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rosewaterandivy · 9 months

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10. a kiss is not enough

Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumbass reader

W.C.: 4.5K

Warnings: No use of y/n - reader goes by the nickname Trouble instead, cursing, sexual situations - SMUT & idolatry (my usual bullshit), real-talk with Nancy Wheeler, idiots still being idiots, Modern!Teacher AU, English teacher reader, History teacher Steve, slow burn, friends to lovers, romance.

A/N: Holy shit, I can't believe we've come to the end (or is it 👀) of this series! When I started this, I had no clue how many people would respond to Trouble and Steve's idiots-to-lovers story - but I'm so glad that they did! This series will always be near and dear to my heart, for a variety of reasons, but primarily for the people it brought into my life (here's lookin' at you, babe!). This isn't a goodbye from Trouble and Steve so much as a see you later - don't hate me too much! Poetry excerpt from John Keats. 18+ mature content (minors dni). Reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated, please let me know what you thought; enjoy & thanks for reading! 💜

series masterlist | playlist - newly updated!

Trouble’s playlist from Steve: trouble will find me

Steve's playlist from Trouble: rebel without a clue

previous || epilogue

Now, May, Finals Week

“Just think about it, kid,” Hopper says on his way out your classroom door. He’d requested a meeting during your conference block, when normally he’d amble in under some pretense just to shoot the shit.

You nod, at a loss for words. It’s not like you needed yet another thing on your plate— waiting to hear back from admissions and not spilling to Steve or the gang was bad enough.

Yeah, you’d applied for grad school (even though grad students were the worst) and Hop had been contacted as a reference, which prompted his little visit today. Apparently, the district had approved a stipend and sabbatical for faculty furthering their education in graduate school.

“I’d like to recommend you,” Hop said matter of factly, sitting in a desk across from yours. “Maybe not for the sabbatical until you’re further along in the program, writing your thesis and whatnot.”

“I, uh–” you stumbled to find the words. “Cart, horse. I haven’t been accepted yet.”

He leveled you with a look, “Are you shittin’ me? Of course you’re getting in.”

You swallowed audibly and busied yourself emptying your desk for the summer, “Well, time will tell I suppose.”

“This isn’t—” Hopper paused in thought. “This isn’t about Harrington, is it?”

“Huh,” you nearly yelled, clutching the cardboard box for dear life. You had been so careful too.

He cracks a smile, “I saw the pair of you at graduation, you think you’re so slick.”

That brings a smile to your face, good ol’ Hop sussing out the goings on like he’d never left the force.

“It’s nothing.” You assure him, “We haven’t— We’re professionals, okay?”

“I know,” he nods, voice lowering as if he could spook you. “I’m happy for you, really.”

A small smile breaks across your face, “Yeah, uh, thanks.”

Finals done and grades posted, you’d never been so happy to get home. Had plans to pour yourself onto the couch and not move for 72 hours.

But life (and Steve) had other plans.

He was sorting through the mail, chucking envelopes into various piles on the countertop. The loft was quiet that afternoon— Eddie had a gig in Indy that evening and Robin was crashing at Vickie’s for the night. Steve hummed a tune to himself, the occasional slap of paper hitting the granite punctuating it.

“Oh hey,” Steve turns with a large envelope in hand, “This looks important.” Tosses it with freakish accuracy, the white paper landing with a thwack where your shorts had ridden up against your thigh.

Distracted by whatever drama was unfolding on TV— something about a crew working on chartered private boats— you mindlessly slip your thumb beneath the lip of the envelope and tear it open.

It’s only once you’ve pulled the papers from it that you glance to see what’s what. The university’s crest shines like a beacon, your thumb worrying over the topmost letter. Steve, the bastard, has stopped his mail sorting and turned toward you.

He leans lazily against the counter, a knowing smirk fixed on his lips. You scramble up from the couch with the papers, too nervous to see for yourself. “Here,” you say, thrusting the envelope and documents to his chest. “Can you—”

Pulling you to his chest with an arm, he brushes his lips against the crown of your head. “Sure, honey.” You wrap your arms around him, burying your face into his chest— warm and familiar.

“You know,” he drawls, “The big envelope generally means something good, right?”

“I know,” muffled against his shirt.

He chuckles, hand coming up to cradle your head. Steve clears his throat, reads the opening of the letter in his best announcer voice. “Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that…”

The rest is drowned out by the rushing of blood in your ears, the tears pooling in your eyes breaking free to cascade down your cheeks. He squeezes you tight abandoning the acceptance letter and letting it flutter to the floor in favor of drawing you closer. Steve kisses you, licking your own tears into your mouth, your taste onto your tongue. And it’s so weirdly hot that your heart starts fluttering again, like you’re seeing him for the first time.

Because of course, just as things were going right something had to come and throw a wrench into things.

Plans for lazing in the early summer forgotten, the next few days saw you coming and going from the university campus for orientation, meetings with faculty, so on and so forth. As you were leaving the grad student mixer, a professor peeled off from a group of faculty to flag you down with a call of your name.

You turn, not recognizing them from the English department. She’s an older woman, has maybe a few years on your mother, and is swathed in a lovely linen dress— the cool elegance of minimalist style.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Holland,” she says shaking your hand. “I’m on the admissions committee and was very impressed with your work on Dante Alighieri.”

“Oh, thanks!”

“And you studied Italian as an undergrad?”

“Certo.”

That brings a smile to her face. “Perfetto,” she says with a perfect Italian accent and waves over another faculty member. “I only ask because there’s a summer intensive in Italy beginning next week that I think you’d be perfect for.”

Your mind reels. The new professor introduces himself and echoes Dr. Holland’s sentiments— a summer session of classes in Italy, in partnership with Università di Bologna, the oldest university in operation in the world. Scholarships that would cover the cost of tuition, travel, and accommodations for you to peruse.

What the fuck.

Vision swimming, you somehow come back to the conversation at hand. Dr. Holland presses a folder to your hand, “I know you were planning on taking the introductory grad school courses over the summer, but I hope you’ll consider joining us in Italy instead.”

You nod, gobsmacked and make your way to the car. Settling into the sweltering seat, you start the car and call Nancy. If anyone would know what to say in this situation, it would be her.

“That’s the thing,” you sigh, wine glass in hand as you slump on Nancy’s couch. “We’re not anything, haven’t discussed it. I mean, sure, we fuck like rabbits, but aside from that?”

She blows a raspberry and sips from her glass. “He’s in love with you, get over it.”

You jerk up, “Okay, maybe,” you allow. “But he hasn’t said anything.”

“And you won’t pony up to do it yourself?”

A scoff as you drain your glass. “I’m sorry, have you met me?”

Nancy laughs at that, loud and bright. “Unfortunately, yes!” She refills your glass before continuing, “Let’s be honest, you’re both hopeless when it comes to eachother.” She raises her brow before you can balk, “Full offense intended.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

She hums at that, head cocked to the side in thought. Her nail taps against the glass with a soft clink. A bite to her lips before she heaves a sigh, “Sometimes he just needs a push.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “I am absolutely not telling him he’s bullshit, if that’s what you’re after.”

Nancy, to her credit, winces uncomfortably at the memory. “No, no,” a shake of her head. “Absolutely not, you would never.” She sets her glass down carefully, giving you her full attention. “What I’m getting at is this: do you want to be something with Steve?”

She lets the question hang in the air between you.

“Because if you don’t know Trouble, you should back away now.” A low warning tone. “You’re it for him, have been since he laid eyes on you, but you’re both too scared to do anything about it.”

You drain your glass to the dregs and hastily take your leave. At the sound of the door closing, Nancy grabs her phone and brings it to her ear, “Hey Harrington, I need a favor…”

Returning from a less than helpful hang session at Nancy’s, you find a post-it note left on your bedroom, door that reads ‘meet me at our spot on lover’s lake. - s.’

Prizing it from the wood grain, you make your way back to the kitchen to scavenge for something to eat, in an effort to soak up the remnants of wine in your system. Opening the fridge you spy another post-it stuck to the topmost shelf: ‘get your ass down here, i’ll feed you soon enough. - s.’

With a laugh, you let the fridge door fall shut and grab your keys.

He can see you now, just barley, even in the indigo dark. Wonders to himself, how are you even real? How is it that you’re mine? An explanation that won’t ever come.

You slip into the cool water of Lover’s Lake like a dream, with nary a sound. Steve stumbles after you on the piles of clothing you’d left behind—bunched up denim shorts here, a threadbare tank-top over there, the silk of your thong musky and damp.

Fisting his shirt to pull it up and over his head, it falls to the forest floor behind him, jeans shucked off and tossed elsewhere, boxers joining your lingerie by the shore. His patience is wearing thin as you wade further and further from him out into the lake.

Little minx, he smiles and takes a breath before diving beneath the waves. Arms cutting through the placid water at a quick pace until he’s occupying the space between your bare legs, and coming up for air.

One arm drags you near, lazily pressing you close, tight around the small of your back as the tide breaks around your waist, minute movements almost imperceptible— the slow roll of your hips against his.

Water shallow enough to tread and keep you buoyant. Steve kisses you slow and sweet, pulling you flush against his chest while you writhe under the water’s surface. Body slick and wanton and arching into his own.

His dick jumps when you lift yourself to drape your arms around his shoulders. A sharp breath replaced with a shaky exhale as he brings his forehead to rest on yours, dark eyes taking in the exhilarated flush of your body.

And Steve knows, under his skin and tucked into the cage of his ribs, near the beating of his anguished heart, that you’re the only thing left in this world worth worshipping. To keep you, and render you a flightless bird, to clip your wings, would be all for naught.

He has to let you go again, and so soon after you found him. From perihelion to aphelion before the moon’s full turning. The soft curve of your throat drawn taut as you glance upward, marvelling at the stars and planets in the northern sky.

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” Your voice is a husk, low and hoarse, in the dark. “Its loveliness increases, it will never pass into nothingness.” Your eyes, once fixed on the sea of stars above, shift to him once more.

Closer to the shoreline now, and unbeknownst to you, Steve had gently waded you both inshore, until he could draw you toward the dock.

You let him walk you back until you’re flush against a mooring pole, wood rough against your moon-bathed skin. Body yielding to him as both his hands slide beneath your bottom, squeezing the soft flesh of your ass before he pulls you forward by the hips.

“S’okay, honey,” He mutters—right into your panting mouth with a sultry pull of his lips. “I’ve got you.”

“Steve,” You gasp, “This is unfair.” Your body jerks with every teasing kiss from his lips that he laves and sucks to the column of your throat.

He ignores you, crawling his hands onto your hips to keep you from squirming. Works his thigh in between your legs for good measure. Once you’re settled, he moves one hand to your center a finger trailing up and down your slippery folds. His mouth latches onto the spot that makes you keen, just behind your ear. You fist his hair in both hands at the same time he slips a digit inside.

But Steve doesn’t move. Other than his tongue’s soft licks on your neck and into your kiss-bitten mouth, he doesn’t move at all. He happily lets his finger rest inside of you, gathering your juices all over his hand.

You whimper, trying to shimmy against them, anything to create more contact. Its intrusion lights a terrible match inside of your body, and goddamn it, you want to a forest fire.

Calming breaths in and out. Steady head, steady heart. When you’re able to meet his gaze again, you take a moment to see him as he truly is: dappled in moonlight, forelock hanging in front of his eyes, his entire focus trained on you.

It feels like an eternity passes before he finally lets you have another—adding one more thick finger inside, stretching you as he moves them both around, curling them, scissoring them, pumping them in and out.

Steve sucks enthusiastically on your sensitive skin and lips, fucks you with two fingers almost wildly, and your body responds with fervor. You gasp and moan, arching back into his hand, goosebumps blooming all over your shoulders and down your arms and legs.

You shake like a leaf in his arms, not knowing if it’s from the cool night air or due to the man before you.

Instead of increasing his pace, Steve continues to stroke you with his fingers, slowly prodding at your entrance with a third. Your eyes roll back and get lost in your head as you lean back with a whimper.

“Just trying to get you ready.” He murmurs, so soft and low that your heart stills.

Your legs wrap around his back loosely as he holds you still, his previous two fingers pushing inside gently. The third finger meets resistance as you tense up. “S-sorry,” You whisper, “I’m…”

Your head knocks back against the wooden pier. But you move his hand back and try again. He’s so tender and sweet with you as he turns his head to place kisses on your cheek and ear.

You blink owlishly, trying desperately to weave your threads of thought together. A shake of your head to rattle them loose. A sweet smile up to Steve, a barely there kiss to his lips.

Your eyelids are heavy, breaths heaving from your chest. Steve commits to memory the way your lids flutter when he touches you.

You gasp and moan, arching your chest into his and pulled as taut as a bow sting—back forming a crescent-shaped arc, a sliver of the moon radiant in the inky blue reflection of the water.

“C’mon, that’s it, honey. You’re so close. Almost there… Good girl… Good girl.”

With a cry, you come undone, rolling your hips every which way as you reach orgasm on Steve’s hand. His voice continues to praise you, lips kissing your sweat-slicked collar, bristles on his cheek and jaw tickling your sensitive skin.

Coming back to yourself, you shiver bodily. And Steve looks at you as if you hold infinities in the palms your hands.

You reach for him reverently, desperate for his shape of beauty and noble nature. A dream realized, a wish granted, gentle and true. You feel brave enough to shift and stroke him with determination.

You whisper, "Missed you," eliciting a shudder from him as your palm grips him tenderly.

Relishing in the temperature of his body, you sigh. Spreading the beaded precome at the tip of his cock up and down his shaft. Steve groans, head falling to yours.

“Missed you more,” He hums, eyes heavy-lidded and lustful.

Gasping as Steve guides your hips with one hand, and grips himself with the other. Slowly and without haste, he fills you inch by inch until he’s so deep inside you think he could burst from your throat.

You whimper. There aren’t enough words to describe it— the gratifying sting, an all-encompassing and chilling burn, a mystifying and utter fullness that nearly brings tears to your eyes. You’re fearful to move, to lose this sensation, and afraid to feel what comes next. But you know that you want it.

Steve kisses your lips tenderly, babbling praise, whispering affirmations, soothing the shock that surges up your spine with his warm palm. Slowly, he rocks you back, as water lapping against your thighs, holds onto your body with one hand, smoothing the hair that falls over your face with the other.

You’re gripping him so tightly it takes some effort to slide even an inch of him out— and there’s many inches of him. Sweat collects on your brow as you grind, dragging against his length, forcing shudders to course all over both your bodies. “Is this okay?” you cry, delirious, “Steve? You feel so good.”

He moves in you, like a prayer.

A groan escapes him as his hand squeezes your back just a little too hard. He’s holding back, trying to prolong your pleasure, but his own is chasing him down, only a few steps away from pouncing.

You coax it towards him with faster snapping of your hips against his, clawing at his back, nibbling on his ear. “Come on, lover… just a little more.”

With a grunt and a shudder, and a hard kiss to your lips that makes your teeth clack against each other, Steve thrusts one last time as deeply as possible, riding out his orgasm as he pulls your hips against his.

The two of you feel rooted together, sticky with sweat and so tightly flushed that you’re not sure where he ends and you begin. Your body slumps as you drape your arms over his neck. Steve turns his head to kiss your shoulder before making the effort to pull away, your shaky legs held in his secure grasp.

The black slik of night gives way to the earth’s rotation, stars and moon bending to the will of gravity. Splashes in its silent, dark depths as you broach the shore. A little shaky on your feet, but he’s close behind, sultry and brilliant like the summer morning quickly approaching.

Whispers and murmurs tucked between fervent kisses as you dress. Fabric sticking to damp skin as his hands roam. Frenetic movements as he backs you up against the car, the coolness of it causing you to shiver.

“You should do it,” he rasps against your lips. “The Italy thing, you always loved it there.”

“How did you–” you sputter.

You can’t see him roll his eyes, but you just know. “Nance, who else?”

The warmth of Steve’s body burns against you, a hand threading through your hair half-convinced the moon is hiding there, hanging like a jewel in the night. And you’re a mess when you kiss him. Your breath is warm and so sweet, and the center of his chest squirms like something alive.

In that moment, you love him but can’t tell him, not yet. You decide the sun that will kiss freckles to his face will do it for you.

The song of summer sings out as you load your suitcase into Nancy’s car a few days later. The trunk slams closed and your back is pressed against his chest, his arm hanging casually around your collar. It is the end of May, the first bloom of summer balmy on your skin.

Steve had not taken the news of Nancy driving you to the airport well.

At all.

A sponged necklace of kisses to your throat as the light creeps in. Sheets kicked to the edge of the bed so you’re tangled up in him. Skin already glinting gold in the summer sun. Twisting in his hold, desperate to glance at the time. “Steve,” muffled against the heft of his shoulder, “I gotta go, Nance will be here soon.”

The turn of his weight bearing down, trapping your body under his. A cruel circle of his hips has you shuddering. His breath ghosts along your skin, “Baby, baby please.” Nose trailing down from your sternum to the swell of your stomach. Pausing there for lips to lave kisses on the curves that trailed to your hips.

Eyes dark and heady with promise, “Just a taste.” Lips and mouth delving lower now, fingers parting the cleave of your cunt with a squelch. He hooks them back into his mouth with a groan. “Mmm,” he slurs, drunk off your arousal. “You taste good, sweetheart,” His nose bumps against your clit, “Like honey.”

Breath stuttering in the cage of your ribs, you fist his hair in one hand and tug. Steve moans overtly, pupils blown wide while he’s face deep in pussy. “Steve,” Your voice trembles. He glances up, smoldering and glorious, drinking you up. “Ah—fuck,” before you’re overtaken again.

You’re desperate, and he can hear it in your voice. A quiver in your throat, you swallow thickly mouth falling open in a pant. His fingers work into you easily, dragging exquisitely along your channel—warm and wet, only growing more so with every thrust of his hand. You mewl, hips bucking up as he sucks your swollen clit.

Legs thrown over his shoulders, as he cants your pelvis forward, arm heavy against your stomach to bully you in place. “Sweet girl,” He coos, lips ruddy and wet with your slick. “Doin’ so well for me.” You shiver in his hold, sunbeams hazy with orange glow, the refracting light makes a halo to crown him and for a second you feel blind.

Then you feel something pulled taut in your belly. A chord stretching like a rubber band before it snaps. The wind up is excruciating, Steve’s litany of devotions falling in hushed murmurs from his lips. His fingers plunging up into the chasm between your legs, pulling away wetter each time.

He bends back down, tongue circling your clit at a dizzying pace. A third finger slides in impossibly, a keen igniting from your throat—high and whimpering. God, you’re so close. You babble, hands scrambling purchase against his dewy skin.

“Come,” he commands, “Come for me right now and I’ll fuck you through it, how you like. Then I’ll make you come again and we can go.”

“Oh my god,” you thrash on the bed, hair sticking to the sheen of your face, hanging on by a thread as his fingers drive into you, on a mission to break either the bed frame or your brain, both were fine. In a rush. Can’t quit now. A little bit more. Your entire body is folded against him, insides fluttering desperately, maddeningly.

“Everyone’s gonna know,” Steve promises, “You stumbling in there.”

The image flashes through your lust-addled brain, the telltale sign of him screwing you stupid— lips swollen, legs wobbly, outfit crumpled up, smelling like him and sex in front of all your friends.

“You want it, don’t you, want them to know you’re all mine?” He smears your wet around the sides of your cunt— spit, slick— up to your clit. And then he pushes you like a button, flicking the pad of his thumb upwards and grins at the way you jerk in time.

“Stevie,” you mewl, “Steve.” The syllable breaks, your panting comes out in choked babbling.

You drily sob out something broken, a tiny echo of affirmation as he keeps fucking into you like he could break through. He’s really abused your pussy this morning, maybe gone too far, but every time you come like this, it’s like he’s seeing something holy.

“Oh my god…!” It’s a small shout as you shatter, and it makes Steve’s spine light up as you rub your face further into the pillow.

“Praying to me, sweetheart?” but doesn’t stop those tiny, hard circles, doesn’t stop melting into your body, his dick pulsing as he ruts against the sheets. “You can keep doing that,” he urges, “I like that.”

So, you’re not surprised when the two of you stumble into a nearly finished breakfast, as predicted, in a terrible disarray, and Robin crosses herself before promising, “I’m getting you two a goddamn chastity belt.”

On the couch, Eddie clicks the remote to a new channel, snapping his ring-clad fingers with an offhanded, “A-fucking-men.”

As much as you tried to tell yourself that this wasn’t goodbye but instead see you soon, it didn’t stick. But the ache in your gut did—low and menacing, growling like an animal.

Eddie and Robin were easy, promises to stay in touch and bring back the best candy. Your parents were less so, tight hugs and dried tears on cheeks.

Steve, however, you needed to brace yourself for. Short of chaining yourself to Nancy’s car, you weren’t sure how you’d escape with your dignity intact. He was already kissing on you, soft and sweet, as Nancy slid into the driver’s seat while Eddie and Robin waved goodbye walking back inside.

You slip from his grasp in a flash, pulling him by the belt loops to knock hips. “Stevie, lover mine,” you sing, his palms cupping your ass as his hands slide into your back pockets.

Lover.

What a word.

You think about it every waking second—the way he stretches in the morning, how he sings in the shower, dances in the kitchen, smiles and beams at anyone who passes by—how good he is.

How you love him.

“Mm—” raspy, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Feet walking you closer and closer and you’re pressed against him. Nosing along the column of his neck, nipping at the delicate skin there, watching as his throat bobs when he swallows.

Hands free themselves from denim confines, a thumb caresses the small of your back. Steve pries your hand from his chest, and brings it to his mouth, placing a tender kiss against your palm.

You hum as his lips brush your skin, observing as he meanders to the thin flesh of your wrist. Hazel eyes near golden in the morning sun as Steve looks to you, face open and fond. Lips featherlight when they kiss your thundering pulse.

Only then do you start to break.

You thought you were prepared. But it steals the breath from your lungs, levelling you to ruin, a creeping sense of hopelessness in its wake.

He’s quick to notice, crushing you to his chest and hand cradling your head. Soothing murmurs of “S’okay honey, we’ll be alright,” and the rasp of your name. Fingers brushing hair from your face with a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

And it is hard to leave him, but you can do difficult things.

Forehead bent to yours, back warm in the sun’s decorous rays, a searing tear-laden kiss and you’re off. Turned back in your seat to see him recede in the distance until he’s a mere speck on the horizon as Nancy tugs you forward.

All the goodbyes had all been said, save one thing lodged in the depths of your throat.

I love you.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington smut #stranger things fanfiction #the kids aren't alright rosewaterandivy #modern!steve harrington #teacher!steve

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sweatermuppet · 2 years

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hey i recently found your blog and i love your shit, any advice for writing? i feel like ive been in a rut the past few months but ive only started writing poetry the past few months, shits hard to do

it is hard! ive been writing only small, incomplete things lately. i think this is my most commonly asked question so im gonna point you in the direction of "ordinary genius: a guide for the poet within" by kim addonizio (links to a free pdf/epub copy). but in case you want some quick bites of advice here's the notes i took directly from her book myself:

think about setting up trouble + expectation. good poems avoid the predictable

poems may use unusual words but it's better to use simple words in surprising ways

poetry isn't what we think of as the ordinary, but what we feel + sense is underneath the ordinary, or inside it, or passing through it

the line, in poetry, has been called 'a unit of attention'. good definition. a good poem will reward close attention, line by line

description is important because it is evidence

i sometimes find myself wondering what there is to write about + whether i have anything left to say. if you sometimes feel like this, it's good to go back to the evidence of the external world, to pay attention to the music of what happens. the world won't ever fail you (last line was underlined in my notebook)

you don't have to understand something to be affected by it

by taking poems into your body, you will get closer to them (in reference to memorizing + rereading)

every single writer ive read has taught me something

the ability to begin, and then sustain, any kind of creative work means being able to tolerate ambiguity + uncertainty. confusion + questioning are part of the process for all writers, at all levels

keats 'negative capability': "when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact + reason." the poetic state of mind isn't grasping. it isn't passive, either. receptive may be a better word

often, poems are not about what their writers know, but what they don't know. a poem can open a field of inquiry. if you know too much when you start out, your poem may fail because there is nothing to discover (last line was underlined in my notebook)

the essence of poetry: one thing in terms of another. and crucially, one thing waking another

metaphor is perception; that's why it is so key to creativity. when we tell ourselves what we see, we can use language to dull our awareness

if you want to make poetry out of emotional, personal subjects you have to step back (Chekhov's "necessary coldness")

that's 25+ chapters condensed down to little notes. addonizio also lists tons of great prompts that are too plentiful to put here, but the link above is completely free so if any of what i presented seems promising, there's a lot more to be had directly from addonizio herself <3

#anonymous #kim addonizio #poetry #on writing #free book #free pdf #writing resources #FAQ #on poetry #ordinary genius #long post

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silly-chump · 2 years

Text

mastermind

my first attempt in making a one-shot (after 9 years of not writing anything). this i just more of a re-write (canon divergence) of that iconic confession scene from season 1.

i hope you enjoy, my lovelies! comments are much needed <3

“Because I love you, Mr. Bates! I have loved you for a very long time.”

At the sudden burst of confession, John Bates stood agape in the middle of the pathway with Anna Smith, breathing heavily, as if she had laid her whole life in a span of seconds. Maybe she did, it’s been two years since they have known each other very well. Years filled with waiting and falling invisibly with uncertainty that made Anna, probably, hysterical. So did he. But he often questioned if he was ridiculous for not taking on Anna immediately. They seemed perfect, aside from the huge age gap that would make her his daughter especially with him having a cane.

But there is no denying that Anna is beautiful: her simplicity, her joy would honestly make every man weak on his knees, making John’s even more weak.

However, these thoughts are just a reminder that he is not good enough for her. She does not deserve this, but so much more.

But what does he do when she herself comes forward? Prompting to create answers to what he and her have been questioning for years.

“I’m sorry Mr. Bates, I know it’s such a sudden surpris-“

“It did not surprise me at all.”

He heard himself blurt out loud and looked at Anna’s eyes, which were glistening, that slowly met his own.

His dearest and sweetest Anna, the comfort to his troubles and the anchor to his storms.

What would he do without her?

Two years. It felt just like yesterday she flashed her small smile in his direction the first time they saw each other. It also felt like yesterday was the day he saw her confidence in him, showing how much she can hold herself and the people she loves so dearly and protectively. Loves.

Has it really come to this?

He never expected it but it simply came in so smoothly. Since the day they met, something clicked. They’d share laughter and jokes and sneers at Thomas and O’Brien who often talk about them behind their backs. He found this naughtiness of hers enjoyable but he found it more endearing when he gets to explore more about her in his own company.

At the end of a long day at work, they would spend time in the quiet of the downstairs dining hall, reading each of their literary pleasures or they would talk about their day in hushed voices while sulking in some warm drink, making conversations lighter and her company even lovelier. Their days went domestically like this for years.

However, for the past few months, he began sensing that something was growing even deeper.

She began asking him his favorite poets and he’d find her somewhere in the servants hall reading intently a borrowed book of Keats poetry. It made him smile. Sometimes she’d even quote him,

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.

He’d smirk at her ability to impress him. It made his heart filled with warmth.

Day by day, it grew even deeper.

It’s always sad when you love someone who doesn’t love you back.

She may have looked ridiculous (for herself) at that moment but he can vividly recall how much it has troubled her and somehow by saying that, she thought it would alleviate the heaviness of her questions.

But she does not know, and may God bless her, that all along he always knew. He was always aware.

Her love was no surprise at all because he has felt it since he first set foot at Downton Abbey. She became an unimaginable constant in his life, a sudden change in his routine but something he will always look back upon. It’s as if she had control of the whole situation and now it’s suddenly out of hand. She really does not know that her company has been one for comfort to him that sought so much for friendliness, laughter and joy… love. He’d grown used to her, more fond of her.

He knew her love for him and he realized his love for her.

As if sensing his thoughts, she reached to him, reminding him of the present from the precious moments that took hold of him that seemed like centuries.

”John, you don’t need to say anything. I’ve said too much. ” Looking down, Anna removed her hand from his arm and started fidgeting with her fingers, as if unable to steer the conversation to a more amiable topic.

Seeing her discomfort, he took hold of her hand, stopping her actions by reminding her that he’s here.

You will never be too much.

Looking at their joined hands, John sighed. He began smoothing her hands with the pad of thumb.

“There is so much more you need to know. But for now…”

Sometimes we’re not at liberty to speak, sometimes it wouldn’t be right.

Reaching for his coat pocket, he took his handkerchief and wiped a single tear from Anna’s eyes while they locked eyes with each other. He wanted to lean forward and ease her worries but for now, he will be braving for her when she cannot.

The sound of the carriage coming to them from behind marks the end of their first emotional exchange.

“You should go.” He tells her

“No. I could take the long walk but I suppose not for you…” she smirked in his direction and he smiled just as much with her use of humor after heaving so much of herself.

As he climbs the back of the carriage, he reminds her again, “Find a better man.”

“I could not.” She could never.

His strong-willed Anna, always never giving up a fight. They lock eyes with each other for the last time and he grasps for her hand and gives her his handkerchief.

“John, I don’t-“

“Trust me, you do.”

As he rides the carriage away from Anna, he just thinks and hopes that by giving her a piece of him, she’ll know his answer.

Perhaps, Mr. Patrick did love her back, he just couldn’t say it. Out loud.

#anna bates #john bates #anna x bates #downton abbey

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snehadarkacademia · 2 years

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On nights i cannot breathe

I write

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whoreiaki-kakyoin · 3 years

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Y’all we cannot send me steamy literature professor x student asmr while I’m looking at courses for my literature MA next semester 🥺😩 My head is so empty and I’m just thinking of working closely with professor Abbacchio, maybe even asking him to be an advisor on a research project or even my thesis? Working extra hard to impress him and feeling butterflies any time he tells me my work is brilliant or insightful? I keep thinking about him with different specializations…. Him as a poetry professor perhaps, or an expert in dramatic lit… British literature or linguistics or modernism, there’s so many possibilities and each one makes me swoon 😭❤️

#I’ve seen several ask prompts with ‘do you have any AUs for your self ship?’ in the past few days #and buddy if I didn’t before I SURE DO NOW #Abbacchio reciting poetry in between kisses perhaps 😖 if he pulled out some John Donne or some Keats…. oh my god I’m gonna cry

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ladytrist · 2 years

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Woke up feeling like I was the only one left in the world. Going to bed feeling like the world blew up my mind.

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ask-captain-keating · 1 month

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Hello again!

I had a wonderful time reading all of your lovely poems this past week, the directions you all chose to take the prompt in left me nearly speechless.

I'm happy to announce that I have a new prompt for your writing this week; Write a poem about yourself from the perspective of someone else. There are no constraints as to who you choose to write in the POV of, enemy or loved one, stranger or close friend, it’s up to you! I’m incredibly eager to see the variety in your works.

Here is my example poem:

Flat Circle

Relief escaped my lips like the fleeting breath of a cadaver,

gone is the torture at the hand of the rebellion's vessel.

Droves of your predecessors masking the reminder of your refusal,

granting permission to be moulded in a uniform image.

Cookie-cutter children blend with their peers in a monotone gradient of my design,

society's drear bent at my will.

Yet the recognizable sight of your unbroken spirit defaces my honor as it did before,

casting a shadow undeniably similar to my own.

John Keating

As before, this assignment is entirely optional and open to all those who wish to participate, student or not.

Best of luck,

John Keating

student blog tags: @unmanned-flying-deskset @social-anxiety-and-poetry @phonecall-fromgod @knoxious-overstreet @radiofree-america @pittsie-boy @therealrichardcameron @head-of-the-dinner-table @tthe-cat-sat-on-the-mat

#keating's poetry prompts #dead poets society #john keating #non ask

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therealjohnkeating · 3 years

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I’m putting out a poetry prompt for this week, anyone may participate if they would like. It’s a simple prompt this week, so take it anyway you’d like. Please tag me on it.

Write a poem about something or someone you love.

#Keating’s poetry prompts

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ask-me-about-true-crime · 4 years

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Dead Poets Society Fans!!! I have a challenge for you!

the poetry about poetry challenge

everyday for as long as you’d like (you can skip days or create a different schedule depending on what works for you :>) write a poem about Dead Poets Society characters.

how do you decide what character and what type of poem? i’ll link below a list of characters, a list of poems, and a random number generator. your gonna go to the random number generator and get two numbers. the first will tell you which character and the second will tell you the type of poem.

write at your own pace and when your done, post it with #dpspoemchallenge and tag me because i wanna see em lmao!! only if your comfortable ofc!!!

have fun!!!

characters:

1: neil

2: todd

3: cameron

4: charlie

5: knox

6: chris

7: neil @ todd

8: charlie @knox

9: charlie @ chris

10: meeks

11: keating

12: keating @ neil

13: keating @ todd

14: chris @ knox

15: knox @ chris

16: knox @ charlie

17: charlie @ cameron

18: pitts

19: your choice 😼

type of poem:

1: haiku

2: free verse

3: sonnet

4: villanelle

5: sestina

6: acrostic

7: concrete

8: limerick

9: elegy

10: epigram

11: tanka

12: ballad

13: your choice 😼

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dolores-hazy · 4 years

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Silence can be charged

Electric eye contact

Pressing pressure on the hand

Skin to skin telegraph

Careful caress, feathersoft

Sigh of contentment

Concerned expression, considering

Needs and wants; lips

Grazing with palpable gratitude

Gleeful giggle catching

Gesturing come hither

A gentle pat on the back

Kneading shoulder rub

Tickling trail along arms then

Flying open to fall into

Yes, words are not needed

Indeed sometimes may even

Be a buffering blockade

Inspired by Ronan Keating's version of "When You Say Nothing At All", suggested by @writeinmysoul

#knew this song from the Keith Whitley and Allison Krauss versions...so good!#when you say nothing at all #ronan keating #original poetry #my poetry #inspired #playlist poetry #prompted #poetsandwriters #wnq writers #spilled ink #spilled poetry #when words get in the way #words words words #wordsnquotes #poem #poetry #writing community

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ofmysticplaces · 4 years

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day 1/30 of a poetry prompt challenge

love letters 💌

how do i write you a love letter

if words are not enough to describe you

looking at you reminds me of everything sweet.

i see you in my dreams and wake up wishing we lived in a movie so that i could rewind one more time.

my name flows out of your mouth so lovely, like you were made to say it.

there is an empty space in my bed that would fit you perfectly;

i can almost see you laying there,

love has never looked so good.

I think of you in pretty words and pressed flowers and love letters sent in july

#virginia woolf #franz kafka #john keats #poem #poets on tumblr #art #quotes #love poetry #love quotes #love letters #poetry #poetry prompt #romance poem #i love you

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emilythefern · 3 years

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*decently sized* fanfic on a prompt of your choice (mutuals only)

how about anderperry pre relationship with todd saying "make me" and that's how their first kiss happens! they try to hide their relationship from others, but they figure it out quite quickly and they're supportive about it idc!!! ft mr keating also figuring it out and todd coming out to jeff pretty please?? i can't handle too much angst btw hehe, sorry this is too much <333

perfect

Todd hadn’t meant to snap at Neil. He was just really cranky, and had a pounding headache. Despite all this, he still had to power through some trigonometry, because it was due the next day. Any missing homework assignments meant a point off their final grade, and Todd couldn’t afford that. So when Neil entered the dorm humming under his breath, it was the final straw for Todd, frazzled as ever.

“God, would you shut up?”

Neil looked shocked, amused, and a little hurt. “Someone’s in a mood.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just so fed up with this trig work, and I’ve got a headache. But the work is due tomorrow…..”

Neil frowned. “Take a small break. C’mon”

But Todd was firm in his seat, pen clutched in hand. “Make me.”

A grin broke out across Neil’s face. He looked mischievous and daring. “Ok.”

And he pulled Todd up out of his chair and kissed him.

Neil KISSED Todd.

It was unheard of. It was crazy. It was actually amazing, if you asked Todd. His head was spinning, not just because of his headache. He was on cloud 9. Could 10, if the cloud scale went up any higher. He couldn’t believe NEIL PERRY was kissing HIM.

Then he pulled back.

Neil looked panicked. “I’m sorry, was that bad? Are you ok? Wait, are you not-“

Todd almost laughed. “I’m fine. And that was the best kids I’ve ever had. The only, actually. But I’m sure it would be the best if I had had other kisses.”

Neil relaxed. “Ok, ummm… that’s good. Really good.”

“Yeahhhhhhhhh.” Todd fiddled with his fingers, feeling a little weird. Why was the transition from roommates to THIS so, well, awkward?

“Can we not tell the others?” Todd asked quietly but determined. He didn’t really want his family somehow finding out. His mother and father were as intolerant as they came. Jeff was a lot better, and had a few gay friends, but Todd would think about Jeff later.

“Secret Romance. Got it!” Neil winked, and Todd felt like a main character in a rom-com movie.

“Can we kiss again?” God, why was he so awkward.

“Hell yeah. Was that a little too enthusiastic?”

Todd chuckled. “Definitely.”

~ ~ ~

They tried to keep it a secret. But it was painfully obvious to everyone, the poets included. But before anyone else caught on, perhaps even Todd himself, Mr. Keating had seen how hard Neil had been crushing for Todd. When Todd had done his ‘unorthodox’ poetry reading, Neil had stared adoringly the entire time. He saw how he pushed Todd to join in plans, and raced across the courtyard to walk next to him. He wasn’t even remotely surprised when he saw Todd holding Neil hand on the top of the bridge, laughing about something about a ‘flying deskset’. The wonders of young love, he guessed.

~ ~ ~

“Todd?”

Todd turned around as he was about to leave the dorm, bundled up in a scarf his mum had knitted him. “Yeah?”

“Good luck.” Neil gave him a peck on the cheek for luck (or confidence, whichever he needed).

Todd had planned to meet Jeff outside Welton for a stroll, and to tell him about Neil.

To come out, he should say. He promised himself he would tell it like it was, and starting with his internal monologue would be a good start.

“Hey Todd!” Jeff waved cheerily. It had been confused why his brother had invited him to his school, despite not having spoken in months, he didn’t show it.

“Hi, Jeff.” Todd made small talk, the weather and old teachers Jeff had been taught by in his time. It was nice, but not the kind of relationship the two had.

“Todd, why did you really ask me here? It’s been lovely catching up with you, but we don’t do that,” Jeff had taken the words right out of Todd’s mouth. “So why did you ask me here? What do you want to tell me?”

Todd took a deep, shaky breath. “Jeff, I’m gay.”

“Ok.” Jeff ran a hand through his hair nonchalantly.

“Ok?” Ok??? What did OK mean?

“Jeez, Todd I thought you were going to tell me you killed someone or something. It’s ok If you’re gay. I support you!”

“And I’m dating Neil.”

A second of silence.

“That Perry kid? I remember him. How is he?”

Todd couldn’t believe he had been so nervous for THIS. This was the easiest thing he’d ever done. He chuckled. “Neil’s good. Really good. Top marks AND an actor. He’s amazing.”

Jeff put an arm around Todd’s shoulder. “You got lucky, I think. Tell him Jeff said hi.”

“Will do.” Was it really this easy to be honest?

As they walked back up to the gates together, Todd couldn’t help but smile. Everything was going just the way he wanted it to.

It was Perfect.

the regular gang: @inahallucination @aedan-mills @deadpoetsbythelakes @exilesblack @maisietheweltoncow @aaronhoetchner @justarandompjofan

#dead poets society #todd anderson #neil perry #dead poets #anderperry #dps fanfiction #todd and neil #neil and todd #answering asks #100 followers #yay!

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that80sslytherinwrites · 3 years

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Missing Sketchbook, Please Return to Artist (Neil Perry x fem!reader)

requested by @i-am-lost-and-need-a-map

Welton was pretty quiet once classes were done for the day, at least it was quiet in the school where the classrooms were as all the boys were either studying or goofing off with their friends outside.

The dead poets trailed after Neil as he went down the empty and quiet halls in search of Mr. Keating. They rounded the corner and Neil knocked on Mr. Keating’s classroom door. They didn’t get a response, but the door wasn’t full closed, and it swung open at the force of Neil’s knocking.

Neil poked his head through the opening of the door. “Mr. Keating?”

No response.

“Mr. Keating?” Neil called again, slowly opening the door farther and stepping inside the classroom.

“I don’t think he’s here, Neil,” Meeks said.

Neil walked into the classroom, through to Keating’s office. The door was shut, and Neil rapped on it, which elicited no response. He tried the handle, only to find it locked.

“What do you have to talk to Mr. Keating about so urgently anyway?” Cameron asked and sat down at one of the desks.

Neil shrugged. “Nothing.” He wandered back down the aisle between the desks, heading for the door when he spotted a book flopped open on the floor of the classroom, nearly hidden from sight. He bent down to retrieve the book, flattening the pages back to their original state.

“What’s that?” Todd asked.

Neil shrugged. “I just found it on the floor. It looks as though someone dropped it without noticing.” He flipped open the cover in search of a name. Instead of a name he found intricate and beautiful sketches of himself and his friend on the first page. Curiosity getting the better of him, Neil flipped the pages of the book, inspecting the several sketches of him and his friend, but mostly him he noticed.

“Woah,” those a really good,” Meeks commented, poking his head around Neil’s shoulder to look.

Neil placed the book on top of a desk, and they crowded around it as he flipped through the pages.

“That’s kind of creepy,” Pitts stated. “Whose sketchbook, is it?”

“I don’t know,” Neil said. “There’s no name in here. It just says ‘if lost please return to artist’.”

“What’s written next to the pictures?” Charlie asked.

Neil inspected the swoopy lines next to a picture of Todd. “It’s poetry.”

“Original?” Knox asked.

He shook his head. “No, this one’s Shakespeare. I guess it’s just whomever drew these felt fit the pictures.”

Knox flipped the page of the sketchbook to a page covered in sketches of Neil wearing his glasses, lines of poetry were scrawled between the photos. He leaned in further to read them. “These are all love poems.” He looked at Neil and smiled. “Looks like you’ve got a secret admirer.”

Before Neil could respond they heard voices in the hall.

“We should go,” Cameron said.

The boys agreed and shut the sketchbook. Neil felt only a minor burst of a conscience to leave the sketchbook in the room where they found but as Pitts called that the hall was clear, and they sprinted out of Mr. Keating’s classroom he tucked it under his arm and shut the door behind him.

After dinner, the dead poets crowded into Neil and Todd’s room where they saw the sketchbook sitting on Neil’s bed.

“You took it?” Cameron exclaimed. “Now they’re going to know that someone was in there.”

“Relax Cameron,” Charlie said. “A. no one will know it was us and B. it was on the floor, whoever forgot it probably doesn’t even know where they left it.”

Neil opened the book again to a page with a picture of himself drawn beautifully in the centre and surrounded by flowers and lines of romantic poetry. “Don’t you want to know who drew all of these?”

“You only want to know because whomever it is, is completely head over heels in love with you,” Charlie stated and flopped onto Todd’s bed.

“I want to give it back to them,” Neil corrected.

“Sure,” Meeks said and gave Neil and wink.

“I’m sure they’re looking for it,” he argued. “If it were mine, I would want it back.”

For a week it was nothing but teasing as Neil searched desperately for the owner of the sketchbook. Neil had tried matching the handwriting with no avail, and then he began checking the art classes, he even asked Knox to ask Chris if she knew anyone who could draw well. She couldn’t come up with anyone that she knew had as good of skills os the one sin the sketchbook.

“Still carrying it around I see,” Charlie said as Neil walked into the study room where the rest of them were procrastinating their math homework as Cameron slowly became more and more frustrated that they couldn’t understand this one problem.

“Maybe you should just put it back where you found it,” Todd suggested. “Wouldn’t this person be looking everywhere they’d been recently to find their sketchbook?”

“Probably,” Pitts said.

Neil sat down at their table and placed the sketchbook on top of it. “Maybe I should put it back.”

“But?” Charlie prompted.

“But these drawings are really good, and I just want to meet whoever drew them,” Neil said.

“Well, while you’re deciding on what to do, can you take a look at this question?” Cameron slid the textbook towards Neil.

Neil glanced down at the problem before shaking his head and reaching for the sketchbook again. “I’m going to go put this back. Maybe if Mr. Keating is there, he knows whose it is.”

“Won’t he just then know we were snooping around his classroom without him there?” Cameron asked.

“Mr. Keating probably won’t care,” Meeks stated. “And I figured the question out.”

Cameron’s attention was immediately diverted to math as Meeks showed him the solution.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Todd asked.

Neil shook his head. “I’ll be back soon anyway. Mr. Keating probably won’t even be there, and I’ll just put it on his desk.”

Neil left the room and wandered down the near empty corridors of Welton until he reached Mr. Keating’s classroom. The door was once again unlocked, and Neil stepped inside. It was dark in the room except for the fading sunlight streaming through the windows.

Neil called out for Mr. Keating but received no response. Just as he suspected Mr. Keating wasn’t there. He walked up to the front of the classroom and placed the sketchbook on the desk just as the door of Mr. Keating’s office opened. He looked up and saw a girl standing in the open doorway.

She glanced down at his hand that was still holding the corner of her sketchbook. “You found it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“This is yours?”

She nodded.

Neil picked the book back up and held it out to her. She grabbed the book hurriedly and tucked it up against her chest.

“You’re really talented,” Neil said.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

“Can I ask when you drew all of those? Those ones of my friends and I?” She blinked widely at him. “I sometimes sit on the lawn by the trees where you never notice me and draw you guys as you study outside. I hope you don’t mind. I just find it’s best to work with real—”

“It’s fine,” Neil interrupted her rambling. “I really like them.”

They fell into a bout of silence as they stared at each other.

“The poems,” Neil started. “Are they a reflection of your feelings or are they just things you like?”

“Both,” she replied.

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

“I’m Neil.” He held out his hand for her to shake it.

She shook his hand, her fingers cold against his warm ones.

“How come you’re here inside Welton?”

“Mr. Keating is my uncle,” she answered.

“Oh, so that’s why we found your sketchbook in here,” he said.

“I have to go,” y/n said. “They don’t want me spending a lot of time in here.” She walked past Neil, towards the door to the classroom.

“Wait.” Neil ran after her, meeting her at the door where she had stopped for him. “Can I see you again?”

She nodded, her lips slowly creeping into a shy smile.

“This weekend?” he asked.

She nodded again. “I’ll leave the address with my uncle.”

Neil nodded, face hot, and watched as y/n turned and left the classroom. He let out a sharp breath of air as he left the classroom, shutting the door behind him. Only three more days until he saw her again. He barely knew her, but after studying the pages of her sketchbook for a week, he felt he did and he was looking forward to seeing her again.

#n.ruby writes #neil perry x reader #neil perry imagine #neil perry imagines #neil perry headcanons #dead poets society #dead poets society x reader

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