love poem--her hashtags leave no doubt. This one is heartsick and lovesick. What to do with it? You write it out.

This time though, Alma chooses to create a poem that appears line-by-line, as though we are observing its composition in real time. Alma seems to have aborted the sending of a DM to their beloved--because Alma can’t stop, they realize this is the umpteenth message they have sent to him today, Jesus, why can’t I stop sending a message every few minutes? C’mon, stop it, these messages aren’t even noteworthy, it’s just trivia, the minutiae of daily life! He’ll get sick of me, it’s ridiculous, take it back, take it back.....

So instead of sending the message to him, we get Alma turning it into a poem, one that appears and then disappears, creation and destruction all in the same frame.

All because Alma misses him so much, it’s maddening, it’s awful, it’s obsessive, can’t sleep, can’t think, thoughts keep returning like a needle stuck in the grooves of a record, the mother of learning is repetition, returning to what Alma knows and loves best.

Once again, Alma tallies up the emotional, physical, spiritual cost of this love, and finds the price is indeed dear, but Alma will always pay.

Every. Single. Time.

[cacchieressa]

Eight Days in April

1. I broke a glass, got bloodstains on the sheet: hereafter, must I only write you chaste connubial poems? Now that I have traced a way from there to here across the sweet- est morning, rose-blushed blonde, will measured feet advance processionally, where before they scuff-heeled flights of stairs, kicked at a door, or danced in wing-tips to a dirty beat? Or do I tell the world that I have got rich quick, got lucky (got laid), got just what the doctor ordered, more than I deserved? This is the second morning I woke curved around your dreaming. In one night, I've seen moonset and sunrise in your lion's mane.

2. Moons set and suns rise in your lion's mane through LP kisses or spread on my thighs. Winter subsided while I fantasized what April dawns frame in the windowpane. Sweetheart, I'm still not getting enough sleep, but I'm not tired, and outside it's spring in which we sprang the afternoon shopping after I'd been inside you, O so deep I thought we would be tangled at the roots. I think we are. (I've never made such noise. I've never come so hard, or come so far in such a short time.) You're an exemplar piss-elegance is not reserved for boys. Tonight we'll go out in our gangster suits.

3. Last night we went out in our gangster suits, but just across the street to Santerello's, waited past nine for wine. We shone; the fellows noticed. "You have a splendid linen coat," Dimitri told you as he sat us down. (This used to be my local; now it's chic.) A restaurant table's like a bed: we speak the way we do calmed after love, alone in the dark. There's a lot to get to know. We felt bad; we felt better. Soon I was laid back enough to drink around the bend. You got me home, to bed, like an old friend. I like you, Rachel, when you're scared, because you tough it out while you're feeling it through.

4. You tough it out while you're feeling it through: sometimes the bed's rocked over tidal waves that aren't our pleasures. Everyone behaves a little strangely when they're in a new neighborhood, language, continent, time zone. We got here fast; your jet lag's worse than mine. I only had Paris to leave behind. You left your whole young history. My own reminds me to remind you, waking shaken with tears, dream-racked, is standard for the course. We need accommodation that allows each one some storage space for her dead horse. If the title weren't already taken, I'd call this poem "Directions to My House."

5. I'd call this poem "Directions to My House," except today I'm writing it in yours, in your paisley PJ's. The skylight pours pale sunlight on white blankets. While I douse my brain with coffee, you sleep on. Dream well this time. We'll have three sets of keys apiece: uptown, downtown, Paris on a sublease. Teach me to drive. (Could I teach you to spell?) I think the world's our house. I think I built and furnished mine with space for you to move through it, with me, alone in rooms, in love with our work. I moved into one mansion the morning when I touched, I saw, I felt your face blazing above me like a sun.

6. Your face blazing above me like a sun- deity, framed in red-gold flames, gynandre in the travail of pleasure, urgent, tender terrible—my epithalamion circles that luminous intaglio —and you under me as I take you there, and you opening me in your mouth where the waves inevitably overflow restraint. No, no, that isn't the whole thing (also you drive like cop shows, and you sing gravel and gold, are street-smart, book-smart, laugh from your gut) but it is (a soothing poultice applied to my afflicted part) the central nervous system and the heart

7. The central nervous system and the heart, and whatever it is in me wakes me at 5 am regardless, and what takes me (when you do) ineluctably apart and puts me back together; the too-smart, too-clumsy kid glutted on chocolate cakes (me at ten); the left-brain righteousness that makes me make of our doubled dailiness an art are in your capable square hands. O sweet, possessives make me antsy: we are free to choose each other perpetually. Though I don't think my French short-back-and-sides means I'll be the most orthodox of brides, I broke a glass, got bloodstains on the sheet.

— Marilyn Hacker from Love, Death, and the Changing of the Seasons

[nikhatkhansblog]

WHAT ARE FEELINGS? So feelings are an emotional state of reaction, where people give their reactions as per their emotions suppress by their body at that moment. In a scientific term if we see feelings are nothing but a release of hormones that let to react in certain reactions, or we can say a sensation experienced through our senses. For your general information there are 30 kinds of emotions felt by a human body. And as per Robert Plutchik’s theory there are eight basic emotions that define human sentiments.

· FEAR – feeling of being afraid, frightened, scared ·

ANGER- feeling angry. A stronger word for anger is rage. ·

SADNESS- feeling sad. Other words are sorrow, grief. ·

JOY- feeling happy. Other words are happiness, gladness. ·

DISGUST- feeling something is wrong or nasty. Strong disapproval. ·

SURPRISE

– being unprepared for something. · TRUST- A positive emotion, admiration is stronger; acceptance is weaker. ·

ANTICIPATION- in the sense of looking forward positively to something which is going to happen. Expectation is more neutral.

You all must be wondering why we are talking about this suddenly, so in this pandemic we all go through some emotional and physical changes, we all see something good and something worst that has changed us completely . And we all talk about our changes and our life, we all are busy in making our life worth living, we all are busy in uploading our lifestyles on social media but one thing we don’t talk about or we can say nobody tends to listen about is “Our Feelings”. So before you say something I would like to share with you guys my story.

MY STORY

I’m born in a middle class family where females are taught to live life according to the rules made by them or written for them (only for women). If women tend to break the rules she’s either locked in her house or get married. But my parents did their successful job in giving me a wonderful life. The life that every girl wish for, I went to a wonderful school, wear wonderful clothes but I was only allowed of using this luxurious things until and unless I follow all there rules and regulations. I’m not a feminist nor I’m an anti-feminist but I hate thoughts of my family where my brothers can do everything they wanted to but we sisters can’t just because we were woman and we are not even allowed to take a step before asking. Yes that was our life. You are loved and cherished unless and until you follow their filthy thoughts and rules and if you broke any of them, Nobody cares about what you think Nobody cares what you feel And nobody cares if you live. In this pandemic I realize many things, I thought about every single thing that was important in my life. But it doesn’t did any good instead it led me to anxiety attacks and depression. At certain point I stop talking to my family my friends, I start ignoring their calls and texts, I even deleted all my social media accounts. All I do is thinking and thinking all day and due to lack of sleep lack of eating food my health was getting more and more worst. Sometimes I even wonder what if I’m dead, what if I don’t even exist. All day long the only thing I thought about was suicide ideation.

HOW DID I RECOVER FROM THAT?

While going through all this when I started losing weight continuously my parents took me to many doctors and specialist but they don’t understand what was I going through because I don’t speak I wanted to but I just couldn’t tell . · So I started writing, writing about my feelings, writing about my thoughts, writing about my daily life and then I turned them into poems and songs.

· I start uploading those poems and songs on social media platforms or on some social sites, where people started reaching them and started giving me attention. They even started talking to me reaching me, they even share there thoughts and problems they were going through.

· I started listening to songs, started singing them and it felt so good at certain point I even forget about my problems.

The whole point of this blog was to make you feel that you are not alone, they are many more people who are going through all this too. So if you're thinking like me too, so just think once about your loved once, about your dreams and about yourself . Just once.

Start working on your hobbies

Start sharing your feelings

Start listening to other feelings

And if still you don't feel well try taking medical help ASAP.

This is life , and it's all about a little ups and down , we just have to fight from them and show them that we are not weak .

SO FEEL IT AND HEAL IT.

[rae-gar-targaryen]

Today I’m thinking about the girl I was assigned roommates with my freshman year of college. She’s a fraternal twin, and it was one of the first and only things she would tell you about her as an ice-breaker. I think we were paired up because we had similar sleeping habits and (surprisingly) similar music taste.

She was beautiful. Thin. Amiable. Went out most weekends. Perfectly nice and well-liked. Her side of the room was minimalist -- next to no decoration, save for on-trend clothes strewn on her bed (and sometimes on mine), and an overflowing makeup bag as the only item on her desk, other than her laptop. 

My side of the room was overflowing with books. I dyed my own bedsheets to be vibrant and floral colors with my mom before leaving home. I tacked up posters and pictures on my side of the room, and my desk was piled high with my textbooks, my journals, the books I was reading, and my straightening iron.

We listened to music together while we got ready in the morning. To Passion Pit, she agonized over every last detail of her outfit before heading off to her nursing classes, while I struggled to find the appropriate plaid shirt/graphic tee combination for my daily trek to the other end of campus, to the run-down journalism building at the end of a tree-lined street. 

We would sometimes talk late into the night. 

I learned that she would critique my taste in books to her friends (and her friends back home via Facebook chat). Even if she hadn’t read them. I had a pair of coca cola logo patterned sleep shorts that I wore sometimes when it was hot. And whenever she would chat with a guy-friend from back home, he would comment on them. If I was in the room when they chatted, he’d greet me too, with a nice smile and a, “Hey, Coca-Cola!” 

I learned later that she told him not to flirt with me, and that I was a “freak.” She would say similar things to the other girls in our dorm. 

Midway through our first semester, she had this...I don’t know if I would call it a breakdown. She was homesick. She was unhappy and stressed in her classes. She felt like no one was listening to her when she was trying to express her unhappiness, and that she didn’t belong. I empathized with her. I felt the same. Don’t we all at 18? But I felt very assured that I was in the right place for me. I stayed up with her that night, made her tea in our dorm room kettle. I put my arm around her and let her cry on my shoulder.

I took out one of my journals and read her one of my essays, and one of my poems. I felt like in my other life before this one, I had expressed exactly what she was feeling in that moment. Different time. Different place. She didn’t give much away at the time, other than to commend my writing. To tell me she thought it was apt to her situation. That she was thankful. I encouraged her to find a different major that actually spoke to her interests, and would maybe come with a more manageable workload. I offered to let her have the room to herself on Sundays for longer so she could video call with her family. 

Things got easier and easier with us all the time. I never admitted to her that I knew what she had said about me. I didn’t see the point.

Flash forward to the next semester. She was waiting for me in our room one afternoon when I’d had a cancelled class. She told me she was sorry. When I asked “for what,” she revealed that she had gone through my journal -- and the other ones like it in my desk drawer. She’d told me that I was a good writer. As if that made it better. She wanted to read more of what I’d written because it had made her feel better. As if THAT made it better. Never mind that there were years’ worth of personal entries about my own struggles with myself. With the people in my life -- most she didn’t know. But a few she now did. With how I’d learned that she (and other girls in our dorm) had said nasty shit about me behind my back. 

Poems about heartbreak (of course). Attempts at writing songs (terrible, really). Half-finished ideas and thoughts that manifested themselves as adjective-heavy imagery when other words wouldn’t do the trick. (Nonsensical). 

She said she’d known it was a fucked up thing to do. But that she was sorry. Incidentally, her family was in town visiting that week, and chose that moment to arrive to pick her up. They came back and later thanked me for helping her through her moments of homesickness. That she had told them all about my journals. And “wow, she says you’re such a thoughtful person and good writer.”

We finished out the year, and I listened to her when she needed someone. But I never felt like I should offer to share myself with her again. She got better and better as time went on, and changed her major to psychology. She found her stride and started going to parties again. Was back to being how I knew her. 

To this day, I don’t know how to feel about her. About our time living together. I think sometimes about how we would cry together. About how someone so beautiful could feel the same as I did -- like they didn’t have a place where they were. And how we tried to make it better for the other. We haven’t spoken in years. But I remember ourselves as vulnerable 18-year-olds who bonded over obscure bands and fear of the unknown .... and little else. Those memories and people have their place in how you’re shaped. I’m sure of it. For some reason, she crossed my mind today. I hope she’s well. And that she learned how to speak less of others when she thought they couldn’t hear it. I still have all the journals.

[fixturesofspirit]

Blog Post 10

Writing poetry this semester has been really exciting for me and I know I will continue to write daily as my personal creative outlet. This class has especially challenged me to explore more forms and styles I have not tried before and to approach editing and formatting with more attention to detail. I hope to get better and perhaps to submit work to publications one day. At present, I feel like I will need to write much more before I will be confident enough in my work to seek publication.

It has been really beneficial to be exposed to the work of contemporary poets’ I had not heard of before as it has allowed me to understand my style and to better articulate my likes and dislikes. Reading The True Account of Myself as a Bird by Wrigley was very helpful in this. I enjoyed reading and analyzing a published collection as opposed to only reading poems in anthologies. Equally, I really enjoyed listening to the readings and found it really inspiring to hear from the poets’ on their individual processes and thoughts on publishing. I am excited to continue with my writing and am very grateful to my classmates for sharing their personal work with me during the semester! 

Image: Mary L. Macomber, Night and Her Daughter Sleep, 1902, oil on canvas, Smithsonian American Art Museum.

[pixeldolly]

2, 13, and 25 from the OC meme for Tess? C:

Thanks for the ask, Tess is a favourite and fun to write about!

2. Do they wear perfume/cologne? If so what scents do they prefer?

Tess absolutely wears perfume, and she prefers soft, floral scents, nothing too sweet. Being a vampire means she has almost no natural scent of her own, so she has to take care not to apply too much, so that it doesn't become overpowering.

13. Do they enjoy poetry?

She's actually not super big on poetry, at least not "serious" poetry. She does enjoy romantic poems, particularly when read to her by her lover while sitting on the balcony in the moonlight, or resting near a whispering brook (she's a big sap). Sad love poems make her cry, and those dealing with isolation and inadaptation resonate with her the most.

Really, though, she's more of a prose girl. She loves alll kinds of novels.

25. Do they have a daily/nightly routine?

Tess is all about routine, even though hers is a bit weird. She only actually sleeps a few hours a day before sunset, but she does follow many of the usual daily/nightly routines. In the morning she showers and dresses and cooks breakfast for Hayden, after which she goes to work. After work she sleeps until the sun goes down, then she cooks dinner (Tess loves cooking, and misses food, but seeing her wife enjoying her meals is a comfort).Hayden does the dishes, they cuddle a bit on the sofa watching TV or reading before Hayden has to go to bed, then Tess has the house to herself. Sometimes, she lies in bed next to her wife, other times she uses this time to do chores or catch up on work. Being a vampire has a few advantages as well, though she'd gladly give them up in return for a normal life.

[kirikoto]

Attuning

[You have entered a sanctuary.]

"Oh, hello! Just in time to do the daily quests." Hey hey! Yeah, I’ll probably just be doing the usual raids today.

A frigid tempest shaking me awake in seas of clouds engulfing all beneath. A world of white, a winter-ridden land of pain, of sacrifice, tales still untold. The Steps of Faith lead to a stone stronghold - a bridge for passage to the lands unknown. The old knight's shield makes its home on the cliff - a brave companion for a friendly tomb. Reminding that though life may test our will - “A smile better suits a hero, my friend.”

Wanna queue for the 4-man duties first before the others log on? “Okay, sounds good!”

In a world of never-ending daylight, I gaze upon an endless flower field. Playing among faeries and sprites, allured in with fervent appeal.

A castle in the middle of the lake, ever so clear and pristine. Home to Titania and her make, in her realm of pink, white and green.

The Kingdom of Rainbows and dreamers, keeping unaware travelers as their playthings. Dark history submerged under the waters, new life reborn from branches and saplings.

Damn, I really hate that dungeon. It’s so tedious. “Yeah, it’s way too draggy. Ah, the others are on!” Oh, let's get ready for the 8-man raids then!

The cry of a seagull calls my attention, hitting me with the sudden realization that my toes are slowly sinking into the sand. Perfect blue waters that spanned as far as the eyes could see salt spray in the air. My laissez-faire, my Costa Del Sol.

"Congrats on hitting Level 80 on your Bard!” Finally! Now I’m just left with leveling up my Black Mage to 80. "Oh wow, you’re progressing pretty fast!” Yeah, I mean I gotta clear this before the exam period sets in. "That reminds me, how did your project go, by the way?”It was pretty good! The prof liked our presentation more than I expected.

紅葉降る、添水の音や出迎える (もみじふる  そうずのおとや  でむかえる) (momiji furu souzu no oto ya de mukaeru)

I was welcomed by the falling of maple leaves and the sōzu's* sound.

Ah crap, I forgot I have a 10am tomorrow. “Oh, you should sleep soon then.” I’ll probably log off after sorting my inventory. No work tomorrow? “Yeah I’m off tomorrow, so I can take my time.” Oh that’s cool! Well, I’ll be heading off now. Thanks for today as usual!

[You have left the sanctuary.]

*sōzu (添水/そうず/so-u-zu) refers to a Japanese bamboo water fountain designed to scare animals away (also called a shishi-odoshi)

This was written for Tembusu College's Curios Vol. 8, LEPAK, in 2021, and released in 2022. Special thanks to the team that did this, including Ches who did the amazing art that came along with the original, and Fas who was my lovely editor, and a fellow RPG fan. Also a special thanks to my FF14 friends whom without, I would have had no poem to write about for the publication.

[wawerrell]

Thinking about MLK

In his sixth thesis on The Philosophy of History, Walter Benjamin warns of violent conformists “overpowering” history and transforming it into yet another “tool of the ruling class”; the only successful historian, Benjamin prophesies, is that one “who is firmly convinced that even the dead will not be safe” from such enemies. But the Martin Luther King, Jr. — murdered at the hands of a vicious white supremacist, a man who enacted the silent wish of so many — whom we resurrect on the third Monday in January each year is too often a tool of the very same interests he spoke against: those who would disenfranchise our neighbors and cordon off our democracy, those who dream of a government only big enough to take care of the wealthy. It is important to remember every day, but especially today, that King was not a carefully curated collection of politically palatable quotations, not an anodyne activist who spoke dreamingly of a colorblind America. King and his legacy do not belong to the conformists.

King was a radical.

In her elegy In Memoriam: Martin Luther King, Jr, June Jordan makes the appropriately radical decision to abjure punctuation and traditional form; instead, her words slip, spill, and drip down the page:

honey people murder mercy U.S.A.

the milkland turn to monsters teach

to kill to violate pull down destroy

the weakly freedom growing fruit

from being born

America

tomorrow yesterday rip rape

exacerbate despoil disfigure

crazy running threat the

deadly thrall

appall belief dispel

the wildlife burn the breast

the onward tongue

the outward hand

deform the normal rainy

riot sunshine shelter wreck

of darkness derogate

delimit blank

explode deprive

assassinate and batten up

like bullets fatten up

the raving greed

reactivate a springtime

terrorizing

death by men by more

than you or I can

STOP

They sleep who know a regulated place

or pulse or tide or changing sky

according to some universal  

stage direction obvious  

like shorewashed shells

we share an afternoon of mourning  

in between no next predictable

except for wild reversal hearse rehearsal  

bleach the blacklong lunging

ritual of fright insanity and more

deplorable abortion

more and

more

Blake wrote that “to create a little flower is the labour of ages,” but here, that labor is violently interrupted: Americans are taught to become monsters and to rip out the “freedom growing fruit” by the stem while it is weak, before it can ripen. In a perversion of growth, “rip” is permitted the fertile soil, light, and warmth to blossom into “rape” and “exacerbate.” The fruit is spoiled, humans are despoiled, and, as chaos and hatred rush exhaustingly rush down the stanzas, rest comes not for the wicked, but the privileged: those who know their place amid the universe’s “stage direction[s],” those for whom the world is rightside-up, those for whom a traffic stop is not a death sentence. All that is left, then, is a sleepless and never-ending “afternoon of mourning,” a dress rehearsal for death.

Today, I linger especially on a single line from the poem, a chasmically tragic sentiment: “no next predictable / except for wild reversal.” The only constant, Jordan writes, is vertiginous upheaval: the likelihood that one might, one April night, speak out about the dignity of labor and, the next day, bleed out on a motel balcony. But Jordan reminds us that these are, to misquote Hamlet, “the slings and arrows” not of outrageous fortune but of daily life.

Just a few days before King was shot and killed, the April issue of Esquire hit newsstands. For the cover, Carl Fischer, with direction from George Lois, styled and photographed Muhammad Ali as St. Sebastian:

Here, before the assassination, those “slings and arrows” are literalized. Reactionary racial, religious, and political abuses — pro-Black, Islam, and Vietnam — penetrate the heavyweight; his face, not so much a rictus of agony as it is a plea, fades backward into the horizontal plane. Just as those arrows converge on their target, tools of violence and destruction intersecting with Black flesh, so, too, does this photograph represent a convergence of identities and discrimination.

“I am reaching for the words to describe the difference between a common identity that has been imposed,” Jordan, who was a bisexual, writes in Report from the Bahamas, “and the individual identity any one of us will choose, once she gains that chance.” Those dual, dueling identities strike at the heart of Jordan’s works, of life in the liminal space between harmony and honesty, between fidelity and conformity — a pained existence that Walt Whitman, in an early “Calamus” poem, describes as finding a balance between the true “soul” and “the life that exhibits itself” — and are made manifest in this magazine cover.

St. Sebastian — whose feast day is this Friday — has long been considered a gay saint. While Freudian critics and readers might find this genesis primarily in the role penetration plays in St. Sebastian’s martyrdom, more basically St. Sebastian was a man with a secret: he was, behind closed doors and despite the wishes of his employer, his colleagues, his friends, and his neighbors, someone or something different, a worshipper of Jesus Christ. Upon turning away from “the life that exhibits itself” and revealing his “soul,” so to speak, St. Sebastian was tortured, suffered, and then was killed. One might see this affinity in Oscar Wilde’s pseudonym, “Mr. Sebastian Melmoth,” and throughout the oeuvre of, to name a few, Marsden Hartley, Jasper Johns, and Andy Warhol, whose piece Where is Your Rupture? is below.

Like King, Jordan recognizes that, despite so many of the oppressed’s sharing a common enemy, too many toil in solitude rather than in solidarity: “As long as there are [queer] Americans who view sexuality as the first and last defining facet of their existence, and who, therefore, do not defend immigrants against the savagery of xenophobic hatred, as long as there are [queer] Americans who view sexuality as the first and last defining fact of their lives, then for that long I am not one with you and you are not one with me.”

Benjamin closes his sixth thesis by writing that “this enemy [who would conquer and coopt the dead] has not ceased to be victorious.” If there is a colorblind aspect of King’s dream for America, it is colorblind only insofar as it is a vision of harmonious collaboration in dismantling oppression: the only way to defeat the enemy is through intersectional solidarity.

[broomsick]

Simple devotional acts for the Æsir & the Vanir

A concept which I blatantly stole from Kas and adapted to norse faith like I said I would (love u bun)

Odin:

- learn a cool fun fact and tell Him about it

- change itineraries from time to time, explore your neighborhood and spots you’ve never seen before

- learn about the runes!

- watch a documentary on something that interests you

- read the Hávamál

Freyja:

- list things that you love about yourself

- talk to Her about your problems of the day and thank Her for listening

- random acts of kindness

- Feel yourself!! Wear your favorite clothes and blast music that makes you feel powerful

- Take pictures of stuff you find beautiful and offer them to Her

Frigg:

- take a moment to appreciate Her motherly presence, as well as mother figures in your life

- admire the sky, Her weaving of the clouds

- learn about divination or astrology

- spend time with family or friends!

- tell Her good morning & good night

Tyr:

- step in for your ideals

- pour Him a glass of alcohol along with yours, share a drink!

- hold back comments which you know aren’t useful/are going to cause conflict

- listen to others’ opinions, try to see both sides of the coin

Thor:

- put some stormy ambient noise during meditation/before sleep

- write a letter praising Him

- read His stories or listen to them from audio books

- thank Him for protecting humankind

- meat eaters share some of you steak with Him, like seriously

Loki:

- burn stuff. For real do it /gen/srs BUT BE CAREFUL!! MIND FIRE HAZARD

- make that funny comment, don’t hold back!

- prioritize your mental health above all

- leave Him some of your morning coffee ^^

- tell that one a**hole what you actually think of them and cut them out of your life if need be

Baldr:

- enjoy a piece of calm music (I associate Him with classical a lot)

- light a bunch of candles and close your eyes, feel His presence and light fill you

- appreciate the world’s beauty in your everyday life

- get creative for Him with poems or art

- bath meditation >:)

Sygin:

- light a candle for Narfi and Vali

- speak your love for Her, give words to it and offer Her your sincere admiration and encouragement

- practice kindness on the daily

- work to improve your mental health little by little through affirmations, daily self care, etc

- small gestures to help your loved ones

Jörd:

- open a window and enjoy the outside air

- witches: collect dirt and whatever cool rocks you find, try to incorporate them in your craft!

- tend your plants/garden

- thank Her for the food She blesses us with before cooking something

- develop a new eco-friendly habit!

Skadi:

- the air’s getting colder? Take out the gloves, scarves and hats, try to welcome winter with a positive frame of mind!

- snowstorm asmr >:)

- close your eyes on windy days, feel Her presence

- drink a hot drink in Her honor (hot cocoa, chai tea, mulled wine...) they also make great offerings

- stand your ground and fight for yourself

Freyr:

- celebrate the end and beginning of the harvests (spring and autumn)

- thank Him when it rains: the ground will be fed

- care for your body, treat it well

- encourage local farmers and businesses

- learn how to bake!

[inaflashimagine]

Haikyuu!! Boys Reacting to Your Baby Bump

Request: Can you write about hq boys reacting to your baby bump when you’re pregnant?

Characters: Akaashi, Kageyama, Kuroo, Tsukishima, Semi, Iwaizumi, Ushijima, Kenma, Hinata, Oikawa, Bokuto

Warnings: Some post timeskip spoilers

–

Akaashi Keiji loves reading to you and his growing child. The first time it happened was a complete accident: you enjoy hearing Keiji recite poems before heading to bed, and apparently so did your baby, their first kicks shocking you and Akaashi when he finished the poem. Every night, Akaashi narrates his favorite childhood stories featuring various and incredibly animated voices. Other times he lulls both of you to sleep with a sweet sonnet he wrote himself, expressing his excitement about you and the little person he can’t wait to meet. He especially relishes placing a gentle hand and tracing small circles on your bump while he reads, a big smile never leaving his face when he feels another kick in response to his soothing voice.

Kageyama Tobio once tried balancing a volleyball on your baby bump, and when it actually remained in place, it became part of his daily routine after coming home from practice or a game. At first you chided him for doing something so silly (does this man only think about volleyball?), but now you can’t help but laugh every time this happens. When the volleyball suddenly falls off your bump because one of the baby’s kicks was quite strong, Kageyama couldn’t stop shouting, “They’re already a genius setter!” He shares this information with his team. Every. Single. Day. No one has the heart to tell him that technically your baby’s kicks show more of their soccer skills than volleyball ones.

Kuroo Tetsurou likes talking to the baby bump non-stop. If he’s not telling his baby bad science jokes (he even pauses, as if waiting for a response, before continuing with the pun or knock-knock joke), then he’s asking the baby for advice on how to deal with your cravings and mood swings. Also, he can’t stop calling your baby Youth or Young one, which makes him sound like an 80-year-old. “Young one, your mother is cranky today. Should we get her pickle juice before she whacks my ‘rooster head’ again?” You whack his head anyways.

Tsukishima Kei constantly puts his headphones on your baby bump, making sure his child can listen to the greatest classics and possess an amazing taste in music prior to leaving the womb. He even has a system set in place to see if the child is receptive to a certain song or not. If there is at least one kick, the song is added to the “Playlist for Dino Egg.” If there’s no kick, he skips the song and immediately takes it off his Likes on Spotify (he can already tell that his kid would make for a great music critic).

Semi Eita often sings to your baby bump, hoping the lovely melody and the soft chords from his acoustic guitar reach the ears of his tiny child. Despite being a band musician, he is only a back-up vocalist and feels quite insecure about his singing abilities. But his initial nervousness is quickly dispelled as soon as you both see that the baby can’t stop kicking whenever he sings. Semi even writes a lullaby for your child, titled after their future name. His bandmates beg for him to include the song on their upcoming album because it’s a gem, but he simply shakes his head and says it’s only for his child’s ears to hear.

Iwaizumi Hajime can’t stop touching your baby bump, his large hands already guarding his child. You can’t help but tear up whenever you see a softer side to Iwaizumi as he whispers to his child on how excited he is to introduce them to the world and show them his favorite people, places, and food, and even to teach them sports. (“It doesn’t even have to be volleyball! And if you don’t want to play sports, that’s fine, too! Whatever you do, you’ll definitely be better at it than Shittykawa.”) He definitely has a picture of you cradling your baby bump in his wallet.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, being the secret farmer that he is, compares the baby’s size to a vegetable or fruit, still unable to fully process how quickly his child is growing. He even places said fruit or vegetable on your belly, as if the baby can see it with x-ray vision. “It is Week 20, you are a banana,” he’d assert, not even realizing that he accidentally called your baby a fruit. Your favorite week? “It is now Week 30, and you are as big as this cabbage I just harvested.”

Kozume Kenma likes to talk to your baby bump when he is stumped on a certain video game. Although his child can’t actually provide an answer or clues (and Kenma doesn’t allow you to speak on their behalf, or “You’ll interrupt our conversation.”), talking to his kid clears his head and suddenly he knows how to solve the game. Before departing to resume his playing, he thanks your baby for listening and softly kisses both you and your belly.

Hinata Shoyo always narrates every volleyball game he watches on TV to your baby bump (yet another man who can’t think anything beyond volleyball). However, you somewhat worry for your child considering that the baby only hears, “ZOOM! BOOM! SWOOSH!” instead of an actual commentary about the rally.

Oikawa Tooru has adopted several pet-names for your child as the baby bump continues to grow. At first he only called the baby “Alien Fetus” or “It,” to which you threw a volleyball at him every time he said those words (“OUCH–I only say it out of love, Y/N-chan!”). Now, he always coos at his baby with Spanish words he’s learned during his time in Argentina, such as “Mi principito/princesita (my little prince/princess),” “Mi corazoncito (my sweetheart),” and his favorite, “Mi tesorito (my little/sweet treasure).” You may be jealous–but only slightly jealous–that your child receives cuter nicknames from Oikawa than you do.

Bokuto Koutarou loves planting hundreds of kisses on your baby bump, even counting each one to teach his child, “How to count! He’ll be a math whiz like me.” (“Akaashi told me that you failed many of your math exams, though,” you supply, to which Bokuto exclaims, “AGAAASSHII! That was supposed to be a secret!”). Whenever he feels the baby kick, he lets out a, “Hey hey hey, lil’ one!” while his grin beams with so much pride.

[mikrowrites]

cottages of constellations

c!wilbur x f!reader

warnings: angst, fluffy flashbacks, arson, character death

summary: there’s a place only known by two people, full of sweet memories and domesticity. but the world isn’t sweet anymore, and sometimes violence is the only universal language. rather, Sophie visits the cottage she and Wilbur shared before the war, and is met by an unlikely guest.

might make a part two w doomsday and revivebur, we shall see...

Y/n sighed, sitting upon her horse as the wind blew across the grassy field. Smoke still rose behind her from fires still not put out long after the destruction, the girl shaking her head to try and absolve the memory from her head.

She gripped the reins, goading the horse to move, Y/n riding across the field. She knew where she needed to go, she knew the coordinates by heart.

No one else knew about the cottage, just two people, and one of them... well, he’s dead. There’s no sugar coating that. It resided far from the server, a little place just for the two of them.

After a few hours, with the sun rising behind, Y/n rode into the woods. She kept going forwards until she reached the river, stopping the horse. She looked forwards, pursing her lips.

The cottage.

“This is the perfect place!”

Wilbur jumped off his horse, pointing to the small clearing along the river.

“You think so?” Y/n asked, walking up beside him to stare at the landscape.

“Of course.” He emphasized. “But of course perfect is wherever you are.”

Y/n scoffed. “Jesus, that was cheesy.”

Wilbur laughed, running down the landscape towards the small clearing. He turned back, smiling.

“Hey, are you coming?”

Y/n tied her horse to a lead, patting it in thanks before moving forwards, approaching the cottage.

It looked frozen in time, from when Y/n had left it to help fight for L’manburg. The flowers still looked kept, the farm out back unharvested. She smiled as she approached the cottage, taking in the blooming flowers.

“It’s a surprise, so no looking.”

“Okay, okay!” Y/n allowed Wilbur to lead her over outside the cottage.

Wilbur stopped. “Okay, you can look.”

Y/n opened her eyes, walking over to peer at several brightly colored flowers planted around the cottage’s exterior. The hues painted the landscape, causing her jaw to drop at the beauty.

“Do you like it?” Wilbur nervously asked, Y/n whipping her head around to cast him a bright smile.

“I love it, Wilbur.”

Y/n pushed the oak door open, the hinges creaking. She let out a few coughs as dust invaded her senses, stepping into the cottage. the lanterns were flickered out, pots of plants and flowers left withered and dead.

She walked past a set of bookshelves, running her fingers across the spines of the books.

Wilbur and Y/n sat together, books in each of their hands as they read and relish each other’s company. A kettle of water was being heated in the kitchen, the sun filtering through the windows.

Y/n flipped a page, not noticing as Wilbur’s eyes lifted from the pages to her face, studying every bit of her. A soft smile crossed his face as he studied her soft green eyes, the bridge of her nose, her eyebrows that were furrowed in concentration.

Suddenly her eyes flicked up, Wilbur’s face going red. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing! Nothing, no, not at all, no, uh—“Wilbur smiled sheepishly. “You’re... you’re just so ethereal right now.”

It was Y/n’s turn to blush as she tried to hide her cheeks behind the book, the boy laughing.

Y/n grasped a rung of the ladder in her hand, sighing for a moment before pulling herself up. Each step up the ladder her heart quickened, her lips trembled.

She climbed into the loft area, her breath catching in her throat.

The bed was still perfectly made from the day she left it. The sunset reflected perfectly into the room from the large glass window, casting the room into a beautiful orange hue. Y/n turned and saw the chest in the corner, the sight bringing her to her knees.

The letters.

“I’ll write you so many letters, Y/n/n!” Wilbur insisted, grasping her hands. “Every day! Until you can join me, we can send those letters.”

Y/n nodded eagerly. “I’ll miss you, Wil.”

The boy pulled her into an embrace, the girl burying her face in his shirt. He smiled, tracing circles into her back comfortingly. “A letter a day for you, until we see each other again.”

And a letter a day she received.

The letters came daily, some recalling the events of the day, some poems, some love letters. Y/n read each letter enthusiastically, hearing of Wilbur’s adventures and the people he encountered. The nation he was creating, L’manburg.

Then, after receiving a letter detailing the start of the war for L’manburg, Y/n packed her bag, took her horse, and left for the server. She fought alongside Wilbur and the others, resisting for independence.

Y/n’s hands trembled as she sifted through and read each letter, the open pieces of parchment cast about the floor in front of her. Her heart ached as she read the words of a man whom she had lost so long ago, so long before his death. The Wilbur that had wrote Y/n songs and poems declaring his love and admiration had died in that war, leaving a man she could hardly recognize.

The orange glow of the sun was fading from the room, darkening the inside of the cottage. Y/n felt tears gather in her eyes as she finished reading the last letter, two teardrops pattering on the wood floor. The letter fluttered from her hand onto the ground with the rest, the girl wiping the tears from her cheeks.

She stood, looking out the window and noting how night was fast approaching. Y/n frowned, reaching into her pocket to produce a box of matches, walking over the the bedside lantern to light it. She struck the match, the flame igniting, lighting the lantern.

Y/n went to shake out the match before freezing, her eyes fixed upon the yellow light of the small flickering flame.

The fire crackled softly as melodic guitar chords filled the night with sweet music. The river rushed by near them, as well as the sounds of the rustling leaves in the wind, creating an orchestra of soothing sounds.

Y/n smiled, closing her eyes and resting her head against Wilbur’s shoulder as he strummed the guitar. They sat on a blanket in front of the fire, one of Wilbur’s coats draped over the girl’s shoulders.

Peace. Both felt total and complete peace.

“I wish we could stay like this forever.” Y/n mused, staring up at the stars.

“Maybe, someday, we will. We’ll just lay and chart constellations.” Wilbur responded confidently.

Y/n smiled, closing her eyes and letting the sounds of Wilbur’s guitar and the campfire lull her to sleep.

“I’d like that.”

The lit match felt heavy between Y/n’s fingers, the girl sitting amongst the countless letters once more. Night had fallen, the stars dotting the sky. Y/n stared out at the stars, catching sight of constellations and clouds and the moon.

She reached for a letter, parting her lips.

“You lied to me.”

Y/n stood once more and let the letter meet the match, the paper going up in flames. She dropped it, the flaming parchment falling to the floor and igniting the rest of the precious letters that could have redeemed Wilbur.

She stepped back, watching as flames set to the wood of the room, the bed, the carpet. The girl spared the room one last look before climbing down the ladder, throwing the match onto the bookshelf, and walking out of the cottage. Y/n walked backwards, watching as surely the cottage was caught in a fury of flames.

Y/n finally let herself breathe, exhaling deeply as if a weight had lifted off her chest. She watched her old home burn, finally feeling a sense of finality.

“You sure did a number on that house.”

Her eyes widened, spinning and quickly unsheathing her sword and raising it to the person behind her’s neck. Y/n’s eyes hardened, glaring at the unwanted visitor.

“What the fuck are you doing here.” She spat.

She could almost see Dream’s smile from under his mask. “Wilbur sure did love his secrets. Was will to impart a few to me in exchange for some TNT. I figured you might be here.”

Y/n furrowed her eyebrows. “He... he told you about the cottage?”

“Y/n... he told me everything.” Dream responded. She slowly lowered her sword, stepping away from Dream. “I understand everything now. Your blind devotion to him, the loyalty. The server that drove him to betray that trust.”

“You did.” Y/n insisted. “You drove him to his death. You caused all of this.”

“Wilbur made his own decisions.” Dream shrugged. “And as I can see now, so can you.”

Y/n turned to look back at the fire. “So, you’re here to kill me then, yeah?”

“No, I’m not.” Dream quickly replied, Y/n looking back at him. “I’m here to make you an offer.”

“An offer? What the hell does that mean?” She scoffed.

Dream approached her. “They’re rebuilding L’Manburg as we speak. They never learn, they never understand. They call Wilbur insane, yet maybe he was the most sane of us all. He saw and understood the truth, and that scared them. So here’s what I offer you, Y/n. Help me take them down. I’ll pay you a good price.”

“What could you pay me that’s worth my time?” Y/n raised her eyebrows, crossing her arms.

Dream reached into his pocket, throwing a few netherite ingots and several diamonds onto the grass in front of her. Y/n’s eyes widened slightly, looking up at him. “There’s so much more where this came from. And better yet,” Dream tilted his head slightly as he held a bundle of fabric to her, the brown shades and patches so very familiar; Wilbur’s coat. “you can finish what Wilbur started.”

Y/n stared wordlessly at the piece of clothing held out in front of her, before closing her eyes.

“Wil?” Y/n wandered over to where Wilbur sat in the darkness of Pogtopia, the girl kneeling down next to him.

“Hey, Y/n/n.” He smiled tightly, sitting forwards. “What’s up?”

The girl smiled sadly. “I don’t know. I just... everything’s all wrong. I don’t know how to fix it.”

The man pondered her words, considering how the events of the next few days would play out. The heartache and betrayal.

It was no secret Wilbur and Y/n had been drifting apart. The lingering trauma of her torturous life in Manburg and the loss of her first two canon lives, him grieving the loss of his country. They were both hanging on by a thread, and comfort was hard to be sought between the two of them.

Wilbur knew he would die soon. He knew that the end of his story was approaching, but maybe, he could have one more sweet memory with the girl he had fallen helplessly in love with.

“Let’s go look at the stars.”

Y/n perked up, her featured contorted in surprise. “What?”

“Like we used to, by the river. Let’s go stargazing.” Wilbur stood, holding out his hand to help her up. The girl took it, the boy pulling her up to standing and intertwining his fingers in hers, pulling her through the ravine.

They trudged up the stone stairs and through the hidden doorway, out into the open air. Wilbur led Y/n into a clearing, where he shrugged off his jacket, laying it on the ground. He beckoned her over, the two laying on top of the fabric and staring up.

The sky was exceptionally clear that night, the stars glittering beautifully against a dark sky. Wilbur turned to watch Y/n stare up at the stars, noting her lips twitch softly as she began to list constellations under her breath. He took her hand once more, looking up at the stars.

That was the last moment they shared together before he died.

Y/n opened her eyes, looking up at Dream, who held out a hand to shake. She sheathed her sword, nodding slightly before taking the jacket and reaching her hand out, clasping his palm in a firm shake.

The man chuckled from behind his mask, stepping backwards. “You’ll be hearing from me. Goodbye, Y/n.” With that he left, the girl left standing alone on the riverbank. She stood still for a beat before bending down, moving the items to her inventory, shrugging on the trench coat, and turning back to the cottage.

It was nearly burnt to the ground at this rate, the flowers outside catching. Y/n swore for a moment she could see a glimpse of a tall boy in a yellow sweater in the flames, but brushed it off. She made the trek over to her horse, climbing onto the saddle.

She cast one more look at the remains of the cottage before cracking the reins, riding away.

It was time to finish what Wilbur had started.

a/n: i wrote this before the philza lore where wilbur fabricated history in the letters, so just assume that wilbur was truthful in these letters and y/n arrived directly before the duel and the betrayal.