#taylor swift writing challenge

[madwomansapologist]

Daenerys + Mastermind

Taylor Swift Writing Challenge: Mastermind

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synopsis: Daenerys had to confess something to you, a sin that she carried alone for to long, but little did she know it wouldn't surprise you.

warnings: none.

Your city was liberated by her. The chain breaker. The conqueror. The mother of dragons. She saved your people, and after it she stayed to rule them. Daenerys brought justice to masters and workers: for some it means justice, to some it means care. They called her Mhysa.

Your master died during the revolt. She agonized, suffered until her last failed breath, and bled into the expensive sheets. You watched it. You didn't kill her, the other slaves did, but you watched every second. You were loyal to Daenerys even before knowing her.

Daenerys didn't kick the workers out of her new castle. She employed them, with fair contracts. And as the old palace master's seamstress, Daenerys gave you new and fair contract. She wanted you to sew her clothes. And so you did.

At first, your only interactions were when you needed to take new measurements and test the size of the pieces. As she was trying a blue summer dress, her serious expression made you swallow. "How did you learn to sew?"

With a pin, you marked the places you should press. The first time you marked her clothes with Daenerys using it, you were shaking the whole time. So scared of hurting her. 'My mother taugh me, as her mother taugh her." You don't shake anymore.

Daenerys spoke again as you knelt down to measure the hem. You saw her curling her toes. "Would you teach me?"

You bit your lip. "It would be a honor."

From the very first moment Daenerys saw you, something burned inside her. A new flame took over her entire body. She's a dragon, and you lit a fire inside her.

She can remember. You paralised, watching your old master dying, enable to do anything but stare. There was some sense of relief on your face, but she saw your hands shaking. You remind her of herself.

Daenerys would lever let chance determinate her path. You see, all the wisest woman had to do it this way. Society says women were born as pawn in every lover's game, but now Daenerys knows the truth: women were born to plan.

So, yes, everything was a choice. To keep your job, to change your quarters, to make weekly tests, to have you teaching her sew. None of it was accidental. Every unassuming touch, every supper with the employees, every second you spent talking to her about dressmaking, working to your last master, your life before her.

Daenerys heard songs about love. They didn't do justice to you.

When you played her, it was Daenerys idea. When you kissed her, it was Daenerys idea. When you went to bed with her, it was Daenerys idea. When you loved her, it was Daenerys idea. When you cried, it was Daenerys idea. When you stayed by her side, it was Daenerys idea.

Daenerys is the wind in every free-flowing sails. And she's the liquor in your cocktail.

But deep down she knew this lie-truth wasn't going to last. That she couldn't plan without feeling guilty. What wouldn't you think when you found out about everything she's done? What would you think of her?

That wasn't the first time she planned everything around her, but it was the first time she felt the need to confess. It felt like a sin. Like something you wouldn't forgive.

"Love is always a story about how once upon a time, the planets and the fates and all the stars alligned" Daenerys laid the groundwork. "Two people end up in the same room at the same time."

You left the glass on the bedside table and crawled closer to her. Your silence was a plea for her to continue.

"But what if I told you none of it was accidental?" Daenerys held your hand. She needed your touch to continue. "And the first night that you saw... nothing was gonna stop me."

And Daenerys would keep talking. She really would. She had a whole speech. But Daenerys saw a wide smirk on your face. You knew the entire time.

"A love based on chance. Mathematical chaos", you didn't try to hide your smile. "It' seen like a boring story."

GENERAL TAGLIST: @suakemi @notanalienindisguiseblink

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

[tacobacoyeet]

lavender haze (acoustic) | art donaldson x reader

warnings: age gap (10 years), divorced!retired!art, divorce mention, cursing

The world is a blur of cameras and neon when you find him again.

Outside the Monte Carlo hotel, somewhere between a post-match press conference and the second glass of something too expensive, you see him—backlit in the haze of dusk, hands in his pockets like they don't remember how to hold a racket. Art Donaldson, former world number one, standing like a myth trying not to be remembered.

You don’t call out to him. You don’t have to.

He turns like he already knew you were there.

For a moment, you just breathe the same air. He in his shadow. You in your spotlight.

The lavender dusk of the city softens everything but him.

He looks the same as when you saw him this morning. Maybe a little undone. Hair slightly unruly from fingers running through it too many times. 

You’re still sweaty from the match. Still painted in makeup for the cameras. Still dizzy from the reporters who asked more about him than your fifth straight win on the tour.

Is it true you two were seen together in Ibiza?Are you dating a former champion to boost your media appeal?How does it feel to win on a court he made famous?

Your lips had twitched. You’d smiled like a good girl. Like you weren’t screaming underneath.

But now, here he is. And suddenly, you don’t want to be good anymore.

He doesn’t speak, just opens the door to the hotel like it’s a habit. Like you belong there. Like you always have.

And you do.

You’ve been in a committed relationship for nearly a year, not that it stops the press from acting like it’s still gossip. Like you’re still a secret. Like he didn’t sit courtside for every match of your first major title and kiss you in the hallway when no one was looking. Like he didn’t leave behind a legacy and ten million dollars in endorsements just to stop pretending.

You’re twenty-three. He’s thirty-three. It’s never mattered more than it does to everyone else.

To you, he’s just Art. Tired, brilliant, infuriating. To him, you’re the only thing that doesn’t make him feel like a ghost.

The door clicks shut behind you.

And the world falls away.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

Instead, he walks to the kitchenette, opens the mini fridge, and pulls out a bottle of water. Tosses it over his shoulder. You catch it one-handed, cap already half-twisted before he turns back around.

"You’re still favoring your right hip on the cross-court," he says.

You unscrew the cap. Take a sip. Let the silence stretch.

"You think I don’t know that?"

Art shrugs, leans against the counter. "Didn’t say that."

"Didn’t have to."

You cross the room. He doesn’t move. You stand close enough to feel the warmth of him through your sweat-damp dress.

“You watched from the lobby again?” you ask.

“Better view of you than the court,” he murmurs.

That pulls a breath from you. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. You let your forehead rest against his chest, eyes fluttering shut. His arms slip around your waist like he’s been waiting all night to remember how you fit.

He smells like something clean and simple. Not soap. Not cologne. Just him.

“God, they wouldn’t shut up about you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer. Not immediately. Just runs his fingers up and down your spine, slow enough to still your nerves, steady enough to make you ache.

“Then don’t talk,” he says eventually, like he’s trying to spare you. Like silence is something he can give you.

The words hit. Harder than they should. Not because they’re untrue. Because they’re too true.

“Come shower,” he says, fingers tracing the fabric at the small of your back. "You smell like sunscreen. And sweat."

“And you smell smug."

“Worked hard on that.”

You laugh against him this time, and he kisses the top of your head like punctuation.

There’s a comfort in this. In him. And it terrifies you, a little.

Because nothing this good stays untouched forever.

---

The bathroom is warm and fogged by the time you step out. Art hands you a towel without a word, like he’s done it a hundred times, like the rhythm of care comes easy to him in a way it didn’t used to. Not when he was still married to someone who saw him less as a person and more as a strategy.

He brushes a curl of damp hair from your cheek and presses a kiss just below your temple. Not hungry. Not possessive. Just there. Quiet and certain.

You dry off slowly. He changes the sheets.

Neither of you rush.

It’s the kind of night that unfolds like fabric—creased and familiar. You sit cross-legged on the bed, a hotel robe slung loose around your shoulders, watching him move around the room like he doesn’t need to be looked at to feel known.

You pick at your cuticles. The ring light burn still lingers behind your eyes.

“I don’t want to do media tomorrow,” you say softly, not really to him.

“I know.”

You nod. You want him to say more. Want him to say he’ll fix it, or call someone, or take you away from all of it.

But he won’t.

Because that’s what he used to want from her.

And she knew better than to give it.

Later, you both end up under the too-crisp hotel sheets, the TV glowing in the corner like an afterthought. Art flips through the channels until he lands on coverage of the day’s matches—your match. A rebroadcast already looping into highlights. Neither of you speak. He leaves the volume low.

You watch yourself on the screen, hair slicked with sweat, mouth tight with concentration. You know how it ends. You know the score. And still, your fingers curl into the duvet like you’re bracing for something.

Art’s hand finds your knee beneath the covers. It’s instinctive, steady. Grounding.

“…and while her performance today was characteristically aggressive,” the commentator says, “some are wondering if the pressure of dating former world champion Art Donaldson is beginning to weigh on her—certainly a lot of eyes on her for reasons that aren’t strictly tennis.”

You flinch.

Not much. But enough for Art to notice.

He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches for the remote.

You stop him. “No. Leave it.”

He hesitates, then rests it on the nightstand.

You both keep watching, but something shifts. Not the volume. Not the camera angle.

Just the quiet.

A few seconds later, your voice comes through the screen. The post-match interview. You’re smiling like your cheeks are glass.

“I’ve been working really hard on my serve, and I’m glad it paid off today,” you say.

The reporter laughs. “And is Art Donaldson part of that training routine?”

The smile on the screen falters—barely. A blink. A breath. The kind of flicker no one notices unless they know you.

You feel Art watching you now, not the TV.

You shift your gaze toward the screen and force a smile. “They never asked you about her, did they?”

His hand leaves your leg.

“They did,” he says. “They just worded it differently.”

---

The next day, you win your semifinal in straight sets.

Your serve is sharp. Your footwork clean. Your game ruthless.

You walk off the court flushed and breathless and so full of adrenaline it feels like your skin might split open. You're about to head to your first Open final. The crowd roars. Your chest aches with something like disbelief.

A ball kid hands you a towel. A line judge nods with something close to reverence. Even your opponent lingers at the net longer than usual—something like respect in her eyes.

And then comes the press.

The room is cold. Bright. Every chair filled. You’re barely given time to sip your water before the first hand is up.

Microphone passed. Camera rolling.

“Congratulations on the win,” the reporter says. “You played an incredible match today. Given that you’ve now made it to the final—do you think Art Donaldson plans to propose if you take the title?”

The question lands like a bruise.

Your smile doesn't falter. You’ve practiced it too much for that.

But something in your eyes flickers. The corner of your mouth. The twitch of a muscle in your jaw.

You laugh. Not joyfully. Not even politely. Just—mechanically. Enough to smooth the space around the tension.

“I think I’m focused on the match,” you say. “Let’s keep the attention on the tennis.”

They laugh, too. Some of them. But it’s the kind of laugh that says we’re not done asking.

You field a few more questions—strategy, surface preferences, what you’ll do differently in the final, what the color scheme of your potential wedding may be, what Art's impact on your win was. You answer all of them. Not perfectly. But well enough.

Still, when you leave the room, the only part that echoes is Do you think Art Donaldson plans to propose?

No one asked if you thought you could win.

No one asked what it meant to be here.

No one asked about you at all.

---

The car ride back to the hotel is quiet.

Art doesn’t ask how the press went. He must have watched it—he always does—but he says nothing, just keeps his eyes on the road, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the space between you like he’s thinking about reaching for you and deciding against it.

You stare out the window, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on your knee.

The city moves past you in golds and grays. Traffic, sky, noise. None of it feels real. Your pulse is still drumming from the match, your skin still humming with everything unsaid.

In the room, he unzips your gear bag before you can. Peels your wristbands off. Unlaces your shoes. Not a word. Just care, mechanical and precise.

You pull away when he reaches for your towel.

“I’ve got it,” you say, sharper than you mean to.

Art’s hands drop back to his sides. He nods once and takes a step back.

You pace the edge of the bed, towel in hand, still breathing like you’re on court.

He stands by the desk, watching you for a beat longer than necessary.

“You played well,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.

“I thought maybe we’d order in. Celebrate a little.”

You laugh. It comes out wrong. Bitter, high in your throat. “Celebrate what?”

His brow furrows. “The win.”

“Oh, right.” You toss the towel onto the floor. “The one I apparently earned just to get proposed to. Lucky me.”

Art flinches like you slapped him.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He says your name, quiet but firm.

And that—more than anything—makes you snap.

“You know what the worst part is?” you ask. “It’s that I knew it was coming. The question. I felt it before the words even left her mouth. I knew. And I still had to sit there and smile like some fairytale ending was more important than my fucking game.”

“That's not what they—”

“Yes, it is. That’s all they see. I could win a goddamn Grand Slam and they’d still find a way to make it about you. About us. About anything but me.”

His voice is low, careful. “You think I want that?”

You look at him, eyes blazing. “I think you’ve lived through it already. With her. And I think you still don’t know how to stop it.”

The silence is heavier this time. He doesn’t deny it.

---

The next day, you win the Open.

Straight sets. You don’t drop a single game in the second.

It’s one of the cleanest matches of your life. And when the final ball hits the back fence, you drop your racket and scream, but it doesn’t feel like joy. Not really.

You wave to the crowd. You thank the chair umpire. You wipe your face with a towel you can’t feel in your hands.

Art’s waiting at the edge of the court, behind the camera crew. His arms are open. He looks proud. Cautious. Already bracing.

You walk past him.

Not cruel. Not theatrical. You just keep walking.

He doesn’t follow.

And the cameras catch all of it.

---

Back in the hotel room, the trophy sits on the table beside the TV.

You haven’t spoken since the ride back.

Art ordered room service. He didn’t ask what you wanted, just got the usual. Pasta, grilled chicken, a green juice you’ll pretend to drink.

You eat half of it standing up. He eats none of his.

He moves around the room like a ghost—quiet, competent, unbearably gentle. Every drawer he opens, every charger he plugs in, every shirt he folds feels like an apology he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

The match plays on mute in the background.

You sit on the edge of the bed with your knees drawn up, watching yourself lift the trophy in slow motion.

Art disappears into the bathroom. The door doesn’t lock, but he closes it anyway. The sound of running water fills the silence.

You press the heel of your hand into your chest and breathe. In. Out. In.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

You lie down while he’s still in the bathroom. Face turned toward the wall. Back to where he’ll be. If he comes to bed at all.

He does. Eventually.

He doesn’t touch you.

You don’t ask him to.

---

You wake to light on your skin.

Gentle, warm, not quite golden yet. It filters through the curtains, spreads across the bed. The kind of light that feels like a hand on your back, like the world trying to tell you it’s okay to open your eyes.

You blink slowly. Turn your face toward the window.

And then, toward him.

He’s sitting in the armchair by the balcony doors. Hair a mess. One ankle tucked over the other. Elbows resting on his knees. Awake, but not fully. Holding the mug you always steal from him.

He looks like someone who stayed up too late thinking, then woke too early from not enough sleep.

You sit up.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes meet yours.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice rough. Honest.

He doesn’t ask what for. He just waits.

“I shouldn’t have walked past you like that,” you go on. “I was angry, and I didn’t know where to put it. And I—” Your voice catches. “I wish I could take it back.”

His jaw works, like he’s trying to decide how much to let you see.

“You’ve got nothing to take back,” he says finally. “You were angry. You were right to be. I just wish it hadn’t hurt you so much to prove it.”

Your eyes sting. You pull your knees to your chest.

“I think I needed someone to blame. And you were there. And kind. And that made it worse, somehow.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Just stands. Crosses to the bed.

He sits beside you, not too close. Not yet.

“I knew what they’d say about you,” he says. “When we got together. I knew what they’d reduce you to. I told myself I could protect you from it.”

You look at him. “You couldn’t.”

“I know,” he says.

You lean your head against his shoulder. This time, he lets it rest there.

And when he wraps his arm around you, it feels like morning for real.

Not just another day. Not just damage control.

But something softer. Something that forgives you both.

Something worth building from.

You sit like that for a long time. Not speaking. Just breathing. Just being.

And then, quietly, almost like you’re afraid to break it, you say, “I do want to marry you someday.”

You feel the way his body stills. The way his breath hitches. He turns just enough to look at you—like he needs to see your face to believe it.

His eyes are glassy. Open. Younger than they usually let themselves be.

And then he smiles. Not wide. Not smug. Just… honest. Hopeful.

The way someone does when something they didn’t dare ask for is suddenly being offered.

You don’t need him to say it back. He already has.

You just lean a little closer.

And this time, he meets you there.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow

[faiszt]

CHRISTMAS TREE FARM. ︎ as ︎ arthur ︎ donaldson ︎ song⠀🎄 ♡⠀'cause ︎ he ︎ just ︎ wanna ︎ be ︎ there ︎ tonight. ︎ ੭

.⠀𖹭⠀🔔⠀NOTES⠀.⠀i'm testing the waters 'cause i really wanna make this art x christmas tree farm bot, so i decided to put my little headcanon here. 👋🏻 (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)⠀⠀⠀⠀SFW.

arthur donaldson, the cute little boy with freckles, blond hair and a big smile who was always eagerly waiting for christmas. not only 'cause he wanted to get his gifts from santa claus after spending the whole year being a good boy, but also 'cause he loved putting up the christmas tree.

all huddled together in warm clothes wearing his papa's old aviation cap that was almost too big for his little head, feeling the red pickup truck rock on the dirt road as they headed to a christmas tree farm. every year was the same thing, but artie (as his dear nana called him) loved being able to choose the christmas tree he'd have at home and decorate it however he wanted.

oh, how many years had it been since he had done that? he couldn't even remember exactly what it felt like to be home. not home like the house he lived in, his real home, in the countryside—where the smell of cookies was stronger and the snow seemed thicker, but the clothes were warmer, the people were warmer.

far from home, but not that far. he still had some tapes stored in his attic, he kept them in a special space, not only physically, but in his heart as well. like the tape recording of the first time he helped his grandfather put up a christmas tree, riding on his papa's back in silly pajamas, putting the little angel on top. memories like these were things art would never forget when he heard the christmas bells in los angeles.

deep down, he felt a little weird, a little guilty, 'cause he hadn't made those memories with his daughter yet. but, who could blame him but himself? christmas wasn't the same after his grandfather died before he went to stanford, then his grandmother died too and... anyway, everything lost its meaning, even the holiday he loved the most.

he wants to go home, take you and lily with him, use his papa's old pickup truck—or, at least, what's left of it. maybe buy an aviation cap and try to get it beat up enough to put on lily's head and make her feel the same warm feeling he felt every christmas week, twenty years ago.

art wants to look for his nana's cookbook, bake christmas cookies for you using her unmistakable recipe, try to show you how much he misses something other than stress and holiday shopping traffic. how he misses being artie, the little boy who didn't yet know he was good at tennis, but was really good at chasing the farm's chickens just 'cause he thought it was funny.

he only has one (or some) christmas wish: you, him and lily at that little farm where every wish came true, under the mistletoe, watching the fire glow and telling you: “i love you”. well, he's been a good boy all year, so hopefully santa will listen to him.

[swetearss]

patrick zweig is so gorgeous by taylor swift coded, i would definitely hate him for being so handsome and bc i'm not able to be with him

[darkluminosity]

Writemas Day 9: Is It Killing You Like It's Killing Me? (1140 words)

Hi!

So I was looking back through previous Writemas posts/prompts (intro to the challenge here) and I was so eager to incorporate some songs into them, creating a song challenge of sorts alongside that challenge. (Because I'm a little crazy like that.)

This piece was inspired by the song “Story of Us” by Taylor Swift.

I heard this song while driving home a few days ago, and an idea popped in my head. I wanted to write a short Euluc piece with some awkwardness (like in the song). It might have some rough spots but oh well, I just wanted to get this random idea out there 😆

I can see Diluc and Eula both being too prideful and stubborn, which ends up hurting them both a bit and complicating things as they continue to not talk to each other. 🥲 (Poor Kaeya, stuck in the middle. I’m not sorry.)

Prompts used:

He watched her speak to the others, he watched her spare him nothing, not a single glance, and still he watched, even as his knuckles turned white by his sides.

The vicious bite of regret

Enjoy! (And I haven't posted this on AO3 yet, wondering if I should. 🤔)

=====

Diluc sighed to himself behind the bar counter as he polished the glasses.

He snuck glances at one group of patrons who were happily chatting and laughing at the far corner of the busy tavern. He couldn't make out anything that was said, nor could he read lips, but the only one on his mind was the light-blue haired woman, the Spindrift Knight from the Lawrence clan…

His brother was at the table as well, with his naturally mischievous smile becoming a little too wide for Diluc’s comfort. It bothered him to no end that he, of all people, was spending time with her.

“Do you want to take their order?” Charles asked, interrupting his thoughts. When the redhead didn't respond and tried to feign an uncaring demeanor, the head bartender nudged him on the shoulder. “C’mon. You should go and talk to them.”

He hesitated, but Charles kept insisting.

“Alright…” He awkwardly stepped out from the counter and headed toward the table.

Kaeya, who was facing in his direction, made a subtle gesture to the others that he was approaching. By the time Diluc was close enough to hear anything, he noticed that the table was substantially quieter.

“Just wanted to check in… does anyone want to order anything else?”

Rosaria and Amber shook their heads. Venti smiled and said something along the lines of paying with a poem, to which the bartender explained (once again) that songs were not a form of payment at Angel’s Share.

“You’re welcome to try your hand at the Cat’s Tail, though I’m fairly certain they follow the same policy,” he quipped.

“No way,” the bard replied with a sigh. “Besides, I’m allergic to cats.”

“Fair enough. I take it you’ll be closing your tab then?” Venti chuckled in reply and made a comment to the others about paying some of them with a song if they would pay for another drink. No one said a word, but everyone started to exchange glances and laugh, as though there was an inside joke between them.

Diluc shrugged and eyed his brother.

“Another Death After Noon, please,” Kaeya said with a smile. They both looked over at Eula, who was sitting next to him. She glanced back at Kaeya and shook her head.

“That’ll be all,” his brother confirmed.

Heading back to the counter, Diluc went to make the Death After Noon and a few other drink requests from the other patrons. His thoughts washed over him, drowning him in a personal cocktail of different emotions– pain, regret, sadness… and anger.

The anger, a mixture of frustration and jealousy, was a new one. He could hear the laughter and singing coming from the table again as he crafted the drinks. Even amidst the busy tavern and having his back to them, he could recognize their laughter, especially his brother’s… and hers.

Turning back to face them, he watched her speak to the others, he watched her spare him nothing, not a single glance. And still he watched, even as his knuckles turned white by his sides.

=====

Eula leaned against the wall near the front door of the tavern, trying her best not to look awkward. She crossed her arms and busied herself with her nails.

“Were you waiting long?” Kaeya asked. She shook her head. “C’mon,” he opened the door and they headed inside together.

The tavern was quite warm, a welcome respite from the brisk winter air outside. Seeing the redhead she had been trying to avoid at the bar counter, she opted to take the table furthest from there.

Dammit, she panicked in her head. What is he doing here, working today?

As they sat down, Kaeya asked what she wanted. Shrugging at first, she eventually told him to surprise her. He headed toward the counter, leaving her alone again. She began to feel that familiar anxiety creep in.

Eula could see the brothers’ interaction in her peripheral, which seemed more forced than usual. She snuck quick glances to notice the tired look in his crimson eyes, and the way his lips pursed into a fine line upon seeing his brother. After a few moments, she decided to take interest in the rest of the tavern, lest he realize she was watching him.

Even so, Eula couldn't stop thinking about him.

Kaeya sighed a few minutes later, returning with two Death After Noons.

“Don't worry about him,” he said before she could open her mouth. He slid the glass over to her.

“I- wasn't,” she insisted. The look on his face told her he wasn't convinced.

“You're not very good at lying, you know that?” He laughed. Eula made a serious face, but it eventually slipped and she giggled, covering her mouth to hide her smile. She couldn't help it– his laughter was too contagious.

Kaeya’s right. I can't really hide how I feel. But I wonder if Diluc knows… if it's killing him like it's killing me…

“Ahem… good evening, Venti. Rosaria.” The two exchanged pleasantries with the pair, eventually sitting down with their drinks as they began to talk among themselves. She tried to ignore the fact that she felt the bartender’s eyes on her, watching her every move. Her pride wouldn't even allow her to satisfy her curiosity. Archons forbid if they made eye contact… she would die from shame if he caught her looking at him.

Then, as Kaeya said he was quickly approaching, her heart raced, anxiety mounting. Not knowing what to do, fumbling to find the words, getting her thoughts in order–

She did… nothing.

Her heart sunk to a new low as Diluc walked back to the counter. She knew she should have said something to him, but her pride had gotten in the way again. She knew she had made things awkward by letting Kaeya speak for her. But she didn't know how to let down her walls anymore. Her heart was too frail– she couldn't trust that it wouldn't be broken if she allowed him in again. Even an inch. And she didn't want to do it in front of the others.

Even though she had hoped for a change, it seemed so unlikely, given the cold silence that ran between them, in his stuffy tavern of all places.

Are things ever going to get better?

Why can't I just let my pride down…

Why can’t he?

She crossed her arms and attempted to listen, occasionally laughing with the others. Ironically, she felt like crying and running away more than anything. But she dared not– she would die with her pride defending her. Acting as though she could care less, as though he wasn't there, as though thoughts of him never crossed her mind since that day…

Inside, she was trapped, a prisoner to that same pride.

Please, she prayed. Save me from this…

[thestressedsimmer]

Princess Mary had put herself in her office, muttering something about plans, so it was easy enough for Sister Emma and Sister Joan to sneak off. They had a little alcove where Joan housed stray cats and cared for them; despite the church's official stance on felines, she felt in her heart that they needed help just as much as sims did.

Emma found this endearing about her beloved, but Mary avoided the strays as if they carried diseases.

Joan proved herself to be quite the romantic when she handed over snapdragons, Emma's favorite flower, over to the woman. "Happy Valentine's Day, Emma."

The other woman gasped, clutching the flowers with a bright grin on her face. "Oh! Had I known, I would have gone into market to get you something!"

"I wouldn't have wanted that. It is too dangerous and everything is far too expensive. I had these... saved."

"Saved?"

"For when I worked up the courage to confess to you."

"Oh, Joan."

[fivela-secret-gift-exchange]

Fivela Secret Valentine 2025 // Until Again (WIP)

For @seasphynx

Posted on Ao3:

Prologue + Edit "Say Don't Go" by Taylor Swift

Summary:

She was his past. He was her future. They met for the first time in 2035, in a broken world. He waited until they met again, in Dallas 1963.

[abitofabook]

Taylor Swift - Speak Now (Taylor's Version) Writing Prompt 🦋✨ Interpret the prompts in any way you like. Have fun in whatever fandom you write for and make it the length you want to. I hope you get inspired by lyrics like I do.

[eu0n1a]

Conversations

Following on from the dialogue prompts, here are some two-person conversations. Who are these two people? Why are they having a conversation? What happens next?

—

A. The ears go in the bucket on the left

B. ....So where do I put the eyes?

—

A. I forget

B. This doesn't seem like something you could easily forget

A. Because it's you? Not so strange. I always thought you were entirely forgettable

—

A. I promise, I'm not one of them

B. PROVE IT! Show me your feet!

—

A. You don't love me

B. No

A. What happened to change that?

B. You never stopped being you – and I got bored easily

—

A. I'm sorry

B. No, you're not. But you will be

—

A. Are you a ghost?

B. I'm not sure.

C. How can you not be sure?

[madwomansapologist]

cardigan but from Richie’s POV !! cause I can totally see him feeling “unlovable” like an old cardigan under someone’s bed w the whole deadbeat divorced dad thing until (reader) comes along and makes him feel wanted again🫠

Taylor Swift Writing Challenge: Cardigan

Masterlist | Rules | Taglist | Library | More Richie Jerimovich | #taylor swift writing challenge | AO3

synopsis: Richie was fine with being left. After all, he wouldn't marry himself either. Richie gets that he's hard to love and easy to leave. Then why didn't you leave him yet?

warnings: none.

note: omg you don't even know how I was waiting for someone to make that request. cardigan is sooo richie coded. i feel like you read my mind.

Richie's silence can be so loud. You need seconds to differenciate the comfortable silence from the pensive one. And right now, while he cooks dinner, all you wish was for his thoughts to be less louder.

With the subtlety of an elephant, this is what happens when you wear high heels on cobblestones, you jumped off the couch and walked into the kitchen. You should've gotten rid of them, but you like the sound they make. Richie saw you walk into the kitchen, and felt your embrace as he braised the sausage.

"Hello there." You murmured against his shoulder. He was so tense.

You insisted on cooking dinner, but he never let you do it. Richie says he's a chef, you reply that he needs to relax, and he rejoinder with a "What kind of boyfriend I would be if I let you cook?"

You think he don't like your cooking, and you will die on this hill.

"Ten minutes and it'll be ready."

After a few minuts of silence, you got away from him. You reached into your pants pocket took out a coin. You quickly turned off the stove, and show him the coin before he complained. "A penny for your thought."

Richie sighed. He wiped his hands on a cloth, took the coin and hesitated before putting it in his pocket. He leaned against the counter, again in stark silence. You took his hand, stroking it. You noticed a small cut, already almost healed. You kissed the spot. "Kiss it better", you murmured to yourself.

But Richie heard you. And with his heart filled with that warm feeling, he opened his mouth and shared with you his fear. "Aren't tired of me?"

"No." You smiled to him. "Not at all."

"But... why?"

"Because you are... you", you smirked. "I know you. People said that when you're young you know nothing but I know you."

"Exactly." Richie grabbed your hand. "You know me. So why aren't tired of me?"

"You give me your weekends. We played hide-and-seek last night and I don't think I've played it in years. You hold me when I'm bleeding. And you always take the last train so you can spend more time with me. And your food..."

"What are you doing?"

"Telling you all the reasons why I love you. Why I'm not tired of you. I can go on and on and on and on... Richie, I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."

"Sometimes I feel like I'm old cardigan under someone's bed."

You got closer to him, caressing his shoulders. "Then you're my favorite cardigan in the whole world." That made him laugh. "Hey, do I look like a clown? I'm dead serious. The best cardigan ever made."

GENERAL TAGLIST: @suakemi @notanalienindisguiseblink

THE BEAR: @flowercrowns-goodvibes @notanalienindisguiseblink @vyctorya

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

[im-sleepingbeauty]

controversial opinion but an argument can be made for elain archeron is the muse for taylor swift’s “the bolter”

[kazoosandfannypacks]

the ol' kazzle drabble roulette (taylor's version)

send me one of these ships and a number between one and one-hundred, and I'll write you a drabble based on that ship with the corresponding song on my taylor swift playlist! multiple requests are allowed <3

[cookies-over-yonder]

i don't know how to say this, 'cause you're really my dearest friend

Five times Taylor and Link almost kissed, and one time they finally did.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | +1 | ao3

[title from Jenny (I Wanna Ruin Our Friendship) by Studio Killers]

2. The second time, it was a challenge.

◇

Link and Taylor had been eating out of the same box of pocky for a while, but then, they simultaneously came to a horrific realization.

"There's only one left, do you want it?" Link offers.

"Come on, that's no fun," Taylor elbows him. They're sitting beside each other at Link's kitchen table, and Link can see Taylor's legs swinging back and forth in excitement—or maybe just excese energy. "We should battle for it."

"Huh?"

Taylor pinches the middle of the pocky stick and holds it between them. The chocolate side is facing Link.

"I bite this side, and you bite that side."

"Why do I get the chocolate side?"

"I'm being courteous, since I'm gonna be way faster than you at eating this thing," Taylor teases.

"I guess we'll see…"

Link's face gets hot. "Wait, are we going to meet in the middle?"

"Well, the aim of the game is to eat as much as you can, so I hope not, 'cause that'd be boring."

Taylor really just wants to have fun eating this.

"O—okay."

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

Taylor sticks the chocolateless end of the pocky in his mouth and leans forward. His eyes are sparkling with excitement, and he's grinning like this is going to be the most fun game he's ever played.

"Come on," Taylor encourages him, and it's muffled by the stick in his mouth, which makes Link chuckle.

"Okay, okay."

Link holds the chocolate end between his teeth.

And then the game starts.

Taylor is chomping the pocky stick and inching closer and closer to Link's face, and when he gets really close, he closes his eyes.

Link freezes.

Lips that aren't his are hovering way too closely and making him feel shocks sent down his spine.

He bites down hard, and the piece of pocky snaps and falls into his mouth. He chews, and then he swallows it with one big gulp.

"Ah! You broke it," Taylor says, finishing off the pocky still sticking out of his mouth. "You hardly ate any! That was like, no different from you just giving me the whole stick."

It felt pretty different to Link.

"Ahh… Sorry—"

"It's fine. I won anyway," Taylor chuckles, and the sound reverberates through Link's skull like an enchanting melody.

"Yeah, you did."

And then Taylor pulls out another box from his backpack, holds it in front of Link and shakes it a little. The way Taylor gazes at him makes Link's breath catch. "You wanna try it again?"

It's at this time that Link is so grateful he doesn't visibly blush, because with the way his brain is short-circuiting from the way Taylor's hair frames his face and the light from the ceiling lamp reflects off his eyes. There's probably some overly dramatic and tropey way Taylor would describe the view.

He's always making references and painting things out to be as gorgeous and emotional and action-packed as his favourite shows.

It's really charming.

Taylor really knows who he is, and he's got no shame about it. He's loud, and silly, and passionate, and cute…

Taylor leans in closer. "Hmm?"

Now it's the thud of Link's heartbeat that's reverberating through his skull.

"Mm, you can have the rest."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

◇

[melonivysims]

Mary: I woulda gained more followers if my side of the room was more aesthetic. It's time for my next era.

[darkluminosity]

So I finally posted it on AO3... I totally forgot that it was in my drafts, lol. I didn't want to post this during the holidays because it's more angsty than fluff. (I've already been torturing them enough with angst, I figured they need a break 😂)

[chaotic-king-arthur]

last kiss (taylor's version) x ronance.......hrnnn....im getting a vision.....