For Old Times Sake Is Actually Such A Heartbreaking And Beautiful Sentiment. Like, Let’s Do It For

-

“Being suicidal doesn’t mean that I’m going to kill myself. Being suicidal is having this inexplainable ache while you’re living. It’s waiting for your life to end, and wishing that you didn’t have to carry on. Having this ache, and incapability to feel happy living, doesn’t mean that I am going to kill myself; it just means that I wouldn’t mind dying.”

— (via lost-alone-broken)

I love his lil pout 🖤

This man is built like a brick house goddamn

Basically.............

He's my husband xxxx

special moments, joe rantz

pairing: joe rantz (the boys in the boat) x black fem oc (cleotha jean)

content: cleotha has the opportunity to enter joe's world just for a moment.

an: for the joe lovers out there.

He was rattled by the day’s events. His mouth didn’t have to move for her to know. She could see the pain in his eyes. It was like he was a young boy again, confused as to why his father abandoned him with no regard. Rejection covered him like a blanket and he wore it all day long. It was a sad sight to see. 

Their date ended early that day. As much as she wanted to press the matter, she knew that space was what she could provide. But, after not hearing from him for hours, she found herself walking to the bunks of the rowing team. 

Cleotha grunted as she trudged through the grass to the board house. Through the back door, up the steps, through a side door, and down the hallway. Her footsteps were gentle as she tiptoed through the hoard house. When she arrived at the bedroom door, it was cracked, and his bed was empty. She furrowed her eyebrows.

Turning on the ball of her feet, she padded down the opposite side of the hallway. She hummed a soft tune and sped down the hallway. A room with a window lit dimly caught her attention. Her movements slowed as she saw movement in the room. Then, a head of platinum hair came into view.

Cleotha’s eyes lit up. She stuck her hand out and twisted the doorknob. “Hey…” her voice caused his head to rise. He was startled, but his eyes softened as she stepped in. She clutched her blanket around her body and smiled weakly.

“Hi.” Joe placed the object against the newly constructed boat and walked toward her. He wrapped his strong arms around her and inhaled deeply, basking in her scent of vanilla and cinnamon. “How’d you know I was here?” 

Cleotha shrugged. “Weren’t in your room. Walked a little further and found the light on. You’re the only one who’d marry a boat if you could.” For the first time, Joe laughed. 

“Something like that,” he replied once they separated. “I don’t know…gives me peace, I guess.” Joe picked up the sanding block again but began to sand the bottom of the boat. 

Cleotha nodded and watched him work. He was focused and so dedicated to the craft. She couldn’t help but smile. His arms flexed with every stroke of the sandblock against the beautiful craven wood. 

“Wanna try?” he asked, feeling her eyes on him. Cleotha grinned and placed her blanket on a nearby surface. Joe opened up, allowing her to rest her back against his chest. She felt small beneath his stature but she leaned into his body just the same. “You wanna try to swipe in one direction. From the back forward.” 

Cleotha’s body warmed when he covered her hand with his own to direct her movements. “Just like that.” 

Moments like these were her favorite. Where time stood still and they were in their own world just basking in the presence of the other. It was a simple thing, but she loved it all the same. 

It took an hour to finish sanding the underside of the boat. Her arms were sore and stiff and she was sure she sweated out her undergarments, but seeing the look of pride on her boyfriend's face was worth it all. Especially after the turmoil he’d gone through earlier in the day.

“Well, sweetheart, I think we’re done.” Joe gave her a smile and wiped his hands on a rag. She smiled back. “I see why you do it. It’s therapeutic.”

Joe admired his work. “It is.”

“Whenever you work on the next one, I’ll sneak in here and join you,” Cleotha winked. She grabbed her blanket and tossed it over her shoulders. Joe followed her steps toward the door.

“I’d like that,” he replied.

“Good.” She grabbed his hand. “Now, take me to bed, Boat Boy. I’m sleepy.”

Joe pressed a kiss against her temple and turned off the light behind them. “Yes ma’am.”

a symphony of regret, corioloanus snow

pairing: young!coriolanus snow x black fem oc (illia furdoix). warning: book accurate snow, arranged marriage, toxic!coriolanus. trigger warning: stupid coriolanus. content: it's been weeks since their tense interaction, which has allowed coriolanus to ponder about his marriage with illia, and he begins to realize what he could lose.

an: I got an ask from @ietss about these two and figured I'd come out of temporary retirement to post it. anyway, I was listening to the "scheming" instrumental and this is what came to mind. by the way, this is long.

tags: @snowlandsontopp @babyzzlove @hlstead @rosewine-5 @unicornqueen05 @thegabbyh @neeville @fastlikealambo @urfavesim to keep your spot on the tag list, you are expected to interact! reblog and comment for continued work!

The air in Coriolanus Snow's office hung heavy with the scent of authority, a blend of polished mahogany and the subtle fragrance of Capitol roses. The room itself was a testament to his ascendancy—ornate furniture, walls adorned with portraits of influential figures, including that of his father, and the sprawling view of the Capitol below from the towering windows.

Coriolanus sat behind his desk, fingertips pressed together in contemplation. The city sprawled before him, a chessboard of power, each move calculated and premeditated.

His piercing blue eyes, cold as the ice in his veins, scanned the landscape below. The serenity of the evening concealed the storm brewing within him. It was a symphony of power and regret, a melody only he could decipher.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting hues of crimson and burnt orange across the sky, Coriolanus's gaze fixated on a figure below. A siren dressed in all black, a stark contrast to the opulence of the Capitol. Illia Furdoix, his wife.

She moved with ethereal grace, scarlet heels clicking against the pavement in a cadence that echoed in his mind. He could recognize its cadence with ease. Her dark hair, meticulously blown out, danced in the evening breeze. A new bag adorned her arm, a silent testament to his observation. When they were engaged, he caught her eyes dancing across the details as they passed through a boutique.

But it was the wedding set on her left hand that held his attention—the flawless oval diamond in a high setting, a public symbol of their union. Only he knew the intricate secret engraved within the bands—his name etched into hers, hers into his. A silent vow, a binding commitment, a show that ended without applause once the audience was no longer around.

On her lips was a smile. It was bright and gleaming as she spoke to the individual in front of her. A man. Another man. A man who was not him. A man who was not him, that made her smile so wide that her dimples made a rare appearance.

Her head flew back in laughter. A sound he was not sure he could recognize by memory. What man didn't recognize his wife's smile and sound of laughter? A man who could only recognize the sound of his wife's cries. Cries that he provoked with ease.

Coriolanus felt a pang of recognition, a revelation unfolding. The grandeur of the Capitol office faded into the background as the weight of his regrets settled upon his shoulders. The realization was a slow burn, a dawning awareness that he had been blind to the depth of his own failings.

He was a terrible husband.

Coriolanus was used to control. He was used to fixing problems immediately, hovering over every move until it was completed to his standard. But, this, his marriage; was the one thing he couldn't control. The potential of losing his marriage, of losing his wife, was great. What could he do to combat that?

No amount of gifts, money, or luxury would change her mind. He couldn't buy her forgiveness. Coriolanus was many things but he was far from a fool. None of that would work on her. He wouldn't be convinced that it would work on him if the roles were reversed.

If the roles were reversed, he pondered. How would he feel? Having been fed a lie by a gold spoon. Having dreams of perfect love and marriage shattered by the hand of the one who was supposed to the heart with care and compassion. Could he imagine her brushing past him as she walked through the door when all he wanted was to feel her lips against his? What about her dismissing his attempts at conversation so she could bury her head in paperwork? Or if she only responded to his touch to get a release and not to feel their souls coming together as one? If she'd bullied him the way he had done her.

His world would crumble.

Coriolanus sat back in his white chair, the cold veneer of authority crumbling alongside the fragments of his self-assuredness. The sun had surrendered to the night, casting long shadows that mirrored the looming darkness enveloping his conscience.

Below, the Capitol glittered with its false promises, a city built on illusions that mirrored his own life. Illia continued her conversation, oblivious to the turmoil she stirred within him. The man by her side, a mere spectator in this intricate dance of revelation, remained blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in the nation's most powerful man.

Coriolanus' eyes, once icy and calculating, betrayed a vulnerability not often seen. A husband's failures, a leader's regrets—all laid bare in the privacy of his office.

Amid the turmoil, a determination ignited within him. He was a political strategist. A machine that could not be shut down or destroyed, If he, the most powerful man in the nation, he could figure out how to control the fate of his marriage. A plan unfolded, a strategy born of desperation and remorse. He would win her back, not with gifts or grand gestures, but with a genuine reformation of character.

The clinking of Illia's scarlet heels against the pavement below echoed in his ears, a haunting reminder of the distance that had grown between them. He rose from his chair, the crimson hues of the city below mirroring the resolve in his eyes. His eyes followed her as she made her way to the Capitol building.

It was not long before he heard soft chatter outside the door. "Is my husband in his office?" Her voice was soft, low.

"Yes, Mrs. Snow." Peacekeepers scrambled to open the door for her. The two doors peeled open, revealing Illia Furdoix Snow in all her wonder. Coriolanus' heart increased in rate for the first time in a long time.

Once the doors closed, the pleasant smile on Illia's lips dropped to a straight line. Her fingers brushed the flyaway hairs away from her face, then gripped her purse. "I cooked. Then I came to the city to look for new towels for the bathroom. Wanted to let you know your plate will be in the oven whenever you get back. I assume I'll see you in the morning, so be safe tonight."

Illia's tone was emotionless and it made his nerves spike. Was this how she felt all this time?

Coriolanus cleared his throat and walked around his desk. His dress shoes kissed the marble floor as he made his way to her. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored pants. "I, um, I planned on coming home tonight. And eating dinner with you."

Illia's head jerked back and her eyebrows raised. The shock was written over her features like a book. Her lips parted but words did not flow from them. She wasn't convinced.

"Illia," Coriolanus said lowly. "I owe you an apology. It's long overdue and it won't make up for what I've put you through, but I..."

Her gaze remained fixed on him, a mix of skepticism and curiosity playing in her eyes. Coriolanus swallowed the lump forming in his throat, acutely aware of the gravity of his words.

"I've taken you for granted, disregarded your feelings, and failed as a husband. "The man you've seen, the man who rarely came home and when he did, brought nothing but a cold presence—I don't want to be that man anymore."

Coriolanus paused, allowing his words to hang in the air. The vulnerability he displayed was unfamiliar, a crack in the stoic facade he wore so effortlessly. Illia's teeth caught her bottom lip as her eyes welled with tears. She began to rock back and forth on the balls of her feet in anxiousness. Was this truly a reality?

"You deserve more than a distant husband. You deserve someone who cherishes you, who respects you, and who appreciates the warmth and love you bring into our home," he continued, his gaze never leaving hers. "I want to be that person for you. I know you may not believe it right now, I know actions speak louder than words, but I am going to show you that I want to be and can be the man you dreamt of having as a husband...if you'll let me."

The weight of the moment hung in the air, the room silent except for the distant hum of the Capitol outside. Coriolanus awaited her response, his heart pounding with a vulnerability he hadn't felt in years.

For the first time, she cracked a smile in his presence. It was small- and only showed a few of her teeth, but she smiled. She smiled because of him. Illia smiled because of him.

"Thank you for your apology," she started. "Accountability is important when trying to change. I can't make any promises to you, Coriolanus, of how long it will take for me to trust you or for us to get to the point where we would like to be, but, I do believe you're being sincere. So, we'll take it a day at a time."

Coriolanus released the breath he was unaware he held tight within his chest. Maybe he did have control over something after all.

"Let's go home, Coriolanus." Home. The word resonated with a chance at redemption. Taking her hand, Coriolanus followed Illia out of the office, leaving the weight of the past behind and stepping into the uncertain but hopeful future.

The most sweetest and gentlest Jason Todd fic I have read 😖💕

𝓜𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝓐𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 — 𝓙. 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒅

𝓢 YNOPSIS : : you have bewitched me, body and soul, and i love, love, love you.

𝓒ONTENTS : : yearner!jason todd. yearner!reader. female!reader. injuries( his scars. not detailed, the fic is sfw ). mentions of the lazarus pit. povs are separated ( still in second person. jason's first, then reader's ). ooc(?) jason feeling underserving woah woah woah. fluff. angst (?). mentions of sex. some parts are inspired by lyrics. ( new ) established relationship. no beta read, we die like bruce's parents. wc : 2.4k

BOOKS — DC BOOK

REQUESTED ; SUGGESTED : : @yeoniverseee && @laufeysgoddess

ᨦ𓏲 ، ݃♟❜ : : this is kind of,, a remake of this,,, if u squint.. layout slightly inspired by @laufeysgoddess ' carrd mwah mwah.,, ig it can be gn!reader, ithinkitjinkiithink also. i made hannie & ellie pick a fic to remake & they picked this !! & i was feeling very most ardently these days lolzsk. i am a STRONG believer that jay cried the first time he has sex with someone he really, really loves. like my "my love, mine all mine" fic,, JAY DED CRIED THERE SHUT UP. okay, now im really just recycling the pictures and layouts hehehehe. also,, 800???? YOU GUYS?????? ARE???? 800??? EIGHT HUNDRED ?????? EIGHT FUCKING HUNDRED ???? IM MAKING BABIES W U ALL. some parts here are actually what i said to @fromdove 😋( this is also dedicated to her btw. all of my works r prolly dedicated to her, hannie & ellie ) i love her ( including my cherries ) as much as i love jay, btw !! i tried to be poetic, guys. i really did🥀. idk if i hate this or love THEM. also... @yintous jinxed the crying part........ yin, you freak. this took me a whole week gng #writersblockslanderer. probably not ur taste in fics bc it's more focused on how they love

every time. every single time he finds himself staring at you too long, he hears it in his head like a fucking prayer. not that he's still into that kind of thing, but anyway. there's something sacred about the way you smile at him. something that gives him the sense that he has god's favorite secret beside him on the couch, his hoodie wrapped around your with her hair tied up in a bun and your toes against his thigh.

he thinks you're unreal. and maybe a little unfair. because you're soft with him. too soft. you're gentle in ways he doesn't think he deserves, like you were made to prove him wrong just by existing in his space. just by existing on this planet, actually.

it's a new relationship. not new in the way that it's uncomfortable or awkward. just new enough that he still feels the flutter in his belly when you kiss him first. just new enough that anything little you do still surprises him.

like how you touch his scars.

not with pity. not with horror. and obviously, not even with that unattached interest people sometimes get. no. you touch them like they're part of a map you're memorizing. like your fingers are tracing out every inch of what made him and you don't want to miss a single marker.

"this one," you said once, tracing over the raised scar near his ribs, "looks like a half moon."

and he looked at you like you'd said something ridiculous. because who the hell gazes at a scar━━a remnant of a knife that nearly killed him( not really )━━and thinks of the fucking moon?

you do. apparently.

he wants to write that down somewhere. with a permanent marker. place it into the back of his head so he'll never forget the way you looked at him that way. like you saw something lovely in all the spaces he thought were destroyed. maybe a tattoo would do.

sleeping beside you is its own kind of pain. he doesn't sleep much, usually. his body doesn't find stillness comfortable. but when you're in his arms, curled into his chest, breathing slow and steady and trusting him with your entire heart, he sleeps like the dead. it's dangerous. it's silly( not to you ). it's addictive. he wakes with his arm around your waist and his nose pressed to the back of your neck and wonders if perhaps this is what peace feels like.

god, not once in his life. even when bruce wayne took him in, thought he'd get to feel that.

and when you kiss him━━god, when you kiss him━━it's like you can feel what he wants before he can. you kiss him slow. careful. sometimes sloppy, sometimes quick. but always as if he belongs to you. as if there is another place in the entire world you'd rather be. and he breaks down. melt. dissolves for it every time. he leans into it with his entire body, as if the only thing holding him to reality is your lips on his.

having sex with you isn't forgetting. not with him. not anymore.

it's not an escape. or temporary. it's a return. a coming home. it's permanent.

you're kind to him. not only in kisses. but in the way you look at him when he undresses in front of you. in the way you stroke his back like it's holy. in the way you whisper his name like it's fragile.

he recalls the first time you had sex. the day he first cried while having sex with you. recalls how he attempted to hide it. bury his face in your shoulder and try to convince himself that it was merely sweat. but you were aware. of course, you were aware. and you kissed his temple and whispered, "i've got you," as if he wasn't shattering in your hands.

you make him believe that he is worth the gentleness. worth, this.

and perhaps he is. perhaps, with you, he is.

because you stay. even when he's not speaking. even when he's being grumpy or distant or two steps away from breaking. you stay. you wrap yourself around him and fetch him tea and refuse to ask him questions he doesn't want to respond to. and somehow, that gets him to speak. not everything. but enough. enough for you to understand.

he spoke to you about the pit. once. and only once. you didn't flinch. just gripped his hand. and said he was here. now. with you.

he trusts you.

and that shit scares him.

love was never simple for him. even before the pit. it was always rough. always a distance. but with you, it is. still. not in the boring sense. in the safe sense. in the "i can finally breathe again" sense. it's rough. but no longer a distance.

sometimes you're singing in the kitchen. poorly. on purpose. or not. and he leans in the doorframe and listens to you spin around in your socks, spatula clutched like a microphone, and he thinks, i could die right now and it would be enough.

he doesn't say anything. not yet. but he thinks about it all the time.

and he loves you. most ardently. passionately. in every possible way that a person can love.

in the way he remembers your coffee order and has a hair tie wrapped around his wrist for you.

in the way he allows you to see him when he's at his worst.

in the way he handles you like you're fragile. like you're not. like you're his.

in the way he sleeps more soundly when you're breathing next to him.

in the way he wishes to believe again in the future.

he loves you. hurtfully. shamelessly. completely. perfectly.

and if he could cut that into the sky, he would.

he loves you in the "let's run barefoot across the universe together" sort of way.

to saturn and back and then beyond.

to the spaces between stars where time loses track of how to move.

and jason todd━━jason peter fucking todd━━doesn't want to be rescued anymore. the child. the second robin. red hood. jason todd.

they all just want to stay.

with you.

he has no idea what he looks like when he is in love. but you do.

you've committed it to memory. tattooed it( at least, in your mind you did ) near your heart. the gentle droop of his eyelids when he gazes at you as if you're a dream. the slight opening of his lips, as if there is something he would like to say but can't. how his hand lingers in mid air before it settles on the small of your back, as if requesting permission still, even now, despite all that has happened.

he stares at you as if you're the last sacred thing in a world of tombs.

and you feel it. every ounce of the burden he bears. not because he loads it onto you, but because he never does. he bears it all as though he was meant to endure it alone, and you have to press yourself into the crack just to make him remember that he doesn't have to. not anymore.

you love him like breathing. all the time, without thinking, with no effort at all. it's just there. like his name on your tongue. like his shirts in your drawer. like the way your heart slows when you hear the front door open and it's him. again. and god, you never felt more real.

you remember the first time he told you about the pit. how his voice sounded like it was scraping the edge of something sharp. how he didn’t look at you, didn’t blink, just stared at the floor like it held the truth and the punishment and the apology all at once.

he said it like it was a confession. like it would be the thing that finally pushed you away. that will make you want to not stay.

it didn't.

you simply leaned over, wrapped your fingers around his, and told him, "you're here now."

he blinked then. just once. as if he was trying to process your words. as if he had no idea that something so simple could mean so much.

sometimes, you wonder if jason todd doesn't know that he's still alive.

not just breathing. but alive.

in the way his eyebrow creases when you laugh too loudly. in the way he rolls his eyes when you steal fries from his plate but pushes the rest up towards you anyway. in the way he allows you to sit on his lap with a book in your hand, not saying a word, just,, existing.

his scars don't frighten you. they never have.

he showed them to you as if he was getting ready to be turned down. again. god. it's like he expects you to just vanish. as if he was showing you the remains of a city he didn't think anyone would want to live in.

you touched them all. one by one. kissed the one under his rib. trailed your fingers over the one that curves into his shoulder. learned the mosaics of him with devotion. patience.

"you're not broken," you told him. "you're written."

he didn't say a word for a long time afterward. just gazed at you like you'd reached into your pocket and pulled out the sun and given it to him.

he tries━━no━━he does his best. every day. every time.

that's what bothers you the most. the way he's doing so hard. not to be good. not to be complete. but to be gentle with you. to be with you. even when it hurts. even when he's afraid.

you notice it the way he cradles your face like you'll disappear. the way he asks you "this okay?" even when it's just your limbs knotted up on the couch. the way he wears your keys around his neck( just to make sure he won't lose it, he told you once. ) like they're where they're supposed to be.

you recall the first time you had sex.

how he touched you like prayer. how his lips shook against yours. how his voice cracked when he said your name.

you knew. immediately. when his breath caught and his chest faltered and he tried to hide his face in your neck, you knew.

and so you cradled him. gently and slowly. allowed him to rest in your arms as if he were something fragile. kissed his temple and said, "i've got you," repeatedly until he accepted it. until he relaxed.

you don't realize that no one's ever made him feel little before. like that. little as in the safe kind.

he clung to you as if he thought he'd lose you if he relaxed his hold.

he didn't have anything to say then. just sat there. still. for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

he looks at you as if you're cut out of finer stuff. but you look at him and observe someone who has been to hell and is still willing to be kind. still tries. still wakes up every morning and makes coffee and leans his head on your chest as if he's found home.

you'd adore him in all the iterations of this life. even the ones in which you never get to hold him.

but you do. and that's the part that takes your breath away.

when he kisses you, it's all. everything. like he's famished and you're the only thing that ever satisfied him. he kisses you like nothing else exists. like if he died the instant after, it'd be alright. because he got to have this.

when you kiss him back, you kiss him with the same desperation. the same longing.

he once held your face in his hands, he didn't say it. i don't think he needed to. you don't either. the words, "you feel like home." was a line the author made solely for him. to recite it to you, the love interest. his love interest.

and you smiled as though your heart was breaking.

because that's what he is. to you. every hurting bit of him. every bruise and sigh and quiet stare and kisses. he is home. he is the place you come back to. the one you'd wait for lifetimes. the one you'd fall in love with all over again.

he can't say it in words, so he says it in everything else.

he gives you flowers wrapped up in yesterday's newspaper. leaves you little notes in your pockets. sits with you through thunderstorms just because you hate the sound.

he stays.

even when he's exhausted. even when he thinks he shouldn't.

and you do, too.

you stay when he's quiet. when he's distant. when he's hurting and doesn't talk until you're kissing his bruised knuckles.

you stay when he's laughing and when he's too far gone to remember why and how.

you stay because there's not a piece of him you'd want to leave.

you love him in the gentlest ways. in the harshest ones. in all the ways he doesn't believe he's worthy of being loved.

you love him when he's in your bed, breath warm against you, arms wrapped around your waist like a lifeline.

you love him when he's disappeared for hours and returns with your favorite pastry because he "just happened to pass by."

you love him when he refuses to say he's hurting but lays his head in your lap like a silent surrender.

you love him because you do.

because something in you saw something in him and chose him anyway.

and you think━━no, you know━━that he is the great love of your life.

he doesn't think in miracles. but you do.

and you think he could be one.

because somehow, some way, despite it all, despite the blood and the grave and the fucked up environment, he's here.

with you.

and if you could have him write that in the stars, you would.

because you love him in the way the sky turns soft pink when the sun forgets how to hide, disappear, go down.

because you love him in the pauses between words, in the spaces between stars, in every what if, could be, maybe, probably, really, statistically speaking, almost, & someday.

he has bewitched you. body and soul.

and you never want it to shatter.

© spcherryygirl

“Your naked body should only belong to those who fall in love with your naked soul.”

— Charlie Chaplin in a letter to his daughter, Geraldine

I'm just uterus with fertile eggs

I’M SALIVATING STOP ITTT