#micro blocks

[ainkongsi]

"You control your destiny. You don't need magic to do it". ~ Brave movie

https://s.shopee.com.my/6AWSzLMbYo

[bane-huntress]

Kitty looking into a fishtank!

That moment when that cheap site shows u something cute... But u didnt realise HOW small the bit's are... But... CUTE he he...

But... I do have a cherry blossom tree with the same size of brick... /Cry

And I do confess I had to supergule the head in places, it fell apart on me 3 time! and I had to use tweezers to pick up the blocks from the pile.

[tackytigerfic]

ZOOM

For @drarrymicrofic prompt: inhale

Drarry, Formula 1 AU, this is sort of Maxiel-coded ok.

Dear @wolfpants I'm sorry it's F1 but wanted to wish you a very happy and very belated birthday, pal.

There's a moment, after his front wheels lock but before he hits the wall, when Harry experiences a weird and total purity of vision. Everything leaps into high colour: the numbers flashing demurely on his screen, the flickering jaunty stripes of the wall he's about to crash into, the gloss of his gloves where his hands are flexing as the steering wheel spins through his hands, as though turning it will do the slightest bit of good.

In his moment of clarity, Harry just has the time to think “Malfoy,” and then the nose of the car is buried in the barrier, the air fuel-hot, the throb of the engine suddenly, horribly still.

It’s objectively a weird last thought to have had; Harry’s done with Malfoy, has been done with Malfoy for ages. It might just be hysteria manifesting in a weird way, the thought of imminent death combining with the awful, frightening, sudden pain of the impact making Harry loopy. He doesn’t have time to worry about it anymore, though, because that’s when he smells burning.

***

The interview with Malfoy is all over the news by the time Harry gets home from the hospital, and it plays on a constant silent loop on the big telly while he drinks a Red Bull straight from the can, standing in the cold blast from the open fridge door. There’s an interview with Albus too, outside the Firebolt hospitality. Harry doesn’t know what he’s saying, hasn’t watched it, but he can make a fairly good guess.

He has watched the Malfoy interview. Couldn’t help himself, if he’s honest, plus it’s also all over the socials, even the Firebolt ones. No escape. It's obviously recorded just after the race, because Malfoy is still trackside, lines scored over his cheeks from the balaclava, his hair sticking with sweat behind his ears. His dad is beside him, scrolling furiously through his phone, wearing a Strike hoodie, the silver snake of the S gleaming in a thousand camera flashes.

“Fuck off,” Malfoy tells the cameras — the word is bleeped out, but his mouth moves unmistakably through the consonants. He sucks aggressively on his straw as the microphone is shoved in his face again, a bodiless voice saying, “Can you tell us how you’re feeling about what happened to Harry, Draco?”

Malfoy throws his helmet. Whoever’s behind the camera does a good job of capturing the sudden movement, the slight sheen of sweat in the armpit of Malfoy’s green fireproofs, the viciousness of the overarm throw, the clumsy harmless landing as the helmet rolls uselessly along the ground — if Malfoy was aiming for the reporters, he was way off. Embarrassing, for a professional athlete.

There’s silence.

Malfoy shoves through the crowd of reporters, the dangling arms of his race suit flapping behind him. The camera moves with him. He turns.

“I don’t give a damn about Potter.” And then he really is gone, the green globe of his helmet still rocking on the concrete.

The camera pans back to Lucius Malfoy, who looks bored.

“Of course, my son wishes Potter a speedy recovery,” he says. There’s an excruciating pause while he taps at his phone screen efficiently, then the whoosh sound of a message sending. He looks up. “They were, after all, teammates once.”

They’ve even shared the clip on the Strike socials, though they left out the swearing and the straw-sucking and the helmet-throwing, just kept the moment when Malfoy stalks out of the paddock, Lucius Malfoy’s glib statement.

A slow-mo of Malfoy throwing his helmet already has over a million likes on the official F1 account on Insta. Harry’s checked, from his fake account. He watches it four times while he eats one of the revolting meals that are all Ginny allows him to eat in-season. She’s got a new training schedule set up for him too; she’s left it stuck to the front of the fridge with one of the Potter 7 magnets he has about 20 of.

His phone is going, Ron out of some sponsorship meeting, a pic of the contract with a thumbs up emoji. Harry gives it a thumbs up back and then Ron messages again — Malfoy asking about you and the puking emoji. Text him mate or he’ll just keep texting me.

Harry’s message thread with Malfoy is over a year old. It’s buried so deep he almost hopes he won’t find it, but of course it’s there as he scrolls down, just an anonymous M for Malfoy in the place of the photo Harry used to have saved. He clicks in, thumbing quickly into the text box so he doesn’t have to look at the line of blue messages one after the other. Malfoy had never replied, not since the day he told Harry that he was moving to Strike. Harry shouldn’t even fucking bother messaging now, he should just let Ron handle Malfoy. That’s literally his job.

I’m fine, is what he settles on. It strikes the right note, he thinks. Dignified, but factual. He hits send, then undoes it all by going back in straight away and following it up with Ron told me you asked. He almost mentions the onboard. Malfoy would have mentioned it, if it was the other way round. But he’s glad he managed not to, when his messages turn to read but Malfoy doesn’t reply.

***

The buzzer goes just after Harry takes his first round of painkillers. He's still swishing water around his mouth when he looks at the door camera feed and sees Malfoy is there, unmistakable.

“What are you doing here?” he says into the intercom, and watches the jerky delay of the image as Malfoy rolls his eyes and hammers a fist on the door.

“Open up, Potter,” he says, without bothering to press the intercom button, loud enough that Harry can hear him through the door. Harry does open up.

Malfoy comes in. He’s wearing white from head to toe, some sort of tracksuit with baggy trouser legs and an oversized hoodie. His trainers are definitely not meant for actually training in — they’re pristine, totally unmarked as though he’d taken them out of the box before he came over here. He bends to unlace them, tugs them off and sets them on the mat. Under his baseball cap, his hair is pushed back behind his ears, almost the same colour as the fabric. He looks ridiculous. He looks expensive. In fact, he looks like two million dollars, which is exactly what Ron reckoned he’d made off the Nike deal.

“What the hell, Malfoy?” Harry says, and Malfoy looks him up and down, taking him in slowly, the stretched-out old Firebolt tee from Harry’s first ever round of proper merch, his shorts, his bare feet. The cast on his left hand.

“You fucked it, Potter,” Malfoy says. “I’d be embarrassed for you, if I cared.”

“And yet,” Harry says, moving around Malfoy to kick the door shut behind him, “here you are. Presumably to let me know in person just how little you care?”

“Are you out for the rest of the season?” Malfoy grins at the idea, winningly. He doesn’t wait for Harry to answer, just makes for the kitchen. Harry can hear the whirring of the ice-maker on the fridge, the crisp sound of a bottle of sparkling water being opened.

“Dunno.” Harry leans against the kitchen door. Malfoy unerringly reaches into the glasses cupboard, fills two tumblers with ice. His sleeve flaps as he pours the water. “They think I have a mild concussion. Even Albus wasn’t going to drag me into a team meeting when I’m just out of hospital.”

Malfoy looks at him thoughtfully, readjusts his baseball cap. A tuft of hair is sticking out the opening at the back, like a little tail.

“They’ll have to keep you out for a few races, at least. You’ll be lucky to be back by Singapore, my father thinks.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he has an opinion on it, alright.” Harry kicks at the door frame with the back of his heel. He watches Malfoy drink, the moving line of his throat, the small subtle sparkle of the number 13 at his breast as he swallows.

“Right,” Malfoy says, setting down his glass next to Harry’s untouched one, which is sweating despite the aircon. “You’re not dead, anyway. I’ll be off, then.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” It must be the concussion that makes him keep talking. “You could stay for dinner. If you want.”

It’s an awful idea — Harry knows it even as he says it, even as Malfoy’s mouth curls into distaste. The last time they had dinner here had been the night Malfoy had told Harry about Strike. About leaving.

“You can’t just hit your head,” Malfoy says, his back to Harry as he puts the water bottle back, slamming the fridge door shut behind him, “and then start acting like everything’s normal again.”

“I’ve been acting normal this whole time.” Harry’s done; he needs more headache tablets, some air, a glass of water that hasn’t been poured for him by Malfoy. “You’re the one who made things not normal. I mean, Strike? If you had to go, at least go somewhere good.”

It’s so very much an echo of the last time they spoke that Harry wonders if maybe he’s actually having an extended hallucination. But no, even a concussed brain couldn’t have conjured up the intimidating crispness of Malfoy’s white tracksuit, the baseball cap with its rearing snake logo, the crooked seam of Malfoy’s left sock. He’s unimaginable, here in Harry’s kitchen.

“Yes, I bet you’d have loved me to stick around playing second driver to you,” Malfoy says, pushing past Harry to look for his shoes in the dim hallway.

“You’ll always be second to me,” Harry replies, and kicks one of Malfoy’s trainers at him. It couldn’t hurt, all that light foamy stuff, but Malfoy makes an injured noise and shoves at him again, shoulder to chest, nudging Harry back into the wall. He wriggles a foot into the trainer, not bothering with the laces. Harry wants to shove him back, but settles instead for saying, "Doesn’t matter what car you’re in, you’re still going to end up exactly where you belong. Behind me.”

“Oh promises, promises, Potter. Behind you, indeed. I’m sure you'd like that. We've all seen the photos.”

Malfoy’s breath shivers over Harry’s cheek, minty, like he’s been chewing gum and then drinking Harry’s iced water. He’s so physically present, the smell of his weird perfume that he orders from Paris, his lopsided stance where he has only one shoe on, his hard shoulder still pressed forcefully against Harry’s chest, saying things with his blandest voice just like he does in pressers, as though Harry doesn’t know exactly what he’s insinuating.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry says, and elbows him. His stomach is rock hard under the folds of the white jumper; he always did have more discipline than Harry.

“Looks like everyone knows about you now. Oh, sorry — touched a nerve, have I?”

He has, though not for the reasons he means. Harry doesn't really care about the photos, that so many people have seen him like that, or even that the guy had probably made a packet out of tipping off the paps, and he hadn’t even been that good a shag. Nothing much has changed for Harry since it all came out, really — even in the aftermath, the team had come up with the statement, he just had to read it. He wears a rainbow lanyard for his paddock pass now, but that’s really the only thing that’s different.

Harry only cares about the fact that he’s clearly not very happy in the photos. When they pop up online like they still do from time to time, even now, all he can see are the shadows under his eyes, the patchy stubble, his eyes red-rimmed. He hadn’t been sleeping well back then.

“Everyone who mattered already knew.” Harry shrugs. “No point in living a lie, anyway.”

Malfoy narrows his eyes. Glib statements drive him crazy, and apparently Harry isn’t over wanting to do that.

“I’m not—” Malfoy begins, but he knows that Harry knows. Harry was there for it all. Malfoy was there too — in Vegas, where it started, in their shared hotel room, his eyes feverishly bright in the reflected glow of the strip outside the window as he watched Harry from across the room, the rustle of his bedsheets, Harry’s frantic hand, the sounds they made from their entirely separate beds that make Harry hot to think about even now. All the hotel rooms, always separate beds, the line they very carefully never crossed. The time Malfoy texted a photo of his palm, come pooling, from the toilet of the gala they were both at. The time on the jet when Ron had nearly walked in on Harry with his cock out and Malfoy had pretended to be asleep in his seat, a malicious flush creeping up his neck, smothering his laughter in his blanket.

Harry gets his phone out. Malfoy’s still close enough to see the screen, watches Harry thumb in the passcode that Malfoy had known off by heart, that Harry has never bothered to update. Malfoy’s face doesn’t change as Harry brings up the clip, first the slow-mo slide of Harry’s car into the candystriped barrier, the hail of debris over the track. And then the screen switches to Malfoy’s onboard, his green gloves steady on the wheel as he whips around Turn 2.

There are so many fan edits of this bit, all of them set to swoopy music and intercut with flickering old photos of Harry and Malfoy in their matching race suits, from before, but Harry doesn’t need to go that far. This one is enough to get the point across.

Here it comes, the demanding crackle of Malfoy’s radio.

“Who?” he asks, and Goyle —fucking Goyle, the traitor, who hadn’t even thought about not following where Malfoy led — replies, “Safety car, Draco, safety car.”

“I know, I just saw,” Malfoy replies. “Who? Is it Potter?”

“It’s Potter,” Goyle confirms, and Malfoy breathes in so hard you can hear it over the engine, even through the fuzz of the onboard.

“Harry?” Malfoy asks then. Harry’s listened to this about a hundred times now, in news reports and on the official socials and all those edits, which have all added soaring music to this bit, violins or something, and then Goyle says, “Harry’s okay, Draco, he’s out of the car.”

Harry shuts the screen down. He can hear Malfoy breathing in the sudden silence.

“Looks like everyone knows about you now, too,” Harry says. “It’s all over the socials. We have a ship name and everything.”

“Fuck you,” Malfoy says, and then kisses Harry, nonsensically, almost missing his mouth, the brim of his hat knocking into Harry’s forehead, his lips rasping over Harry’s unshaven chin. Malfoy tries again, but he’s at the wrong angle, so Harry turns him, both of them tripping over Malfoy's other shoe. Harry pushes him up against the wall, knocks the stupid hat off his head so he can kiss him properly, his tongue in Malfoy’s hot mouth, Malfoy’s hand sliding unerring up the back of his t-shirt.

“It’s fine,” Malfoy says into Harry’s mouth, and then forgets himself to kiss Harry again for a bit. “It’s fine for me to— It’s fine that I care—”

He’s trying to reassure himself, and annoyed about it. Harry suspects it’s probably not all that fine, at least not from the point of view of the Strike management team, which is to say Lucius Malfoy. But Harry doesn’t care as long as Malfoy is allowing him to lick into his mouth, bite at his lip a bit, his body solid and moving under Harry’s hands.

“Yeah,” Harry tells him. “It’s fine, it’s good. I care too, I care—” Malfoy kneads his chest, thumb flicking over one nipple. “I thought about you before I died.”

Harry manages to wriggle his good hand between them, and Malfoy’s dick is there and Harry’s touching him where he’s hot and straining and kind of big where the fabric is all rucked up over his hard-on. Everything is clear again, like the moment before he died, Malfoy in sharp focus even in the dim hallway, his spiky pale eyelashes and his faint freckles and the wet patch on his trackie bottoms under the heel of Harry’s hand.

“You didn’t die,” Malfoy says — his crooked incisor, the scar on his lip from the time they went karting for Crabbe’s stag do, his skin that tastes weird and looks all dewy from whatever moisturiser he’s using these days — and shoves his knee between Harry’s legs for Harry to clench around, rub against. Harry’s going to come like this, maybe; it feels as good as driving, as good as a podium — or nearly, at least.

“I did break a metacarpal, though,” Harry tells him, breathless. “It’s actually very painful. I might need surgery.”

“You’re pathetic,” Malfoy says, sounding deeply satisfied about it. Harry’s bad hand is in his hair. Harry’s glad his fingers are free, at least, so he can ruffle up the strands that have been moulded flat by the hat.

“But I did think I was going to die, to be fair,” he says, stroking, stroking, one hand on Malfoy’s dick and one in his hair so Malfoy makes a sound and arches his back, meeting both touches. Harry’s own dick is jammed up against Malfoy’s hip. “And I thought about you when I did.”

“Alright,” Malfoy says, unpeeling himself from Harry, kicking off his one untied shoe. “Bedroom.”

Malfoy leads the way, shedding his hoodie as he goes so Harry can admire the working of his shoulders. On the console table, next to a big horrible arrangement of flowers and a bowl with all of Harry’s car keys, is the helmet he’d been wearing the day of the accident. It was supposed to be auctioned off for charity after the race — they might still be planning to, in fact. It'll probably make even more since the crash; people are weird like that. It's quite pretty, actually, designed specially for Zandvoort: a riot of brightly painted tulips around all the sponsor logos, Harry’s lightning bolt picked out in gold on top, the rest of it Firebolt red.

Malfoy pauses. He’s halfway through removing his tracksuit bottoms, one thumb hooked low in the back of the waistband, most of his tight white underwear on show. He looks at the helmet consideringly. Harry catches up with him, bites at the line of his shoulder. Malfoy reaches out, one finger tracing the lightning bolt, and then, as delicately as a cat, pushes the helmet off the edge of the table. It bounces when it hits the marble floor tiles, the sound of impact louder than Harry was expecting. Together, they watch the helmet roll then wobble then still, a gleaming red orb half under the table alongside Harry’s running trainers and the Crocs he wears for taking the bins out.

“It’s a shit design anyway,” Malfoy says, tilting his head to allow Harry better access. Harry’s nose is in his hair — shampoo, warm scalp, and underneath it all, the faint hot smell of fuel.

[uhhlifeig]

Kick - March 30 - word count: 90 - @wolfstarmicrofic

“You can’t just kick us out,” James pouted.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Well, would you rather hear Moony and I fu-”

“Shut up, Pads,” Remus said, burying his face in his hands.

“Well, they’re not leaving, Moons,” Sirius said, turning to face Remus and frowning.

“No, we’re leaving, aren’t we, Prongs?” Peter asked, aggressively tugging at James’s arm. “We don’t want to hear whatever the hell they’re going to do, do we?”

“Well, no, but-” James protested.

“No buts. C’mon, we have other things to do. Don’t forget your wand.”

[mirandaputsherbestbuttforward]

anyway didn't expect my ex gf to crashout and reply to a comment I made on a lesbian subreddit in 2025 lmaoooo

[lialox]

You're on a path in the woods, and at the end of that path is a cabin. Cabin 3807, of line 3 in Seoul to be exact.

In that cabin is a regressor.

You are here to slay him.

[sommerregenjuniluft]

omg maybe prompt 11? For transfem reg? Like reg watching james playing football and what not idk 😭 anything would be good, really i just love your writing sm

@jegulus-microfic april 11 - football - 832 words

“Hiya, Reg,” James grins breathlessly from where he’s just pulled himself up the railing on the bleachers. There’s no pair of glasses perched on his nose right now, forgone in favor of contacts he wears during Football practice, giving him the opportunity to blink his baby cow brown eyes up at Regulus, long lashes and everything. Looking all handsome and cute, no regards to the way it’s affecting other people. Not that he’s affecting Regulus, no. Her heart is beating at a perfectly normal rate, thank you very much.

Regulus purses her lips to reign in her smile as she takes the two strides over, “Hi James.”

His grin widens at the reciprocated greeting and James leans around her for a second to yell a Hello at the others as well. There’s a less enthusiastic greeting in return and then James’ gaze is back on Regulus as she leans down. Her palms curl around the railing right next to James’—their skin touching just barely, Regulus immediately soaking up the warmth James emits— and her zip-up slips down exposing a naked, pale shoulder. And if the top she’s wearing is a little low cut for the position she’s pulling off, that’s nobody’s business but her own.

And James’ maybe, whose eyes dip lower for just a second, before he clears his throat. “Whatchu all doin’ here this afternoon?”

“Ah, y’know,” Regulus cocks her head, her long waves falling forward, “Enjoying the nice weather, doing a little homework.”

“Watching you play,” Dorcas murmurs from behind her, someone, Pandora presumably, trying to cover it with a cough. Not like Evan or Barty would ever come to her rescue, fucking good for nothings.

James’ grin widens impossibly.

Regulus sucks her teeth, itching to change the subject, “So who are y’all playing against?”

“The team two towns over,” James explains, “A practice match.”

She nods, “Kick some asses then.”

James’ dark hair is wildly standing up in all directions and Regulus has to repress the urge to reach out her fingers and fix it. The football player hums, cocking his head, “Gimme a good luck kiss then?”

“Are you saying you need it?”

“I’m a very superstitious person, Reg. Every player is entitled to their lucky charm.”

“I’m not a lucky charm.”

“You were if it were up to me, baby.”

Regulus rolls her eyes, cheeks heating in irritation.

“C’mon,” James needles, “Just a peck on the cheek.”

“No.”

“I kiss you on the cheek?”

Regulus hesitates, eyes roving over James’ sincere expression for a moment before ripping herself out of her trance, “No.” 

It comes out wobbly though and James grins victoriously.

Right before hefting himself further up and smacking a warm kiss on Regulus’ chilly cheek.

“James,” she cries out in indignation, the older boy already making to leave, jumping down.

James throws another blinding grin over his shoulder as he jogs to where his team is huddling up around the coach, “I know you well enough to know when you’re lying, Reg!”

Regulus’ temple is throbbing at his fucking audacity. She crosses her arms, yelling after him, “I hope you lose!”

“No, you don’t!” James chuckles.

[adhd-merlin]

a lesson in manners

For @merlinmicrofic. Prompt: "Then go", Arthur/Merlin/Gwen, Established Relationship, Gen. Words: 500

“Well.” Merlin rises from his chair. “If there's nothing else.”

Guinevere turns to him – her disappointment clear in her eyes, even though she tries to keep it from her voice. “You’re leaving?”

“Sorry.” Merlin smiles apologetically. “I promised Gaius I would be back in time for supper.”

Which is fair enough. Merlin’s been dining with Arthur and Guinevere more often than not, lately. They have – perhaps selfishly – grown used to his presence.

“Hardly the first time you've kept him waiting,” Arthur observes. Just to be contrary.

“Precisely. He's starting to ask questions.”

“What sort of questions?” Guinevere asks.

Merlin looks at her with a pointed raise of his eyebrows. “Ones I'd rather not answer.” Guinevere’s mouth curves into a faint smile. She closes her eyes when Merlin leans down to kiss her temple.

“I'll see you tomorrow. Good night.” Merlin nods at Arthur before going to the door.

Guinevere looks at him with a hint of sadness in her eyes – which, as a general rule, Arthur finds unacceptable. Guinevere should never look sad. Not in his presence. Not if he can help it.

“Merlin?” Arthur calls. Merlin stops, his hand on the handle. “Is that the way to take leave of your king?”

Merlin looks puzzled. “I'm sorry. Did I forget to bow?” he asks, and he does so, with a jester-like flourish.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Yes. Not that it matters. Come here.”

“Arthur…” Merlin protests, weakly, but he obeys his beckoning.

“Guinevere got a kiss. I was just wondering at the disparity of treatment,” Arthur explains – not because he cares, but just to keep Merlin there a little longer.

Merlin clicks his tongue. “She's nicer than you.”

Arthur just looks at him.

Merlin sighs, theatrically, and Guinevere giggles.

Good.

When Merlin bends down – no doubt to give Arthur a quick peck on the lips – Arthur grabs his ridiculous neckerchief and pulls. Merlin gasps, grasping one of Arthur’s arms as he tips over, and slamming his knee next to Arthur’s thigh to avoid smashing his face against the back of his chair.

“Arthur— ” The rest of his objection is rudely interrupted by Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur kisses Merlin until he’s breathless – maybe from the kiss, maybe from the cloth that’s pulled tight around his neck. Arthur doesn’t loosen his grasp. He knows Merlin likes it. 

When Arthur breaks their kiss, Merlin blinks at him vacantly. He moves his lips as if to shape a word, but seems to have forgotten what he wanted to say.

Then, he remembers. “Gaius is waiting,” he mumbles – eyes fixed on Arthur's mouth.

Arthur lets go of Merlin’s neckerchief and pats his chest. “Then go,” he says, amiably.

Merlin gets to his feet – a bit shakily. His ears are red. He walks to the door again, turns as if to say something, then frowns and closes his mouth. Wordlessly, he leaves.

Guinevere starts laughing.

Good.

“That was mean,” she says. 

Arthur takes her hand and kisses it. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it up to him.”

[busterbby]

Heyyy, how are you doing? I have an idea in mind and I’d like to request a scene with bb and their s/o, where they had a fight and hasn’t spoken for a while but then their f/o comes back in tears, asking them for help because they can’t open a jar of jam. Lol.

Have a good day!

— 🌸

Sorry sorry for the delay 🌸 anon!! Ik I don't usually do scenarios for more than one character. but. This prompt was just too good, and I'm obsessed :') I had to do it justice lol which is also why it took so long ;;. Unfortunately, I did get a little heavy handed, and they mayhaps ended up long.. but regardless!! I truly hope you enjoy <3 and hopefully this is at least somewhat similar to what you had in mind~

— a jar of jam.

hurt/comfort. gn!reader. 3778 words. ichiro, jiro, saburo.

Ichiro [ 1187 words ]

Ichiro hadn’t been expecting you to show up at his door first. 

He’s.. surprised, more or less. as you can tell with the way his gaze widens, the way his heart aches when he sees you, after what has felt like a long time being apart. He misses you; and that proves true, when his heart swells up a size big and does a slight jump in his chest. when he melts just a bit, forgets about all the hurt words the both of you have said, the moment Ichiro sees you. 

Ichiro never liked to keep things tense between the two of you; he’s usually the one to show up at your door, a bit awkward, a bit warm, and with regret yet so much yearning in his eyes as he asks if the two of you could talk. He’s usually the first to say “I’m sorry,” and you know he always means it — you can tell, when he holds your hand gently and looks you in the eyes; you guys love each other, as he’d always say. he could never stay too mad at you. 

Yet, Ichiro just can’t forget; it’s easy to see, with the sour look he still has to him even as much as his heart is relieved. He presses his lips tight, and Ichiro holds his tongue on everything he wants to say; there’s still that heartache in his eyes, the very same one from a few days ago, like the argument was still fresh on his mind, wound still fresh on his heart.

 I mean, Ichiro knows that he shouldn’t keep the argument looming over in his mind for days on end; it’s unhealthy and unfair — it’s been over with and done! But he does have a bit of a temper, and he can be a stubborn hardhead when need be, and.. your words really stung, y’know? He’s not ready to say ‘i’m sorry’ once more.

So to see you first.. well, Ichiro doesn’t quite know what to say. The words sit stuck in the back of his throat. I mean, he had mulled over what he would eventually tell you, but now it felt like it was too soon with you right in front of him. but that all subsides when he sees that you’ve been crying. 

“Oh my God- are you ok??” 

Any anger he may have still held from the argument, any resentment, immediately dissolves. He can’t even remember what the entire fight was about — not that it was important. Instead, Ichiro drops everything — his hurt, his ego, his heart — and immediately holds you close. 

“what happened?” and he still asks all too gentle and warm, even when he’s annoyed. Ichiro will still cradle your cheeks as if you’re his whole world. well, you are. even now, when it’s difficult for him to look you in the eye, and when the words of ‘i love you’ lay heavy on his tongue, unable to be told. but well, ichiro could never hate you, even if you were to hurt him over and over. even if you hated him after all this, he’d still only love you. 

His thumbs are just as you’ve remembered — heavy, rough, so comforting to the touch. He wipes your tears away  

Were you crying because of him? Was the argument still fresh on your mind, as it was for him? Were you missing Ichiro and thinking about how you’ve been wrong, just as he had been for you this whole time? Oh, that hurts Ichiro so. especially to know that it was all because of him; he only ever wants to protect you and keep you safe. so if he hurt you in the process, then.. 

“I can’t open the jar.” 

Oh. 

Ichiro.. is confused. For some reason, he hadn’t expected, well, this to be the reason you decided to give him face. It takes him aback, more than anything; He doesn’t even really know what to feel as you hold out the jar of jam so timidly: hurt that you’re ignoring everything? relief that you’re even talking to him once more?? embarrassed because damn, you’re way too cute, showing up to his door just to have him open a jar of jam?? 

Whatever it was, he doesn’t hide it all that well, as Ichiro purses his lips, bites his cheek and holds his tongue. (and yet, his heart squeezes. you’re way too cute..)

But well, you did love your jam. He won’t say much. Ichiro can’t help but sigh internally, furrowing his brows and frowning a bit. Here he was, thinking that he had messed up big time; maybe things were a bit more serious than he would’ve liked. But really, just having you in front of him, asking him to open your jam — it relieves him, y’know? He feels a weight off his shoulders, like he could finally catch up on the sleep he’s been missing the last few days. 

He takes the jar out of your hands — oh so gentle still, when his rough fingers brush against yours — and opens it swiftly in one try. 

“Here you go.” babe. He almost wants to say, but Ichiro forces himself to swallow those words. Even the small smile he gives you is a little forced, more so pained. 

And Ichiro hadn’t been expecting you to lounge into his arms either, so quick too, forgetting all about your jar. 

“I miss you..” 

It’s not just the jar, you know, he knows. 

It’s because your heart hurts whenever you think about the fight, when you think about your boyfriend. It’s because you haven’t been able to sleep well, ruminating about the argument and how you just want to make up with Ichi; you miss him so.. It’s because they screw these on too tight, and you can’t even enjoy your favorite jam in peace anymore.

His deep laughs are something you didn’t realize you missed too. Your cheeks warm a little into his shirt, when Ichi laughs at how absolutely adorable you were; they echo in your ears, shakes your heart. They’re always warm, oh so inviting. but even you can hear the slight shakiness to them. 

He’s not laughing at you, really! He’s just.. damn, he’s so glad that everything is ok and that the two of you finally made up. He was on the verge of tears himself, just from the stress of it all. It’s clear too, in the way Ichiro holds you close, how he hugs you so tight he holds onto the back of your shirt — don’t let go. His eyes did get a little glassy too, he’ll admit, a bit flushed. Ichiro is just so glad to have you back in his arms.

And Ichiro caresses your hair, just like he always does. but this time it’s a little more rough than usual, a little more heavy handed as he messes up your hair all over. He coos sweet and heavy, dripping with honey. They’re some of the sweetest words he’s ever told you — after your name on his tongue, after his ‘I love you’s. 

“I miss you too.”

Jiro [ 1396 words ]

Jiro, bless his heart, cannot handle the argument. 

He has a bit of a hot head, sure; he can get annoyed a little too quickly, and he tends to act before he thinks. but, he also has a big heart, one size too large for his chest. He always means well, you know. so arguments.. well, they don’t come to easy to him. Not that they do for anyone, but it hurts him more than he’d like to admit. hurts him more in the heart and blisters his chest. 

But, he misses you. Jiro will confess, when he’s in bed and lamenting over you, replaying the words over and over. It seems like he could do nothing else; every guitar string he strums tugs at his own heartstrings, and in every manga he reads, all he can see is you in the face of the mc. He has even begun to play a bit sloppy during soccer practice these days (and getting chewed out by coach for it), but well, at least you weren’t there to see.

Oh man, he groans into his pillow. It pains his heart, being away from you, and he begins to feel sick to his stomach as the words churn over and over — indigestible. He can’t believe he’s said those words to you. He loves you, a lot, you know. Those words only come from the love he doesn’t know how to display or properly say.  

Yet.. he just couldn’t bring himself to see you. Jiro loves you — that’s true, but his gaze falls each time he remembers your words; his heart hurts. He misses you, yes, but he can’t believe you said those words to him. All this time, he thought you were different from that; Jiro was sure the two of you saw eye-to-eye on everything. He was sure that you loved him in the very same ways. 

He’s not quite ready to forgive and forget.  

And yet, the moment he sees that you’re the one standing outside his door — sees the slight puffiness of your eyes, sees the cute little anxious habits you’ve always had, sees that you’ve been crying too — well.. His heart swells and pushes against the very bounds of his chest. and, dammit, he’s a man, Jiro scolds himself, biting his cheek — he can’t cry. even as much as his heart calls out to you. 

“Babe..” 

He slips out underneath his breath, much too hushed, much too guilty. It eats away at him; oh man, he rubs the nape, looking away. did he make you cry like that? After he promised you he’d be a good boyfriend, gave you his whole heart, when he confessed to you after school all those months ago. 

He’s always wanted to be that sorta guy you can rely on, to be the boyfriend you can gloat about — he’ll do anything for you. Yet he didn’t even have the guts to approach you first. Jiro’s cheeks burn as the embarrassment grows; yeah, some ‘man’ he is: arguing with you then having you come to him first with tears in your eyes. 

But it’s just.. he missed you. a lot. really, truly missed you, from the bottom of his heart, which beats for you. He had to stop himself from flinging his arms around you when he opened the door to see you; Jiro had to stop himself from nuzzling into the crook of your neck and look you in the eye intensely, telling you how sorry he’s been over and over. sorry for being a dumbass, sorry for making you cry. He promises he won’t do it again. 

He’s almost forgotten how good you look in his hoodie, how sweet you sound when you coo his name all cute. In his mind, you seemed so far away. like a dream he can only wish on upon stars to hope to come true. 

He’s about ready to forgive and forget this time. He wants to mend those wounds, but.. 

“ I can’t open this.. ” 

You hold out the jar of jam. 

..huh. 

Jiro.. has never been the sharpest; he’s a dimwit, and you can see it in his eyes as his mind processes what you’re even doing, blinking slow a few times. then it sets. 

bro. 

Although Jiro doesn’t say anything, he’s pretty easy-to-read. He can’t hide the frown, or well, the heartbreak in his eyes even as he silently takes the jar from you. Maybe he got a little too ahead of himself and figured you’d be here to make amends, he pouts. which is fine, he guesses. I mean, you’re still mad at him and that’s.. deserved. He was a jerk after all (even if you were mean to him too, Jiro muses). and an idiot. He’s still an idiot for thinking you were here to apologize, still a bit of an idiot to immediately want to forgive so quick, but he won’t hold that against you. 

(Although, maybe he is a little prideful that you came to him for help first, even amidst an argument. He’d definitely boast about that later on to Saburo)

And his cheeks burn because dammit, they screw these lids on too tight! It’s way too embarrassing for his pride that he can’t even open a stupid jar of jam for you. 

Until it finally opens with a ‘pop,’ and he hands it back to you. and it’s awkward. 

You’re silent, he is too — dammit he groans. You’re right in front of him, and yet, he can’t say anything; Jiro doesn’t even know what to say. He knows he should (this is one of those times where the answer choice to choose is so obvious), and he wants to! with the way he’s nervous with his feet, rubs his nape. He makes it obvious that he’s looking everywhere but you. 

But again, he’s a dimwit. What do you even say in situations such as these? he burns. I mean, you just asked him to open your jam, that’s all. and any words he may want to say are so thick and viscous in the back of his throat. it’d be too difficult to get them out because what if it was the wrong thing? Jiro couldn’t go through that again, no; his wounds are still too tender. 

“I miss you.” 

You speak first, avoiding his eyes while Jiro looks up at you a little too surprised, shocked. almost as if he’d forgotten how your voice sounds or thought that you might never want to speak to him again after this. 

You squeeze your arm nervously, holding the sticky jar closer. because you know your boyfriend is a doofus, and he probably won’t get it unless you tell him directly. You didn’t come for the jam (well.. that’s part of the reason. because they screw these lids on too tight). but.. you just wanted an excuse to see Jiro again.  

“I’m.. sorry.” 

Those are the only words he’d ever wanted to hear.

Before you could even get them out, Jiro closes the distance and hugs you close and tight. He brings you close, lays you right atop his heart — it pounds harshly now, and a little too quick. The feather of his hair tickles your cheek lightly as Jiro nuzzles into the nape of your neck and holds you close, just as he’s wanted to all this time. 

For some reason, the words only get thicker in his throat, and Jiro really can’t say anything even more now. Ah man, he thinks, cheeks warming to a flush even as he hides himself in you, holds you even tighter near him. that’s.. totally uncool. and even the curve of your smile he can feel only serves to warm the tips of his ears even more. 

But it’s alright. You know he’s sorry too, with the way he crumbles your shirt tight and how he never lets go. Even in his pounding heart beat, right atop your chest, you can feel how apologetic he has been. You pat his back tenderly too, you can feel the way Jiro just melts right into you; it’s ok, you forgive him too.  

Jiro makes a promise with himself and with you: he’d never argue with you that bad again. And if he did, he’d definitely open as many of your favorite jars of jam as it takes to get you back.

Saburo [ 1195 words ]

Oh. it’s you. 

His brows crease, and Saburo scrunches his nose — disgusted at the way his own heart skips a damn beat when he sees you, grossed out at how his eyes become glassy all too instant. because dammit, he didn’t realize how much he’s missed you until you’re standing in front of him, face-to-face. Is he angry or sad? annoyed that you showed up to his house after what you’ve said, or relieved that you don’t hate him, actually? He doesn’t know. Emotions are so stupid. The thrum of his heart is so so stupid. 

Saburo has a crass mouth, you know, he knows. He often says things so matter-of-factly without much thought as to how they’d sound to you; and.. you know that — you should, Saburo fronts, a bit defensive — but that doesn’t mean it still didn’t hurt! It’s the cause of many arguments, even if deep down, you know where Sabu’s heart lay. 

But this time you didn’t. You didn’t know what Saburo was thinking, what he truly felt in his heart; did he really hate spending time with you? Did he really find this annoying and bothersome? I mean, he always looks that way, even if Saburo chides you that that’s definitely not the case. It certainly doesn’t feel that way. 

It’s.. a bad argument. the worst the two of you have ever had. Of course, Saburo is not over it, given the stubborn fool he could be. He still feels wronged, even if he knows he’s in the wrong. But the dried out tear streaks he spots makes his heart stop, and there’s that damn lump in his throat that he can’t swallow again. All the feelings he’s been trying to suppress the past few days come regurgitating back up much too gross, like acidic bile that burns his throat, like fire.  

You’ve been crying.. Even if you hide it or wipe the stains away with your sleeve, Saburo knows; of course he does, he’s your boyfriend after all! as much as that word sits heavy on his tongue now, Sabu still knows it to be true. He still loves you, even as much as he’s hurt. He’s not good with words, and he’s not good with affection or at this whole ‘boyfriend’ stuff; but even then, deep down in his heart, Saburo knows that he never wanted to make you cry. over something as dumb and menial as an argument as well. 

Yet, Saburo can’t do much except stand in the doorway, much too irritated, much too shy to even say anything or offer you to come inside. He doesn’t know the first words to say; ‘I’m sorry’ still feels much too difficult to say, or else he’d just end up becoming tongue-tied. until you (thankfully) break the silence. 

“I can’t open my jam.”

His gaze flickers from the jar to you. Saburo scrunches up his nose once more. 

Ugh- seriously? he huffs. It’s been days since you guys even talked, since the two of you even bothered to acknowledge each other’s presence  — you won’t even tell him ‘good morning’ in the school halls! or look his way, despite being in the same class. It’s been days since you guys fought, and this is the first thing you bring up? What breaks the silent treatment is a jar of jam? 

It almost ticks him off, honestly. 

He was worried all this time, as much as he wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself. He was worried about you, whether Saburo perhaps had gone too far, whether or not you hated him now — and the first thing you do when you see him is to ask him to open a jar. seriously.. 

Your boyfriend barely has any upper body strength, you should know, he grumbles a bit. He can’t open tightly screwed jar lids for shit. But, he won’t say anything about it, as Saburo takes the jar from you (perhaps a touch aggressive). and he surely wouldn’t make any smartass remarks this time around, as worried as Sabu was all this time, even if he wouldn’t admit it. He’ll keep his mouth shut, if only because he’s secretly thankful for this chance to see you again. and thankful that you couldn’t open a jar of jam. 

“Here.” 

“Thanks.”

..awkward. 

Saburo sighs, heavy. This is killing him. He.. was never particularly good at taking the first step. It’s difficult for Sabu to be the first one to step up and apologize, to break this tension that’s just eating him up on the inside; he’s awkward, he’s spoiled, he’s not good with words. and, really, he didn’t have the guts. 

He’s a coward, and that’s just something he has to come to terms with and get used to; Saburo is a coward, through and through. because, dammit, it bothers him but he just missed you oh so much. He doesn’t like this weird tightness in his chest or how he could only ever ruminate about you the whole damn day and not get much else done. Saburo hates the fact that you’re the only thing on the back of his mind, even when he’s working on odd jobs or his schoolwork. 

He hates that he swallows his pride and admits his wounds, but he loves you more. 

“I.. miss you.” dummy. 

It’s so obvious, it wasn’t even a thought, Saburo huffs. he misses you, duh. surely you didn’t think it was anything else? He may be annoyed with you, and yeah, arguments do happen but.. he hasn’t stopped thinking of you this whole time; his heart wouldn’t let him forget the hurt nor let him forget how he hurt you.

The end of his voice wavers ever so slightly too, though Saburo hopes you didn’t hear that. do you miss him too..?

But he can’t even look you in the eye, as Saburo squeezes his arm shyly. He’s not used to hearing such words coming out of his mouth; they sound.. weird, he frowns, and his tongue tingles funny. He can barely choke out the words, but you deserve to know. He misses you, and even with his lips pursed, you know what he truly means, where his heart lay — iIm sorry. 

He knows you didn’t come all this way just to ask him to open a jar of your favorite jam after all — at least, Saburo hopes not. That’d be a hit to his ego he’d never reconcile. 

“Sabu..” 

And he almost wants to tell you off from the way you look so surprised at his admission. Your eyes widen a little too much, he pouts, and close that mouth of yours! what, you weren’t expecting him to mend things first? rude. Of course your boyfriend has missed you, his pouty self seems to say, with the way Sabu crosses his arms and looks away, trying to ignore the fervent heat. Of course, he still loves you; do you still love him too?

Though when you pretty much lounge at him and hug him tight, when you forget all about the jam you supposedly came for, he knows exactly where your heart lay too. 

Of course, you missed him too.

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

RIP to you but what makes me immune to falling into a cult isn't that I think I'm too smart or moral... It's that I think it would require willingly making myself part of a group of people.

It would seem to require actually speaking to someone, but most of all what makes me immune is that I think the cults are all avoiding me personally, because they don't want me. They only knock on my door once and then never again and I always think it was something I said.

My toxic trait is that I think being sucked into a cult requires being willing to seek or accept human contact, and that it requires a group of people who actually wants you among their numbers [have not found one to date].

[ainkongsi]

"I won't stop! For every minute of the rest of my life, I will fight. I will never stop trying to get away from you. But, if you let me save him...I will go with you."

https://s.shopee.com.my/1LOzwreUIX

[fungi-maestro]

Internet mutual thrice removed: did you hear about the newest person with bizarre/disgusting/repulsive beliefs & behaviors that we just found in a weird corner of the internet and are dragging around publically where no one has heard of them and no one wants to see that shit? You have to have an opinion on this btw.

People in real life: did you hear it's going to be in the 50s next week?

[domquixotedospobresblog]

Changes are part of life,

changing is reacting to falls,

losses

and suffering,

it is also evolving,

progressing

and starting over,

we never know for sure

how much changes will still affect us,

we often ask

to stay at a point

where happiness is complete,

even so things don't stop

that's the big problem,

we are forced

to keep up with time

and its constant evolutions,

changing is good,

changing is bad,

what is good for you

may be terrible for me,

I don't know if my thoughts

are square

and I fell behind,

maybe I left it to evolve

a little too late,

there are people who are incredible

with their evolution,

there are others

who would be better off not having evolved,

because they cause serious damage to civilization,

the lack of knowledge

in certain heads

would be a blessing,

since they only brought destruction,

there are people who go crazy with evolution,

that's why I came to this strange conclusion.

Jonas r Cezar

[wovenwordsandwildflowers]

For my five minute writing exercise today I went down the poetry route as I was really struggle for short story inspiration.

Five minute writing exercise

Prompt: write from the prospective of a forgotten object.

Contrary to popular beliefs,

I am not broken.

But maybe if enough people believe I am,

I will become just that.

Lost in an eternity,

Of broken forgets.

[kurokonobrainrot]

THE FUNNIEST THING JUST HAPPENED TO ME ON TWITTER, THIS IS SO META

I'm dying 😂 Akashi only weakness being the inability to make jokes and some random guy on twitter being like 'that's not funny at all' about a post aiming to be 'something Akashi would find funny'.

How did he even find this tweet ? Who the fuck is he ? Why did some random chess guy felt the need to interact ?

ONCE AGAIN THE META i'll never get over this, it made my day 😂😂😂

[slankyyy-vs-the-world]

past

current we call this character development