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#plastic soul era
slugsinsuits · 1 year
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Love the idea that in universe fanon changes the way the Minecraft people look. Doc wakes up in crocs one day, nods, smiles, and carries on. He's a little less reserved when he wakes up a quadruped, but it's kind of cool.
Jimmy, meanwhile, wakes up with fledgling wings after Last life. They take a while to fledge, and he thinks the colour might change. The whims of the universe are odd, after all. No. He wakes after Double life with the bright yellow feathers that had grown in throughout the sessions, and cries for the soulmate he lost. No longer does he hear whispers across worlds. No, now he can tell before someone dies. Never enough to prevent it, only enough for it to hurt. He sees Tango again and tastes death on his soul fire hair.
Some people change by their dream. Gem, for instance, is equally comfortable with horns and hooves or with butterfly wings.
Grian sobs as his wings, once a relief, brightly coloured and so, so different to the monochrome of the downside up, give way once more to purples. Tears fall from a thousand eyes forced open, watching.
Joe is delighted when, for a brief month, he sees through rainbow eyes. They fade, but turn up on Tuesdays and Rain days.
Cleo sighs the first time her arm falls off, and searches for Grian for sewing advice, remembering a disconcerting era of plastic eyes and floppy bodies.
Some folk barely notice. What's the difference between being something that looks like a normal guy but isn't, and being a normal guy? Aesthetically, not much. Sometimes, they can't tell until they smile and people flinch, until they take their helmet off and choke, until the disguise they painted for themself refuses to come off.
Zedaph, comfortably a sheep, wakes up in bed disoriented after a particularly surprising shrieker stack. The potential consequence of a shock to prey animals hadn't occured to him before... It would make a great Zedvancement.
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studioghibelli · 2 months
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masterpiece - a joel miller x reader
summary: joel moseys on in to your art store, despite seeming distant and cold towards you. an annoyed artist and an aggressive man, now that seems like quite the match.
warnings: artist!reader, grumpy!joel (no shit lol), post-outbreak, jackson era, age gap (early 20s reader/ 56 year old peepaw joel), sort of enemies to lovers but the “they’re annoying to me” kind, no use of y/n, female reader, short but sweet smut (semi-public, f receiving oral, unprotected sex)
notes: this is for @iamasaddie’s moodboard writing challenge! thank you for the wonderful inspiration <3 also i know the photo is not joel, but i only write for him at the moment so everybody let’s just PRETEND OKAY!!!! enjoy my lovelies Xx
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Memories from before the world collapsed were hazy for you.
Bucket hats sewn for toddlers, bright colored toy dinosaurs made from plastic, a red wagon your grandparents used to pull you around in through the neighborhood sidewalks- vaguely, their pictures sat within the confines of your mind. Vaguely you could remember the sound of your aunties laughing whilst cooking, the way your father would roar at the television during football season.
You could remember them, and yet they felt more like ideas than memories. As if they were something you read about in a book, not an experience you had once lived through.
When you were thirteen and your family had found their way to Jackson, you fell in love with all the art encyclopedias Maria had given you. On missions, your father would bring you every single book he could find that talked about art. All different types. From Giotto to Fragonard, Vélasquez to Monet, Van Gogh to Millais- all of them had enraptured you, they had taken you over, body and soul, and in a world that was chipping away around you, you found solace in their creations.
After you turned eighteen, you had enough courage to try your hand at portrait art. The first one you made of Tommy was unnerving. You made him look more like a neanderthal than a man, with mismatched ears and crossed eyes, thick and uneven facial hair and wild curls. Still, Tommy had it framed and hung above the mantle of his fire place.
It was a reminder of growth. Of where you once were.
Now you did portraits around town, traded them for some dried out herbs or freshly pressed paper. People liked having art around. It reminded them of what once was. They flocked to you happily, wanting to feel the same contentment they once fell, before the world had sunk to its knees and submitted.
You were a reminder to the townspeople that life didn’t have to be so gray, nor dreary. Everyone seemed to love you and your quirky, distant, eclectic personality. A true artist. A Van Gogh, as Maria had described you once. You saw the world in whatever color you so pleased, you saw things others didn’t, you picked up on pockets of beauty that many looked over. People admired you for that, they wanted to talk to you, wanted to pick at your brain.
Everyone except him.
The moment you watched Joel Miller trot in through those gates, you knew you had to have him. To paint him, that is. His thighs stretched taut across the saddle, his broad shoulders budging at the seams of his flannel, chocolate eyes distant and full of worry, anger, hunger- he was.... incredible. Your dream man. For painting purposes only, of course.
Well, that's what you continuously tried to remind yourself. You would reprimand your own mind, stating what you felt was the obvious: You were attracted to him the way an artist was attracted to the rising sun or the waves of the ocean. You wanted to paint him, study his features, color in his skin. There was no physical, emotional, or romantic attraction there.
No. No way. Not you. Not for a man as old as your own father, if not older. Not for a man who had only ever given you grunts and one worded answers in response to your questions. Not for a man who couldn't give you the time of day.
It was a normal Wednesday when it finally happened. Sitting in the little studio in the town's strip that Maria and Tommy had created for you, doodling away and sketching. You were working on a watercolor of the tree line in the distance, now focusing on the rise of the mountains behind them. Snowy, navy, serene. You weren't that good with scenic paintings, but Maria wanted a big canvas of your work to hang in the Tipsy Bison, for everyone to see.
And, as you so often did, you decided to indulge her.
The record player was scratching in the corner, some melodic crooning of Sinatra filling the room.
A deep huff escaped you. Things were not going your way today. "Not right. No, no." You muttered, looking at the wonky, twisted tree trunk you had just messed up on. "Not right at all." Amidst your personal berating, you hadn't heard the bell of the front door swing open and chime its familiar song.
"How hard is it to draw a fucking tree?" You grumbled, hissing in annoyance as you wiped away the dripping paint. Somehow, it only looked worse. You wiped your stained hands across your pants, groaning out in defeat.
"Am I interruptin' somethin'?"
The voice startled you. As your nerves dissipated, you recognized who that voice belonged too. Deep and baritone, the kind of voice that sunk through your chest like honey dripping from a spoon, swirling in to a cup of steaming tea.
He was honey, wasn't he? If honey was old and bitter, you thought to yourself.
You turned, finally meeting the face of Joel Miller.
"Hello." You stood up from your stool, wringing your messy hands out on your apron once again. "Why... are you in here?" You spoke slowly, as if you couldn't believe he were actually in front of you. Was it him? Or an apparition? Your eyes could be deceiving you. Perhaps you were Van Gogh after all.... slowly descending in to madness. You shook the thought away.
"You give that warm a' welcome to all your guests?" Joel narrowed his eyes at you, looking around the slightly messy studio. Hanged paintings for sale on the walls, splatters of paint dripping down wooden easels, tubes of oil and acrylics strewn around. Not many people visited you in here, lest to pick up their orders.
"I..." You trailed off in search of what to say next, narrowing your eyes at him in return. "No."
Joel hummed out between his teeth in response, fingers gently trailing down the sides of a few handmade journals you had for sale. "What do you want for one of these?" He asked, picking up the leather bound pages.
"I usually do a trade. Some vegetables, um... pretty much anything, really."
"You drive a hard bargain." His words dripped with sarcasm.
"Did you come in here to annoy me, or do you actually want something?" You snapped, sitting back down in your chair with a huff. The current painting you were working on was doing your head in, and your artistic talent was definitely being challenged.
You felt shit at your craft today, to be honest.
"I don't really got none of that." He responded sheepishly. "I could do somethin' for you? Got a leaking sink? Broken cabinet?" He sat down on a stool adjacent from you, flipping through the blank pages. "I wanna get this, for my daughter. She's, uh... she's a bit like you. Real in to art and stuff."
You rolled his offer through your head, thinking on it.
Portraits! There was your answer.
"I know what you could do for me."
Joel looked up at you and shrugged. "Sure, what is it?"
"Let me paint you. I-I need to work on my portraits, need to.... find my style." You explained softly. You watched his face spread over with confusion.
"That's just extra work for you, you ain't gettin' anything in return for painting me."
"Yes, I am! I'm honing in my skills."
Joel looked around at the art all around him. Paintings of the dogs he had seen wagging their tales through town, a portrait of Maria in the corner, a field of blooming flowers- he didn't think your skills needed any honing. You were remarkable, but Joel didn't really know that much about art, anyways.
"Fine."
"Free tonight? After dinner?"
Grudgingly, Joel agreed.
• • •
His ass was hurting. The cold, metal stool beneath his thighs was uncomfortable, digging in to his skin. He wondered how you could do this all day, how you could sit and stare and paint and move without complaining.
Because, god damn, was this seat uncomfortable.
When he had walked in for his portrait, you were changing the track on the old record player. The Goo Goo Dolls. He had rolled his eyes, unable to count all the times he had heard Iris on the radio.
Still, it brought a sense of nostalgia he had thought died out a long ago. It made him feel…. normal. And normalcy was the most beautiful thing in the world now.
“How d’you sit on this all day?” He snapped half way through your session. Your body was hidden behind the canvas, and every so often he saw splatters and drops of paints exploding. He was curious what you were doing back there.
“Just do.”
Joel snorted. “That ain’t a real answer.”
He heard your annoyed sigh. “It is. Once I get in the zone, I just go for it.”
That answer satisfied him enough.
“Why do you like art so much anyways?”
You peeked out from behind the canvas, eyebrows furrowing. “Because it makes me feel alive. Do you know that feeling? Inhibition? Freedom?” Your words dripped with sarcasm, hissing out with impatience. Why did he care, anyways?
Joel rolled his eyes, holding on to the edge of his seat as he winced. His back was strained, and he knew he was getting too old for this.
“I do, actually.”
“I’m sure.”
“You’re really damn annoyin’, you know that?”
You grumbled beneath your breath, tweaking a few strays of eyebrow hair on his portrait. “Been told.”
“Sure you have.”
A long bout of silence eased over the room, and for a long while, the only sound was the scratching of the vinyl and the thick breeze outside.
“What’s your deal, anyways?” You finally asked, working on the thick vein of his neck.
You stared at him for a long while, tracing over his face. He was undoubtedly handsome. The curve of his Aquiline nose reminded you of the Roman sculptures you had seen in your books, the softness of his perfectly curved lips, the shape of his moustache. He really was a true masterpiece.
The length of his neck bled into two sturdy collarbones and thick shoulders, biceps strong and deep beneath the sleeves of his dark green flannel. The color of his skin, tanned and slightly golden and perfect, had been your favorite to paint thus far, the depths of his cheeks and cheekbones perfect beneath the swinging light of the studio.
Joel stared at you, your question racketing through his brain like a pinball machine. “What do you mean?”
“Why’re you so angry? Why don’t you like me?” You finally asked, disappearing behind the easel once again.
“Never said I didn’t like you.”
You laughed softly, the tip of your brush swiping down the side of his jaw. “It’s implied.”
“By you, maybe.”
“By me? You’re the one who avoids me. I don’t have the plague, y’know.”
Joel snorted. “Worse than that.” Hu grumbled beneath his breath.
“Heard that.”
He took in a deep breath, and although you couldn’t see his face at the moment, you knew without a doubt his brows were furrowed, jaw clenched. The typical mask Joel Miller wore with such pride.
“Look.” Joel began speaking, but he wasn’t sure where he was going. “You….. I….. look.”
“I’m looking!” You exclaimed in annoyance. “Just spit it out already, man.”
In one swift move he had gotten up from his stool and had grabbed your wrist. His grasp wasn’t hard, it wasn’t mean. In fact it was gentle, sturdy with an unfamiliar sort of warmth. His brown eyes bore down in to yours earnestly, and you saw them flickering with something you couldn’t quite pin point, an emotion you had never seen him show you.
A thick lump was forming in your throat, and you felt your stomach churning with butterflies, aflame by the feeling of his calloused palm on your skin. He was warm, rough, masculine.
He was perfect. A masterpiece.
You sucked in a sharp breath of air as Joel crouched down, now level with your eye sight.
“Look.” He began once again with his new favorite word. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous. Okay?”
“What?!” That’s what he was trying to say?
“Yes. It’s embarrassing, I know.” He was seething through gritted teeth, jaw clenching with annoyance. His cheeks had grown a soft pink, no doubt out of embarrassment for the admittance of his secret.
“I-”
Joel wasted no time cutting you off. “I ain’t the poet type, alright? Lord knows I’m not. And when I see you…. fuck. This is so fucking stupid. When I see you, I feel shit. Okay?”
A laugh of amusement escaped you. “You feel shit?” You asked incredulously, and his grip on your wrist loosened.
Joel took a step back, sitting down on the floor. “It’s stupid. A fuckin’ crush, in the middle of the world ending.”
“It hasn’t ended yet.” You purred, setting down your brush as you sat in front of him. “So, maybe take the time to kiss me? Just in case it doesn’t end, tomorrow or something.”
Joel stared at you, a long moment blanketing your bodies. He was weighing his options in his mind, calculating what could happen if he did, if he didn’t. Damn the risks.
He had spent so long wondering what you tasted like, what you felt like. He said a silent prayer to whatever god may still be alive, and leaned in towards you.
His lips were softer than you thought, and his facial hair tickled and bristled against your cheeks. Joel was a good kisser, a passionate kisser. Your mouths melded together like two pieces of iron being hammered into a ring, thick and sweet and harmonious in their shared movements.
Joel couldn’t help his wandering hands. The rough tips of his fingers made you shiver, calloused thumbs drawing circles in the dips of your hips as he pulled you closer. You were straddling him now, arms thrown around his neck as you kissed him fervently, as though his spit was the last thing you would ever taste.
“You could’ve done this months ago, y’know.” You mumbled against his skin.
“Probably could’ve.”
Your fingers moved down to the buttons of his shirt, Joel’s mouth attaching to your neck.
“Probably would’ve saved you a lot of annoyance, you know.” You grinned down against him, a soft gasp escaping you as your hands instinctively moved to his hair, fingers tangling into his curls. You grinded your hips down, feeling that bulge pressing into the crotch of your leggings. “If you woulda told me, I could’ve helped with all that pent up aggression.”
Joel rolled his eyes at the playfulness of your words, pulling you closer to him. “You’re trouble.” He muttered, lips attaching back to yours. A smile broke out across your face as you pushed his flannel off his shoulders. Joel pulled away, throwing off his shirt, before tugging yours off in turn. Your chests, bare and warm, pressed in to the other, and in one swift flick of his wrist your bra came off with ease.
He pushed you back on to the ground, grinding himself against you. You tugged your pants off, left with a pair of panties that were now soaked through. Your clit, swollen and throbbing beneath the cotton material, was ignited with each movement of his hips, his covered bulge tracing circles into your sensitive nub.
Joel moved downwards, until he was face to face with your covered pussy. He leaned forward, dragging his nose across your clit as he pressed his tongue flat into your folds, tasting your arousal that had settled into your underwear.
“Off.” He commanded, undoing his own belt. You flicked your panties away, and he was face to face with your cunt once more. “Pretty little thing.” He mumbled, leaning forward to taste you. When his lips wrapped around your clit, your back arched off the cold tiles of the floor, pleasure coursing through you in electric droves.
“Taste pretty, too.” Joel smirked against your pussy, his tongue pressing in to your hole, dragging out that sweet wetness that dripped from you like syrup.
He tasted you, breathed you in, swallowed you. You were the only thing that filled his senses at the moment, the only thing that he had his mind on. In that moment your pussy was the only thing he worshipped, the only thing he wanted to spend any time tending to.
Your hips were grinding against his face now, his tongue swirling and lapping at your swelling clit. You couldn’t even talk, couldn’t even think. He was all you could pay any attention to. Damn your art, damn your painting- right now his mouth was the only thing you could wrap your head around.
Your pussy was clenching around nothing, your orgasms on brewing in the pit of your belly. Joel’s rough palms carved up and down your sides, his well worked hands scratching your skin in a delicious sort of way. He was moaning against your folds, nose brushing up and down your pussy as he lapped at the pink of your cunt.
“Joel, Joel-” You were drunk on him, on his movements, clit tingling against the tip of his tongue. He chuckled against you, knowing just what he was doing to you.
Joel knew how to make a woman feel good, and you were no exception.
“Gonna cum.” You breathed out excitedly, hips bucking one last time as your orgasm washed over you. Your moans and cries echoed across the wall, and you tugged him by his curls farther between your thighs. Joel licked you through the height of your orgasm, until you had no choice but to push him away.
You lay on the floor, breaths hard and shaky, blinking as you came back down to earth. Joel crawled over you, his thumb gently trailing down your cheek. He kissed you, and you tasted yourself on his tongue, which was now pushing past your lips and exploring the softness of your mouth. You moaned, legs opening to grant his throbbing cock access.
With your small hand, you guided the tip of his leaking cock to the folds of your pussy, pressing it gently against your sensitive cunt.
“Fuck me.” You begged against his mouth.
Joel happily obliged you.
To say you had never been fucked quite like that was the understatement of the year.
Joel’s cock was thick and perfect, curved ever so slightly to the left. He hit every spot deep within you that made you shiver and moan, he knew just how to roll your hips to drag you towards your second orgasm.
And god, did he know how to last.
By the time your third orgasm had rushed over you, his fingers had tangled themselves in your hair and your teeth had sunk into the thickness of his pretty neck, his cock still hard and stern inside of you. He was panting like a dog, grinding and humping in to you as his twitching cock filled you to the brim.
Your thighs were shaking, wrapped around his waist as his fingers tweaked your nipples. He was breathing hard and heavy in to your hair, eyes shut tight as he took you all in.
“Feels so good.” You whimpered, eyes pricking with tears of pleasure.
“Fuckin’ love your cunt.” He grumbled, teeth nipping at your ear. “Gonna paint these fuckin’ walls. Gonna fill you up, make you mine.” It wasn’t just dirty talk, it was a promise. His hips stuttered into you, your aching clit pressing into his pelvis with every deep thrust he gave you.
“Cum inside me then. Make me yours.” You whispered, nails digging into his shoulders, dragging down his back. You had etched your sketches into the skin of his back, drawing lines of ravenous pleasure that only he would be able to see, when all was said and done.
Joel groaned at the sound of your sweet voice, and with a final grunt, you felt ropes of his cum filling you up, dripping and sliding out of you as he lazily thrust, riding out his own high.
By the time he had fallen beside you, your hand had grabbed his, and you both knew you were done for.
Months of built up pressure, stolen glances, curt conversations- you both knew what was there, beneath the surface. Two people who didn’t quite know how to approach the other, and yet still, two people who knew what was lurking beneath the surface.
God, you were so happy Joel had walked into your shop.
He had helped you get dressed, and you both walked outside to the street, sharing a cigarette you had bartered for a couple weeks ago. You took in a deep drag, gently holding it to his lips. As you exhaled, he inhaled the tobacco, and both of your eyes settled on to the bare street, the winter moon beating her sweet, silver light on to the pavement.
“If you keep doing that, I don’t think I’ll ever finish your panting.” You finally spoke, filling the comfortable silence with the sweet cadence of your words.
“I like it how it is.” He whispered.
You turned, looking at the canvas that was drying ever so slowly beneath the store light. It was a bit whacky, a bit unfinished, as though a part of its story had yet to be told. But Joel’s eyes though…. well, his eyes were what struck you the hardest out of it all, and for a moment you allowed yourself to take in the beauty and skill of your craftsmanship.
Those umber orbs, painted with that familiar distance his eyes so often held, swirling with mystery, regret, wonder, and a little bit of admiration that you hadn’t quite picked up on while painting. They were full of emotion that Joel so often showed, in his own quiet way.
You turned to him, taking another puff from the cigarette. A smile stretched across your face, and his arm gently hooked itself around you.
“Yeah, me too.” You admitted quietly.
After that night, the townspeople wondered why Joel was a little bit more approachable. They wondered what made him a little bit more softer, kinder, a bit more poetic.
And each time you would sneak away into his house underneath the cover of darkness, the reminder of that fateful night hung just above his sofa, Joel’s unfinished portrait staring at you with that familiar beauty of his.
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planetkiimchi · 28 days
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the language of flowers | l.jn
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featuring: film director!jeno x artist!reader (no gendered terms), jaemin, chenle and jisung cameos
summary — jeno doesn't speak of his affection in words. instead, he teaches you that the letter "L", in his love language of flowers, is for lavender lozenges, lily of the valleys, lockets and love.
author's note: damn the stars rlly aligned for me to post this one... originally was just gonna let it rot in my drafts but here i am posting it for @strxbrymochi 's bday. happy belated bday ki !! muah ily
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You should have been prepared for Jeno to be constantly busy when you started dating him four months ago. But it still comes as a shock to you when Jeno sits you down on a Saturday afternoon, a plate of violet cookies placed in front of you.
"I'm sorry," he begins. The moment the words escape his lips, you know what this is all about. Even so, you keep quiet, allowing him to continue with the apology he's prepared.
"I've been signed on to do a short film, and they want us to do the shooting overseas."
Although you knew it was coming, it still comes as a punch to your gut. Being away from Jeno is hard for you, and you don’t want to let him go.
"Where to?" you ask, the words coming out before you can stop them. It's too late now to tell him to stay, and you curse your brain for being two steps behind your stupid, ever-running mouth.
"London. It's a Victorian era film, they said, about flowers."
You permit yourself a small smile. "You love flowers."
Jeno looks down, nodding once. "Yep."
You reach over, tilting his chin up. "Look at me."
He does, eyes quivering anxiously while he waits for you to speak. You’re always the one talking—rambling—and now that you’re silent, it must scare him. You touch your forehead to his, and you feel him breathe a sigh of relief.
"Don't be sorry. Go, and enjoy yourself. Pour your soul into it. I'll wait for you to come back, okay? Don't forget me when you're busy working with everyone else."
Jeno lifts up his hand, and you press your palm against his, fingers interlocking with his. "Won't forget you," Jeno mumbles. "I couldn't ever forget you."
You grin, kissing his nose. "I know you wouldn't, silly boy."
As Jeno wheels his luggage over the smooth airport floor, he turns to look over at you, shuffling your feet and staring at the ground. He leans over, whispering in your ear, "Blue salvia."
Think of me. It's one of the first flowers that Jeno gave you before you started dating, a secret confession you only learnt about when he finally told you what it meant. Now, it serves as encouragement for you, something to accompany you when Jeno can't.
You smile at him, eyes wide and pensive. "Have a safe flight."
Jeno wraps you into a hug, burying his face in your hair. He doesn't know when he'll get to see you again, and he's not sure if he can survive these months without you. But for both of your sakes, he'll try.
"See you later, alligator."
"In a while, crocodile," you reply, the familiar words a promise between the two of you to weather this storm together.
Jeno sits in his seat, flipping his phone in his hand as he waits impatiently for the plane to take off. He tries his best not to look at the time, trying not to count down the seconds in his mind, trying not to keep track of how long it's been since he last saw your face.
An announcement starts to play, asking all passengers on the flight to turn their attention to the flight attendants as they begin the safety briefing. Jeno looks at the flight attendant, but doesn't process the words he's hearing, his mind too focused on the thought of you.
He slips his hand into his pocket, his fingers finding purchase. The plastic crinkles in his palm as he draws the object out, realising that it's a sweet. You told him once that you always have to bring sweets when you’re flying, to suck on in order to prevent your ears from getting blocked.
Jeno has packed the mints you asked him to, but they're in his bag. He swiped the lavender lozenges from your stash that morning, a keepsake to remember you by on the trip. As the pilot announces that the plane is taking off, Jeno pops the sweet into his mouth, the taste of sugar and lavender dissolving on his tongue.
He misses you.
Jeno is rudely awakened from his sleep by Jaemin shaking his shoulder. "Good morning," the elder says in a singsong voice, and Jeno's eyes spring open. He casts Jaemin a dirty look, but the latter just grins back at him.
Jeno sighs irritably, getting to his feet and hauling himself out of the bed. His heart's not in it—not in this trip, and maybe not even in the film—and Jaemin knows it.
However, it's not like either of them has a choice. Jaemin liked the script for this film, and Jeno did too. He had plenty of ideas for the film. Despite it being a small project, Jeno believes it can turn out much better than people are expecting it to.
The only issue is that it's not in Korea. It's far away from you, and Jeno needs you in more ways than one. You are his source of comfort and his pillar of strength, but most importantly, you are his muse. Without you, he finds himself unable to function, not knowing which step to take next. Because all he wants to do is find the path that leads back to you, even if it's the worst or stupidest decision he could possibly make.
Longing gnaws at him every day, carving a giant you-sized hole in his chest. He snatches his copy of the script off the table, and Jaemin takes a sweeping glance over the room.
"You've surprisingly tidy for someone who looks like he has zero motivation to keep things organised."
"That's because all of my shit is in my suitcase, so I'm prepared to go back at the shortest notice."
Jaemin rolls his eyes at Jeno's retort, clapping his hands together. "Alright, smartass. Get moving so you won't be the last one to arrive again."
Jeno tugs on his shoes, slipping his hands into his coat and taking an umbrella before getting out of the door.
Your takeout arrives earlier than expected, and you suddenly recall that you haven’t checked your mailbox in almost a week. Usually, Jeno's the one who does it, collecting mail while waiting for the elevator to arrive. When Jeno had just left, you had made a conscious effort to check the mailbox every day, but now that it's been almost a month, you’re starting to forget again.
You pick up the takeout box and place the food on the table before exiting again and heading downstairs to check the mailbox.
As per usual, the mailbox is full of bills, although usually the number of letters is much fewer. You mindlessly flip through the envelopes, not paying much attention, until one of the letters catches your eye.
It's sealed with wax, which strikes you as odd—who even uses wax to seal envelopes in this day and age?—and you place it on top of the other letters to examine later.
Upstairs, you neatly place the letters on the dining table for you to settle later on. Then, you turns your attention back to the sleek, cream-coloured envelope, intrigued.
You take a closer look at the wax seal, realising that it's a stamp of a flower bouquet. Could it be from Jeno? you wonder.
It doesn't seem very likely, however. Jeno has never been one for dramatic flair, and the simple yet elegant letter practically screams dramatic. There's only one person you knows that's this dramatic, and it's…
"Donghyuck," you breathe out. One of Jeno's college friends, Donghyuck is the definition of dramatic. He loves to exaggerate and make a big fuss out of everything, and it's entertaining to say the least. Donghyuck is also chattier than most, similar to yourself, and the two of you had hit it off when you first met at one of Jeno's college roommate's place.
Donghyuck is essentially your key to Jeno's past. Jeno has been a solitary creature for all the time you’ve known him, and he doesn't talk much about his life before he met you. Besides Jaemin and Donghyuck, Jeno doesn't initiate much interaction with his old friends either. His friends respect that, so you don’t know much about what Jeno was like in the past.
However, Donghyuck is different. He loves to bring up embarrassing memories, inside jokes, and tell people old stories about his friends. You have always loved to listen to Donghyuck talk about Jeno in college, or even his first impression of Jeno when he saw him around in high school.
If it weren't for Donghyuck, you might not even have known about Jeno's friends' whereabouts now, nor have gotten to know about them.
Remembering the letter in your hand, you hurriedly get a hairdryer to heat up the seal, gingerly removing it and opening up the letter.
Dear Jeno and Y/n, you are cordially invited to Lee Donghyuck and Ha Yeon-seok's wedding...
Wait, what? You read the first line again, your heart stopping when you see the word “wedding”. Wedding? It takes you a few seconds to remember that you’re 24 now, which is almost a reasonable age to get married at. Since neither you nor Jeno had dated anyone for a while before you got together, sometimes you forget that other people have been dating for years now.
You takes a few deep breaths to calm yourself, and continues reading.
The wedding is to be held in London, and it briefly crosses your mind that Yean-seok is half British. Once you’ve processed that information, you do a double take and check the date. It's in six months from now, and you have to get presentable clothes that fit the colour scheme within that time period.
While you’re wondering now to get the clothes in time, your phone dings.
jeno: hey, y/n you: hello jeno: i have... news.
Jeno calls to inform you that, regrettably, there has been a complication with some of the scenes. For one scene in particular, they had arranged for a horse carriage to be used during the filming. However, due to a miscommunication, the horse has been sold to someone else instead.
The screenwriter insists on having the horse be a specific breed for stylistic reasons, but the budget for the project makes it infeasible for the team to find a suitable horse in a short span of time.
Jaemin wants to postpone the project so he can discuss the details with the screenwriter, and clarify everything to ensure there will be no more hiccups in the production. The rest of the team will either fly back to Korea, or stay in London, whichever is more convenient for them. Since editing can be done remotely, there is little incentive for them to all have to renew their visas.
However, Jaemin has asked Jeno to stay in London so all of the important members of the team can be physically present, to ensure everybody is on the same page.
When you ask Jeno when he will return, he shrugs and says, "In two months, or half a year—I have no clue."
Although you’re upset and annoyed with his lack of a reaction, you understands that Jeno is upset too. He's suppressing his emotions, which is a bad habit of his. But you aren’t going to lash out and make him feel more demoralised, so you just mutter a quick "love you" and hang up.
After hanging up, you belatedly realise you haven’t told him about the wedding invitation yet. Still reeling from his indifferent attitude, you decide to tell him after both of you have cooled down.
Days turn into weeks, that turn into months, and somehow you haven’t been able to address the issue of Donghyuck's wedding. You have been through your closet countless times, and after rummaging and filtering through both of your clothes, you’ve prepared a suitable ensemble for both of them.
You’ve sent an RSVP to Donghyuck to let him know that you and Jeno would be attending, and an excited Donghyuck had sent you a video of Yeon-seok and himself clapping happily.
You have also booked a flight for a week before the date of the wedding, to give yourself time to adjust to the time difference, and you plan to stay after the wedding to spend time with your and Jeno's friends as well.
Despite having settled almost everything, you’ve left one very important detail out—you haven’t discussed it with Jeno yet.
Jeno knows that there's a wedding, of course. Donghyuck had announced it in the group chat when he and Yeon-seok first got engaged, and Yeon-seok had sent an update once the details of the wedding were confirmed.
Jeno told you the wedding, and you’d told him about the invitation, and you’d both laughed over how excessive it was.
But if you said any more about the wedding, you’d have to bring up the elephant in the room and ask if Jeno would still be working on "Chamomile Tea" during the time period, if he'd be busy, or if he'd return to Korea before that. And that, even after all the time that had passed, remained a sore spot for both of you.
So even as the date loomed closer, your conversations with Jeno never went too far in the direction of the wedding. Instead, you tiptoed around the upcoming event like shattered glass was sprinkled over it, and you didn't know what the consequences of stepping on it would be.
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Arriving in London is a dream. It always has been, since you learnt that their universities look like castles and their winter consists of dreary, rainy mornings that are perfect for staying in and cuddling while cheesy rom-coms play on the TV. But it's never been your dream to land in London alone, with no one to pick you up from the airport, standing starstruck in the middle of the polished floors while people hurry by.
Some lady you don't recognise waves at you. When you frown, squinting to see if it's a familiar face, the lady walks up to you and grins, "Hi! I'm Soyeon."
You cock your head in contusion.
"I'm the screenwriter for 'Chamomile Tea', the short film Jaemin's overseeing. He wasn't able to come because he's busy trying to keep Jeno out of trouble, he said."
You let out a short laugh. That does, in fact, sound like Jaemin's job most of the time. Soyeon hands you a ticket, folding your fingers around it before you can protest.
"Jeno wanted all three of us to go to an art museum to get inspiration, but I've already finished my part for this project. All that's left for me is to give input, not come up with more ideas. Jaemin suggested that I give my ticket to you, so here it is." You takes a closer look at the ticket, and sees that it's an exhibition meant to celebrate the changing of season from summer to autumn.
"Leaves turning brown," you read aloud. "Petals fall and colours fade, yet many are enraptured by the cooling season that is autumn. Artist Hwang Yeji explores textures, colours and more in this vibrant display."
Soyeon smiles encouragingly at you. "I've known Jeno only for a few months, and he's always been extremely cold towards everyone, but his face lights up whenever he receives a text from you. And when you order takeout for him? That's the only time I see him enjoy his meals."
Your lips tremble as Soyeon continues, "Jeno's mind is a complex place. I'd hate for all that creative potential to be wasted just because he's busy moping. That's why I offered to pick you up instead of Jaemin—I was interested to know who could be the only one to make Jeno truly smile."
You close the distance between yourself and Soyeon, wrapping your arms around the latter. Even if you have only just met her, Soyeon seems so sweet and genuine. Her honest words caught you off guard, but you are touched that she dared to say them.
Soyeon pats your hair comfortingly. "Let me know if you need any more help."
You discreetly blink back tears, ignoring the stinging sensation in your nose, and force a smile. "Thanks, Soyeon."
"You're very welcome."
You climb out of the taxi with a sunflower in hand and your suitcase in the other. The exhibition is held in a building with windows as wide as you are tall, the stained glass illuminated by the sunlight.
The lady at the entrance scans your ticket and waves you through with a smile, and you return it before heading on inside.
Panels upon panels of stained glass line the corridors, angled in a way that pictures of light are projected on the ground, weaving between the paintings, casting an angelic glow on each artwork.
Jaemin catches your eye before you can get stuck at any of the paintings, and shushes you with a finger on his lips as you speed up.
"Hi, jagiya," he says lowly, wrapping you in a quick hug. "Jeno's busy and I didn't tell him you were coming, so the rest is up to you. I'll leave the two of you alone, okay? Call me if you need me."
You nods, and squeeze his shoulder gratefully.
You tucks your sunflower behind your back and wheels your suitcase to the side, silently approaching Jeno. He's completely absorbed in studying the details of the painting, so you gently rest your chin on his shoulder.
"Hey, baby." Jeno turns, coming face-to-face with you. Your noses touch, and from the corners of your eyes, you see Jeno's cheeks flush red-hot. You raises your hand to cool his cheek, but he grabs your wrist first, eyes locked on your face. His pupils dart from side to side, scouring your face as if he's afraid you’re just a figment of his imagination.
You stay in that position, Jeno’s fingers curled around your wrist, until he's convinced that you’re real, at which point his face floods with exhaustion and relief.
He buries his head in the crook of your neck, nuzzling into the space between your chin and collarbone. His hands come to rest naturally around your waist, and his hand brushes against the sunflower.
He moves back suddenly, surprised, and you awkwardly manoeuvre your arms around him. This allows you to present the sunflower you bought at a nearby florist to your boyfriend, and you’re delighted by the grin spreading across his lips.
"Have I ever told you that I love you?" He asks.
"No, but you've given me red camellias, and I think that’s basically the same thìng."
Jeno chuckles. "Basically.”
Jeno reaches for your suitcase, holding tightly onto the sunflower you’ve just given him. He turns to you, raising his eyebrows expectantly. "Well? I'll take you back to her hotel."
You frown, pulling back in surprise. "What are you talking about?"
"Aren't you tired?"
You wave his concern off flippantly. "I'll be just fine. I'll crash later, and the jetlag will hit me like a truck, but I've already allocated a week for getting used to it."
Jeno snorts. "As expected."
You wave your ticket. "Hey, Soyeon's already passed up her chance to see this exhibition so I could go, okay? I'm not planning to waste it."
Jeno nods rapidly to placate you. "Okay! Let's go then."
He trails behind you obediently until you see a piece that catches your fancy, stopping to take a look. The painting depicts several lilies of the valley in a vase. Behind the vase, there are two mountains painted in grey, but the small patch of grass that the lilies sit on is several vibrant shades of green.
You stay in front of that painting for a while, impressed by the details and texture on the canvas. A shutter sound catches your attention, and you blink a few times before turning to see Jeno holding up his camera and smiling sheepishly.
He rubs the back of his neck and says, "Sorry, I couldn't help myself. You looked too good standing there, I just had to get a shot of you."
"It's okay." You look back at the canvas, eyebrows knitting together. 
"Don't you think the art style looks familiar?"
"I don't know much about paintings, so I can't say... " Jeno's reply dies on his lips, and he, too, stares at the painting with interest. "You're right, it does look familiar."
The two of you hum in concentration, Jeno resting his chin on top of your head while you wracks your brain for an answer. You tilts your head this way and that, and then it hits you.
"Park Jisung," you say at the same time Jeno does. "How did you–"
Jeno points at a small square of text. "It says right here. Park Jisung, 24, oil on canvas." You mentally slap your forehead. How could you forget that museums put up a description of each artwork and its artist? You must be too tired from the flight.
"That's right, " you say. "That's why it looks so familiar. Contrasting colours was one of the most defining aspects of his style."
You had met Jisung at a kids' art camp when you were in university, and the two of them had learnt a lot from each other while teaching the kids. You had been surprised to find out that he was two years your senior in a different university, despite being the same age as you.
You had lost contact with him after that, and had been very, very shocked to see him at Jeno's college reunion. Although you don't speak much to Jisung now, the things you learnt from him at that one camp will stick with you forever.
"That kid's insane," Jeno muses. "He skipped a year in elementary, lived with hyungs he barely knew in university, and did side jobs because he hadn't gotten a scholarship to pay for his tuition fees, unlike Yeon-seok."
You shrug. "Maybe not 'insane'. Just determined."
Jeno nods. "And he's not much of a kid anymore, is he?"
You shake your head with a smile. "Not anymore."
As you wander around with Jeno, stopping at paintings to admire them, a sense of melancholy threatens to overwhelm you, slipping between your eyelids like a mass of black water, a receding wave preparing to crash upon the shore of your eyelashes.
You blink back thoughts of insecurity, trying to focus on the artworks and not your feelings, but it’s no use. You can’t escape from the thoughts running wild in your head, and it gets the better of you, a lone tear managing to get past your barriers, trailing slowly down your cheek.
You subtly wipe it away, but Jeno notices immediately, and he stops short.
He turns towards you, concern emanating off his being, and it offers you some comfort. He holds you carefully, like he’s not sure if you’ll break apart in his hands. His body shields you from anything else in the museum, encasing you in a bubble of protection and silence.
You breathe in deeply; once, then twice. You feel the heat behind your eyes slowly fading to a simple stinging sensation, one that doesn’t make you feel completely helpless.
Jeno’s hands tighten around you, and you instinctively lean in towards him. He doesn’t speak, allowing you to unravel the spool of thread wrapped around your lungs, prying apart the anxiety that prevents you from breathing.
When you can think straight again, you look at Jeno, and he knows.
Without words, understanding passes between you, and Jeno knows everything that’s running through your mind.
He nudges you, gently. Are you okay? his eyebrows ask, raising so high they almost disappear into his fringe.
You can lie about a lot of things, like why you came to the museum in the first place or how you feel staring at the art on the walls or whether you’re okay right now, but you don’t. Because you know that regardless of what you say, Jeno will see right through you like you’re a ghost. You’ll never understand if it’s because it’s you, or if everyone’s feelings are transparent to him. You don’t think you care.
It’s enough to just stand there, weightless. You’re completely supported by Jeno, whose embrace is so tight it’s practically lifting you off the ground, and you;re not complaining.
If he could lift your burdens off your mind the same way he’s lifting your feet from the ground right now, he would. And you would want him to.
“I feel like my art’s worth nothing if it can’t be shown to the world.” You speak slowly, uncertainly, knowing you might cry if you let everything out too quickly. Jeno wants to stop you before you get caught up in the flow of you words, but he knows it’s better if you let it all out.
Opening a bottle of carbonated soda that’s just been shaken is dangerous, but if he leaves it, the bottle might just explode.
“I know I don’t make art to be seen. I make it for myself. But at the same time, can any artist say that their craft is not made for the eyes of man? We all long for approval and praise, and that is partly what we make art for.”
Your lips tremble, and Jeno finds himself forced to stare at your quivering eyelashes and the sheen of tears you’re barely holding back. Still, you steel yourself, digging your heels into the ground to steady yourself.
“I wonder, sometimes. If my art isn’t seen, is it even art anymore?”
That’s the minefield, the question Jeno can’t answer without speaking baseless comfort. He has no answer to it, only empty words that he knows will fail to put you at ease.
You, however, don’t expect an answer. You look curiously at Jeno, waiting for a response, but the response doesn’t have to be a satisfactory answer.
Jeno leans in, tucking your head between his chin and his collarbone, placing a kiss on the crown of your head.
He holds you there until you’ve stopped trembling. Then, one hand still firmly in yours, he takes you back to the hotel, sitting on the edge of your single bed while you sit and stare into nothingness.
When you make no move to get changed, he stands, and brings you to the bathroom. He peels the clothes from your body, helping to scrub your skin until it’s a rosy shade of pink, then wraps you in a towel and moves your arms to dry your body.
After he’s showered, the two of you sit on the bed, Jeno on top of the covers, while you’re tucked underneath them. Jeno has no change of clothes, no money, only his phone and both of your tickets to the museum.
In his street clothes, he refuses to get under the blanket and dirty the bed, but you are content with his presence.
You lie on the bed with your arms wrapped around Jeno’s waist, and when the shock has faded, you cry yourself to sleep.
Jeno is there throughout it, a beaming light in the whirlwind of emotions you’re experiencing, a constant presence that grounds you. He allows you to breathe between sobs, until they slowly fade away and your eyes close, motionless.
The next day, you find a wreath of galaxes on your bedside table, along with a glass of water, and it feels like a great weight has finally been removed from your shoulders.
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The day of Donghyuck’s wedding comes earlier than you were expecting. Between taking you out to dinner and going on bike rides around the city, Jeno has kept you busy. Busy enough to forget your troubles, or at least for you to be able to cope with them in a relatively healthy manner.
You hear three knocks on the door, and as you go to open it, you see Jeno standing there, in the emerald green tuxedo you picked for him and the matching tie. His shirt is a pale green, so pale it can be mistaken for white, and gel gives his hair a wet gleam.
He smiles innocently, and it outshines all the charm his outfit has.
You fell in love with all of Jeno, after all, not just his appearance.
Your sage green dress flows past your ankles, and it would drag on the floor if you weren't wearing heels. They’re tall, but even with them on, you are still only the same height as Jeno. He grins at you, and carries you, bridal-style, into the lift lobby.
“Leave some room for the grooms later, stop trying to one-up them,” you joke, but Jeno only hoists you up into a more comfortable position.
“No can do,” Jeno says cheekily.
You don't pursue it.
A surprise awaits you in the car. As you open the door to the passenger side, you find that it’s filled—and so is the driver’s seat. Your heart skips a beat, thinking you must’ve gone to the wrong car, but the sight of the driver’s face makes you do a double take.
“Jisung?”
Jisung offers you a shy grin. “Yep, it’s me.”
“Is it really you? I thought… I never thought I’d see you again! How–” your words come out from your mouth before you can think them through, your rapid-fire Korean faltering in your confusion.
“Donghyuck and I are friends, remember?” You don't really, but if Jeno and Jisung are friends from college, it makes sense that Donghyuck would know them both too.
You clap a hand over your mouth, mind reeling. “So… you were invited to the wedding too?”
Jisung nods. Then, he gestures towards the lady in the driver’s seat. “I also have to introduce her to you. Y/n, meet Yeji. Yeji, Y/n.”
Yeji offers her hand for you to shake, and you take it, wondering where you’ve heard the name before. Yeji, Yeji, Yeji… Ah. You’ve got it. “Hwang Yeji?”
She’s the artist who organised the exhibition Soyeon had given you tickets to view. It was there, at the museum, that you saw Jisung’s art. If she really is Hwang Yeji, then everything will make sense.
Yeji nodds. “Pleasure to meet you.”
She picks up a small bouquet of pink peonies, orange tulips and heather, presenting it to you. “Jisung showed me a few of your pieces, mostly older ones,” she says by way of explanation. “They had the potential to become something more. I heard from Jeno that you’d seen my exhibition, so I know you probably like flowers, and you know that I like them too. So this bouquet is an invitation for you to work with me some time, for us to perhaps collaborate on another exhibition in future.”
You are taken aback by the sudden offer, but you’re not an idiot. You remember the way you had collapsed into Jeno the week before, scared that you would never be able to get your art out there. Here is your chance, now.
You take it, gratefully receiving the bouquet. You don’t miss the symbolism of the flowers, the goodwill the arrangement holds. You know it is intentional.
“Thank you for your offer. I look forward to working with you.”
Yeji shakes your hand heartily, and you and Jeno get into the backseat.
After settling in, you rest the bouquet on your lap, and you turn to see Jeno holding a white rose. You frown, wondering where he could’ve conjured it from, and lock eyes with Jisung in the driver’s mirror. You raise your eyebrows in question, and he shrugs innocently.
You roll your eyes at the conspirators, but turn your attention back to Jeno. Jeno carefully slips the white rose into the side of the bouquet, managing to prevent it from looking uneven. You play with the petals of the rose, its symbolism clear in your head.
Used to congratulate people on career successes, your mind supplies helpfully. The only career success you can think of right now is also the most recent one, Yeji’s offer to you. But there’s no way Jeno could have known that Yeji would put that offer out. Unless…
“Did you know?” You ask, tone accusing. You doesn’t have to finish the question; Jeno understands what you’re talking about.
“No, I didn’t know if Yeji would offer to work with you for an exhibition. Jisung only told me that he had shown Yeji your art, and I had faith in your abilities. I knew that after witnessing the extent of your talents, Yeji would have something good to offer you, career-wise.”
You can’t argue with that. The logic is sound, and the flowers are cohesively pretty. You continue to play with the petals, a small smile dancing on your lips.
The smile doesn’t escape Jeno’s attention, and he smiles too.
It starts to drizzle as soon as you reach the wedding place. Jeno is quick to procure a clear umbrella, holding it for both of you. He knows you wouldn’t want to get your clothes wet.
Jaemin is there too, one hand tucked into the pocket of his trousers, standing by the side. Donghyuck’s wedding is a loud, chaotic one, with many guests you don't recognise all talking with each other. Jaemin hovers at the vague edge of the crowd, as much of an introvert as Jeno, and you tug Jeno over.
“Hi, jagiya.” Jaemin envelopes you in a warm hug, and he smells like home.
Jeno opens his hands for a hug too, but Jaemin only laughs and swats his hand away. Jeno slings one hand over Jaemin’s shoulder, and you snatch his umbrella away, going off to find Donghyuck.
The two men stand side by side, Jaemin still holding the umbrella, watching you disappear into the hordes of people.
The rain gets heavier, and you try to occupy as little space as possible, not letting a single part of your body protrude from under the umbrella. Droplets of rain splash onto your shoes and your face, and you wipes them from your face with the back of your hand.
Jisung stands beside Donghyuck and Yeon-seok, with Chenle, Jaemin’s old roommate, and a couple of other men you can’t remember the names of. Donghyuck and Yeon-seok’s roommates from university, you think, because you remember seeing them at the reunion.
You congratulate the grooms, and move to stand next to Yeji and Jisung. The small circle are the only people that have gotten a chance to speak with Donghyuck and Yeon-seok, and by the looks of it, their conversation isn’t going to end anytime soon.
Yeji makes small talk with you, and you laugh about a few shared experiences, before you notice the crowd starting to disperse, and the officiator announces that the wedding is beginning.
You move back to where Jeno is, and he leaves Jaemin with his umbrella, ducking under your umbrella to join you.
The wedding is simple and sweet, and there are tears all around as the two bridegrooms say their vows.
“...to love and to cherish, until death does us part.” Jeno’s fingers suddenly falter, and the golden locket he’s been fidgeting with throughout the wedding slips through his fingers. He lunges to catch it, and you finally notice what he’s been doing with his hands.
Resting one hand on his left knee to calm him down, you nuzzle into his neck, and nudge his hand open with your index finger.
“What’re you holding?” you ask under your breath.
“Nothing.” You briefly register the officiator allowing Yeon-seok and Donghyuck to kiss, and you look up at them just in time.
“Open your hand,” you command.
Obediently, Jeno uncurls his fingers, and you take the locket from him. You fumble with the clasp, but it springs open, and there’s a picture inside. Squinting, you realise that it’s a picture of you and Jeno, taken when you weren’t paying attention. Your hand is shielding your eyes from the sun, and Jeno’s firm hand is wrapped around your waist, pulling you close.
Your grip on Jeno’s knee tightens.
“How long have you been carrying this around for?” You ask, voice slightly hoarse.
Jeno looks away. “Since we took the picture. It’s been, what, two years?”
You feel your throat seizing up, and you force yourself to take a few deep breaths. Jeno has been carrying the locket around for two years. Almost the same length of time that you’ve been dating for. He’s loved you enough for the whole span of that time to carry a picture of you around wherever he goes.
You can’t breathe. “You’ve been carrying this around for two years?”
Jeno shrugs nonchalantly. “Yeah, like a soldier going off to war,” he quips. Somehow, you’ve switched to Korean, but you don't quite register it. It just feels right, better, to speak in your native language.
It fits, the same way your body fits into the cracks of Jeno’s body, the way his arms wrap around you and fit into every nook and cranny of yours. Your scars line up against each other’s, and Jeno is the puzzle piece that makes you whole.
“So you love me.” It might seem strange, after all they’ve been through, to doubt it. But it hasn’t been long, and you hate to give yourself away, to love somebody else. Every day, you wonder if you’ve crossed the line from like to love, or if you’ve fallen out of like with each other.
“Yes.” You never knew one word could turn your world upside down. The rain has eased, but it feels like there’s water rushing in your ears, heart pounding.
Then, “Are you okay?”
You hear it from your other side, your left side, and you see Yeji there, concern in her eyes. You turn your attention back to the proceedings, and see Donghyuck taking the wedding bouquet from Yeon-seok, preparing to toss it in the air.
“Yes,” you say, determinedly. Jeno guides your hand to tilt the umbrella backwards, giving both of you a better view of the grooms, and the water continues to flow off the umbrella.
Neither of them makes a move to take it, leaving the more eager guests to rush towards Donghyuck, surrounding him. He turns his back towards them, Yeon-seok moderating the crowd, and tosses the bouquet into the air.
It arcs towards the middle of the crowd, and a lone carnation falls out. Jeno reflexively reaches out for it before it can fall on the soaked grass, and he tucks the yellow carnation behind your ear.
His face is right next to yours, his breathing fast and rapid, and you hear the pulsing of his heart when you place a hand on his chest.
Jeno leans his forehead on yours, the umbrella creating a bubble of silence and tranquility amidst the loud cheers and celebration outside of it. A tear rolls down his cheek, and he smiles, the tear caught on the upside of his upper lip.
You watch as he licks it away, and brush the pad of your thumb against the trail of the tear.
“Are you crying?” you ask softly.
“No,” Jeno says, shaking his head and closing his eyes. “It’s just the rain.”
You wrap your arm around his neck, nose bridge aligned with his, waiting quietly.
“I know you don’t want to get married now,” Jeno says. “But please, take this carnation as a promise that I will never let you have your heart broken.”
You have heard false promises fall from Jeno’s lips before. You’ve faced his broken promises, seen through his lies, accepted his empty praise. This time, however, it’s different. You know it in your heart, can hear the dogged beating of his heart, refusing to hurt you again.
You smile, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.
“Okay,” you say. “I’ll take that promise.”
floriography
violet: a declaration to always be true
blue salvia / azure blue sage: harbours sentiments of missing and thinking of someone.
peppermint: warmth of feeling
lavender: purity, devotion, serenity, grace and calmness.
sunflower: adoration and loyalty, long life and lasting happiness.
chrysanthemum: longevity, fidelity, joy and optimism.
red camellia: you’re a flame in my heart.
galaxes: encouragement.
pink peonies: good luck, prosperity and success
orange tulips: joy, enthusiasm and excitement
heather: admiration and support
white roses: symbolises innocence and purity. used to congratulate people on career successes.
carnations: symbolise pride and love for someone in a supportive way. used to tailor bouquets to one’s favourite colour due to their ease of dyeing.
108 notes · View notes
angelzai · 4 months
Text
plastic jesus
i don't care if it rains or freezes long as i got my plastic jesus sittin on the dashboard of my car!
wc: 1.5k
cw: gn! reader, dark era, alcohol, smoking, canon-typical violence, dazai-typical suicide mentions/attempts, language, fluff, crack?
reid: kind of chuuya's pov? he is so done with you both. bless his soul. you may also find this on my ao3 linked in my pinned. enjoy :)
. . . .ᐟ
The only other one to have been plucked up out of the dirt by the demon prodigy himself was that brat, Nakahara.
Okay, he wasn't that bad. He was a brat, yes, but you and Dazai certainly played your part in influencing him, and it wasn't like he'd ever take your place. Reason number one on a long list: the kid couldn't hold his liquor.
Teikyuu, some PM-adjacent bar, was your agreed-upon (by you and Dazai; Nakahara tagged along with only half of his own consent) haunt for the night. The interior was dark and decently crowded, dingy but cozy enough to be homely through the air of bar-typical disgust; a speaker pumped out bass from somewhere or another - it was reliable, wandering eyes minimal. When Dazai insisted on a fourth round of shots of American tequila, Nakahara laid his fiery head on the bar, groaning.
"What's wrong, Chibi-chan? Chibi-chan can't hang!" Dazai took every opportunity he could to taunt him. He reached across your lap to shove Nakahara's head upward, outward. "C'mon, Chibikko. You're a fuckin' bummer." Three more shot glasses, packets of salt, and lime slices were dealt in front of you.
Chuuya swatted him away, catching you in the crossfire. "Fuck off, dude, 'have s' much shit to do tomorrow." But shit to do would have to be done violently hungover, judging from the ginger's current state. You wedged yourself between the two before they could embarrass themselves.
"Chu-chan, you're whining," you chuckled, and his face grew as red as his hair.
"Am not! 'M not fucking whining," he insisted, but it sounded even whinier than before.
"Then do this shot with me." You nudged the little clear glass toward him while Osamu took up his own. Chuuya grumbled out a fine. There was one problem: Chuuya couldn't shoot his alcohol no matter how hard he tried, especially when he was already drunk. He didn't understand what the hell it was you two saw (or rather, tasted) in the rancid liquid that made you so eager to down it so cleanly. Regularly, his shots dribbled from the corners of his mouth onto his shirt, or he'd only get halfway through it, and he'd receive a firm reprimanding from one or both of you about wasting the precious substance. He preferred wine, or if he was in rare form cherry schnapps, but no one goes to the bar to drink wine! The two of you would never let him hear the end of it, so he drank the god damn tequila.
The three of you toasted to "your mom," having dedicated your previous three toasts to "this dick" (Osamu), "being enemies of the state" (you), and "how fucking much the two of you make me want to choke on my own vomit and die" (Chuuya). By the time you had downed yours, face clean and unmoved, Chuuya was still looking at his shot contemplatively.
"If you don't want it-"
He took it.
"'Atta boy, kid."
Both you and Osamu watched expectantly, enthusiastically for the recoil. Chuuya's face twisted up, and you poked the lime in his direction. When he coughed and looked toward you with teary eyes and a red nose, you and Osamu giggled like children.
"'S not-" He coughed a bit more. "'S not funny, assholes!"
But it was very funny to you, and the two of you only laughed harder as he hailed a cup of water. Amidst your fit, you nearly tipped your barstool backward - Chuuya might've moved to catch you if you weren't being so goddamn insufferable (and his head wasn't whirling), but his stomach barely had time to drop as Osamu was clumsily wrapping you, chair back and all, in his lanky arms, so short of breath from cracking up that he was almost wheezing. After you were upright again you continued to laugh for such a long time that Chuuya, in his disoriented and half-dissociated state, thought perhaps you'd both finally lost your god damn fucking minds. He was going to have to find his way home, hammered and alone, all because you and Osamu were flaming inebriated morons.
And then you got quiet. And Chuuya grew genuinely concerned, because the two of you were usually anything but (he'd learned that well enough from living sandwiched between both of your rooms in that crummy ass apartment building for the longest three-week period of his life). But you were just being even stupider now - foreheads pressed against one another as you calmed back into the steady drone of the bar music, whispering some things back and forth that he wasn't meant to hear.
Chuuya gagged audibly, and it had nothing to do with the taste in his mouth.
An hour and three shots later, you slipped your poor bartender a generous stack of bills and stumbled your way into the street. It was beyond Chuuya how you two seemed to be able to maintain a straight line as you walked - he trailed a bit behind you, feeling like the unfortunate lovechild of a pair of teen parents. You stopped to light up a cigarette (also an American brand) and he ran into you. He wanted to push back at the way you snorted, but he realized you were only doing so because he was toppling and you were holding him up. He bit back his bitching. You were stupid, sure, but he did let you drag him along after all, and his blood felt too hot and his mouth felt too sticky for him to send shots right now.
"You want a hit, Chu-chan?" But he waved you away because nicotine probably would've made him yark immediately.
Not once in Chuuya's short visceral life had he ever seen someone fluster Osamu Dazai until you, and vice versa. It made him nauseous to admit it was sort of cute, but even further, he'd never admit it made him nauseous because, truly, the two of you found joy in nauseating people with how in love you were. Though he'd never heard those words out of either of your mouths, it was excruciatingly obvious that you were two sides of the same coin. You looped your arm around his, Dazai took the other, and he trotted along in his stupor with your help, sandwiched in between you once again (and equally as annoyed about it as he was before). The smoke never left your fingers but Osamu hit it often, lifted to his lips above Chuuya's head. You guys talked about something, but he could barely keep up. He was fucking obliterated. All he knew was that your words joined seamlessly with Dazai's, your banter flowed like dual-colored beads being strung alternatingly down a cord, and the warmth between the two of you made him feel kind of soft. He knew that later in the early morning he'd be hunched over the toilet - he could picture it vividly, you would be pushing his hair back, Osamu would be calling him a pussy but rubbing his shoulder every so often, and it would be horribly gross and embarrassing and he'd feel like hot garbage - and yet, he'd undoubtedly still get the sense that he was sitting in the backseat of a honeymoon car.
He looked up at you once in the blur of the a.m. and took note of how rosily you glowed, and when he turned toward Dazai, it was like a mirror. Chuuya was aware of that list, too, and none of you were idiots - no matter how much Mori pushed it, no matter what Twin Dark even meant, you alone were the sole complement to Osamu, the dead ringer, the only one fully cognizant of and attuned to his turbulent unpredictability. Perhaps that was why you were heading toward the water with him now.
"You fuck!" one of you called; he wasn't sure which. Chuuya was too busy crumbling to the ground in a puddle of himself, sweaty and pinching your cigarette between his fingers. When had that gotten there?
And you chased Osamu off the rocks into the river, current unhurried, undemanding against both of your bodies when you fell in. Chuuya didn't think too much of it when you bobbed under, because he knew you'd come back up connected at the lips - no, ever since you, Dazai hadn't really wanted to kill himself. Not yet. He knew it that day you all went to get high at the beach when you asked him to jump in with you and he hesitated for the smallest second. Not human? Chuuya wanted to laugh. Dazai had suffered, yes, but Dazai had loved. That conceded dissent in that beat of silence was the most human thing one could hope to achieve, and god damn it, Dazai had done it, with everything he was, in the face of the human he loved the most. He'd jumped in with you anyway, but there was no intent to die.
Without fail, you both walked him back home, drenched.
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fallout4-reacts · 8 months
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Oh! I have a fun idea! How would the companions react to sole going through some rubble and finding a former degree/award for some massive achievement that was prewar. Like sole finds some massive medical award and is like “oh yea. This was for that surgical technique I made up” or like a military award like “oh yes this was when I saved 4 guys from a bomb”
Sole demanded them to assist them in clearing out the house of anything that had not stood the test of time. They remove the shattered old furnishings from the master bedroom. Sturges might be able to assist with one or two repairs. When they drop a drawer, a plastic-coated document falls out. Sole rushes to hide it from their companion, but it is too late.
Cait : "Hold up, what's that I'm seein'?" she asks.
Sole replies with "nothing."
"It's a real big deal," Cait says as she takes the certificate from Sole's grasp. "Damn, I did know about this tournament! It was some fancy-pants international featherweight champion. I had no clue you were into the ring, darlin'! And here I was, thinking I was the one who fought for the both of us!"
Sole seemed to be really uneasy.
"It happened in college. I was actually at college. To pay for my studies, I had been fighting in the ring. It was... another era."
"Hold up, there's a difference between scrapping and scraping to fund your education and being the legendary international champion! Are ya still sportin' yer belt? "
"No. I sold it to put down the deposit on this house. And I assure you, it was nothing. I won luckily."
"Luckily?"
"Yeah. Just one foolish thing. I was fortunate in every bout. The guys had been drinking or cheating on their diet the night before. As a result of one thing leading to another, I was proclaimed champion."
"Without raisin' yer fists, huh?"
"Of course I raised my fists! I won by chance rather than by forfeit. But I'm sure I couldn't compete with opponents like yours."
"Still, it's bleedin' impressive.”
Sole grumbles as they stuffs the document into their bag.
"Are we moving this furniture, or are we still gossiping about things that are worth nothing?"
Cait snatches her side and says nothing. However, she vows to request lessons when Sole will be in a better mood.
Codsworth : "Ah, sir/madam, I must confess, I was not aware of your esteemed possession of an honorary doctorate of science!"
Sole specifies, "The most important word is honorific."
Codsworth grabs the document and holds it up to his ocular sensors. «They do not bestow honoris causa to simply please. What did you do?"
Sole appears irritated. They sets down their side of the furniture because Codsworth doesn't seem to be willing to let go.
"Ah, foolishness. I contributed to the concrete's resilience to salt action. Not much at all."
"Doth mine ears deceive me? Verily, I comprehend that this wondrous concoction of concrete hath indeed brought forth a grand revolution in the realm of construction. Yet, I beseech thee, should such an accomplishment truly warrant the bestowal of a doctorate?"
"I may have studied the radar and the atom... that may have prompted me to design a radio-localisation model as well as the practically autonomous extension of the atomic battery... which may have led to the final version of the Pip-Boy 2000 mark VI."
Codsworth perfectly imitates an impressed whistle.
«Just that, » he says ironically.
"Sturges will be waiting."
They takes their side of the furniture and Codsworth does the same.
Curie : "Is this a publication highlighting your remarkable achievements?"
Sole rushes to grab the document and hide it beneath their mattress, but Curie quickly catches it.
"Hero of the day?"
"Arf... good luck. Good time, good place. I was the first on the line when a man hit his tanker on the road. I assisted him in getting out of the cabin before everything blew up."
Curie is pleased by both the act and the modesty.
"It is documented that you valiantly ventured into the fiery depths of damnation to rescue this unfortunate soul."
"Journalists favour to exaggerate things. It wasn't quite as good."
"But the vehicle experienced a rather explosive event.”
"Like the grenades that lob at me all day long. Do we remove that piece of furniture or not?"
Curie adds nothing. Her long-held admiration for Sole, on the other hand, has only grown.
Danse : Sole quickly hides the document, but Danse sets the furniture down and crosses his arms.
" What is it, soldier? This appears to be of great significance."
"It is not."
A tiny smile is stretched out by the Brotherhoods.
"I have perused the text. However, I yearn to receive your words directly."
"I may have rescued a patrol during a military operation, and my unit just happened to need publicity. That kind of stuff happens all the time in a fighting era."
Danse takes the document from Sole's grasp. " The Medal of Honor, a symbol of unwavering valour and unyielding dedication to duty. Though it existed long before my existence, I am not oblivious to the profound significance that this esteemed recognition embodies."
"Well, it's nothing anymore, and it won't take my furniture out of the room."
"That doth epitomise the individual who didst cast themself into the fray, valiantly rescuing mine unit from a ravenous horde of feral ghouls.”
Sole growls and grips their side of the furniture once again. Danse sets the certificate on the bed and vows to persuade Sole to display it noticeably in the Prydwen dormitory.
Deacon : Deacon goes up to Sole and grabs the document to read. Sole tries to take it from him and follows what appears to be a tango.
“God! Gold? I never knew you were a spry athlete, pal.”
"Congress gold medal, nothing to do."
"Yup, ain't got nothin' to do with it, I see. Service to the country ain't no walk in the park, my friend.”
Sole finally gets the document out of his hands and throws it in the back of their closet.
"If you bring this to anyone...I swear..."
Deacon chuckles. Sole attempts to threaten him from time to time, but they are never successful. This time, however, they appears to be completely out of it.
"I swear to God, I'm leaving the RailRoad!"
The spy swallows slowly.
"Let's get a move on, this here's a real big deal. Why does you appear so ashamed of it?"
"Excellent service to the country. I created the radio guiding technology that was later used on the nuclear bomb. You know that thing that swept the country and ushered in our era?"
Deacon's brows appear over the lenses of his glasses.
"I ain't never gonna spill the beans to nobody...”
Dogmeat : He doesn't move furniture, and even if he falls on a document, it makes no difference to him. However, one evening while Sole is laying in their bed watching an old award, Dogmeat comes at the foot of the bed.
«Never tell anyone, buddy,» Sole murmurs, «but it was me who discovered this vaccine against the flu H6D20 during my master.»
In heaven, the dog wags his tail when Sole scratches his head.
Elder Maxson : Sole had offered to discuss troop rationing in exchange for a service, but Maxson had no idea that this service would consist of cleaning up a wrecked house. Then this document slid out of a drawer, and Maxson bent over to pick it up, discovering at the same time that he is helping to empty Sole's house, and that Sole is a former civilian hero, permitting the evacuation of roughly twenty citizens from a burning building at the risk of their life. He stares up at a snow-white Sole (despite though he has no idea what snow is).
“Sir…I'll explain."
"Explain me that you have comprehended our core values prior to being recruited into my organisation?"
"Sir, it didn't happen the way it was described in this article."
"Cease this, Knight. I have no tolerance for disingenuous humility. Embrace the recognition that has been bestowed upon you. "
Sole scowls and goes out of the room. Maxson follows them.
"Do I connect that this esteemed honor instills a sense of unease within your being? And what, pray tell, is the purpose of laminating it, then?"
Sole kicks a shard of metal that has fallen from the roof.
"Nora/Nate requested that we save this article to show our son later. I always thought it was silly, and I tried everything to get rid of it. I have just now discovered the hiding place that has been found to keep me from wiping its existence."
Maxson places his hand on the shoulder of his soldier. "Do not cringe in shame. Take pride in your unwavering commitment to righteousness and steadfast courage. That is what sets you apart within our ranks and renders you of great significance to me."
Sole becomes even more uneasy, so Maxson changes the subject. "So, what about the supplies?"
"I will give you whatever surplus my colonies have...but never talk about it again."
Maxson extends his hand. "We have an agreement, General."
Hancock : The ghoul turns and returns the document he stole from Sole, placing it on their bed's mattress. " What in the blazes is this?" he innocently wonders, even though he knows exactly what it is due to his broad pre-war knowledge.
“Hm…I jumped from a vessel into a port to save the daughter of a wealthy politician who had gone overboard her own shuttle. They made a fuss of it."
Hancock whistles between his teeth and takes a shot of Jet. "Copacetic! I reckon I'm acquainted with a genuine hero?"
"The only heroic act I can brag about," Sole interrupts, grabbing the newspaper. "it's to not having  strangled you for all of the chem breaks you take instead of helping me."
Hancock chuckles and stands up. It is true that it is easy to divert his attention away from such a unpleasant activity.
Gage : Porter only groans and whines. Instead of cleaning a house, they should be conquering settlements. Despite this, he picks up the document from the ground and instantly realizes what he is holding in his hands. "...the President of the United States recognized their bravery..."
"You can read?"
Porter, somewhat offended, looks up at Sole. " Of course I can decipher the written word, friend. I have an aversion to perusing literature, but my maternal figure insisted on instilling some intellectual capacity within me. What's the dealio, pal?"
"There is no story. I hurried to save a senator who was crossing the street when a truck broke down. They made a spectacle of it."
Porter blows a whistle. "I'm afraid I didn't quite catch what you just said, but judging by your humble nature, I feel it must have been quite the substantial tale."
Sole mutters. "The sooner we get this piece of furniture out, the sooner we'll be able to go conquer settlements."
Porter agrees without further explanation.
MacCready (romanced) : "What's this now? Primetime Emmy award?"
"Nothing...really, and more nothing important today."
"But, still?"
The mercenary ignites the cigarette that has been put behind his ear, having all his time. Especially when he is not compensated for his services as a mover.
"At the start of my marriage, I was a TV show host for a few years." They gave me this award because they believed I was good. The trophy had to have been stolen by now, but the document had to have been hidden in that drawer by Nate/Nora."
"A trophy, huh? Like when ya win a real high-stakes game?"
Sole approaches the mercenary with a smile, wrapping their arms around his shoulders. "The only trophy that matters to me is a certain wooden statuette that was given to me on the day you opened your heart to mine." then they passionately kisses him.
Mac no longer complains. He just got a nice income and believes that if he works hard, his compensation would be even better in the evening.
Nick Valentine : “Ah, the Call to Service Award! I must admit, I had no inkling of your unwavering dedication prior to the war."
"I guess it's in my nature to spend all of my free time helping others," Sole laughs nervously. "But, really, it's nothing. I… It was fairly simple, and I had an excellent staff. Instead of going to bars, I went to the community center and helped others. It was enjoyable."
In turn, the old detective laughs. "Quite the spectacle, tending to the aged, providing sustenance for the destitute, and offering refuge to the wanderers."
“Well, it hasn't changed much,” says Sole, following the humor of the mocker.
Nick approaches and hugs them. "The more I come to know you, the more I find myself growing fond of you."
Sole appears indefinitely nervous, and Nick becomes too. By making the gesture that he has just too naturally provided, he is now persuaded that Sole's discomfort is, as often as not, because he is a synth and not another human being.
"Well, let's extract this particular piece of furniture, shall we?" he says quickly.
Sole observes him for a bit, realising that their friend is now more uncomfortable than they are, and knowing how self-aware he is, they place a warm hand on his shoulder. "By the way, thanks for helping me."
Nick smiles slightly. "It's always a real pleasure, partner.” And they each take their side of the cabinets.
Piper : "Are you jokin' with me?”
“What? It's insignificant."
“The damn Pulitzer Prize? Nothing? You really think I ain't aware of what it is?"
Sole seemed to be uneasy.
"I wrote an article criticizing the waste of resources in the movement of troops in Anchorage. It didn't turn me into a hero."
"But there's the Pulitzer Prize!"
"Do you really know what it is?"
Piper gives themm a mocking glance. "I’m a journalist, Sole. jour-na-list! Oh, you bet your sweet Nuka-Cola I know what it is!"
"I'm sorry for bugging you, but it's not like they're still do it."
"I understand, and I believe it's a shame. My McDonough story would've fetched me one, I tell ya..."
Sole bursts in laughter. "I'm convinced, too."
They resume the task without adding anything, but later that evening, Piper feels compelled to bring it back on the rug, for the damnation of Sole.
Preston : "A humanitarian award?"
Sole growls as they reclaims the article from Preston's grasp. "This must have been laminated by Nate/Nora. Shit…”
"A humanitarian award." Preston muses.
"In Africa, I dug wells to provide water to villages. It's not a huge deal. It was just another pastime for students with low self-esteem."
"You ventured all the way to Africa just to dig wells?"
"It was with a hundred other students. And there are many more. It was a common occurrence, I assure you."
"And did everyone receive a humanitarian award for that, General?"
Sole seemed to be uneasy.
"I may have started the nonprofit organisation that raised the most funds and travelled the furthest...However, it was in the past. I'm not even sure Africa exists anymore..."
Preston slaps Sole in the back while laughing heartily.
"You're that. The yearnin' to protect the world. I'm mighty proud to be your friend."
Sole gives a gentle smile. "You're more to me than just a friend, Preston. Everything is due to you."
"It's quite amusing, because that's exactly the sentiment I was about to express. Beginning with my life, in all senses."
Sole stares at the ceiling. They are occasionally irritated by Preston's approach, even though Preston is the great spirit who resurrected the Minutemen from its ashes. But if that pleases him, so be it. They take their place at their side of the furniture, and their Colonel gets the message.
"Ah, don't forget, tomorrow's is my humble abode, alright?”
"Too good." Sole grunts.
Strong : "What paper?"
"Stupidity of the past."
"Why Puny human hide paper?"
"Stupidity, I said. Sole piloted a plane to prevent it from collapsing on a skyscraper."
"What plane?"
"Stupidity. Can you get that piece of furniture out for me?"
Strong snatches the furniture with both hands and throws it through the window.
"Puny human furniture out."
Sole scratches their head. Sturges might have a hard time fixing it...
X6-88 : "Sir/Madam, is this document authentic?"
Sole growls as they grabs it from the Courser's hands. "It had to be Nora/Nate who laminated it."
"May I offer a remark?"
“No.”
Sole points to the other end of the cabinet to X6, and the synth rushes to take his position, but as they leave the house, he can't help but return his eyes to Sole from time to time. Sole exhausts their patience by travelling to Sturges to drop off their burden.
“What?”
"It is a privilege to be in the service of a genuine revolutionary in the field of modern medicine, and I cannot help but fathom the origins of Father's exceptional intellect."
"It was a laboratory accident that had a positive impact on humanity because my assistant was clever enough to capitalize on it and he was noble enough to give me the credit."
X6 adds nothing, yet on these rare occasions, a small smile extends across his lips. He has known for a long time that Sole is very modest, but he also knows that they are a particularly smart person, and he is not astonished to find that they distinguished themself even before the war.
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limelocked · 2 months
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alice gives me the vibe of looking like ramona scott pilgrim movie but also with like 3 shitty plastic claires earrings in each ear and 7 neon bracelets
alice gives the vibe of having decided the second she became an adult to just do all the shit she wasnt allowed to do as a kid but that this era of her life is over so its not nearly as campy as it used to be cuz now its soul crushing civil service baby and that soul sure is being crushed
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out of curiosity, is there anything that comes to mind when asked about particularly,,,,, interesting victorian fashion choices? like stuff you don’t like?
oh man. definitely. see also: Why I'm Glad I Don't Actually Live In a 1:1 Aesthetic Copy of the 19th Century. the whole "respectability = relatively current silhouette" means I'd have had to wear a lot of these things to keep up with the times if I had any sort of decent lifespan. after all, being born in the 1850s enables you to be a twentysomething or thirtysomething in the Peak Marzi 1870s-80s...but then you get to the 1890s (still decent but not ideal for me) and the slow but steady downward spiral that comes after
but the one thing I could have avoided without social censure is Eye-Searing Color Combinations:
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we get it. you have aniline dyes. I will NOT be dressing in 1980s Christmas wrapping paper, thank you.
and I would definitely have limited the circumference of my Leg o'Mutton Sleeves:
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the one Victorian- and earlier Georgian -undergarment that does seem 100% cumbersome, ridiculous, and pointless to me is the sleeve-plumper. I do not like puffed sleeves enough to go about with a pillow strapped to each bicep, thank you very much
another one society wouldn't care about- banish from my sight all Heart-Shaped Jewelry:
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Maybe I'd feel differently if I weren't a former (19)90s girl who had all the heart-shaped plastic trinkets, but it just looks tacky to me. even in gold and gems
and your humble correspondent never will be persuaded to adopt Curly Microbangs:
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This is Norwegian actress Sofie Reimers in the 1880s. And she's rocking the look; it's just. not for me.
nor yet, earlier in the Victorian era, Deceptively Simple 1830s-40s Hair Loops:
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If they sat smoothly against your cheeks, they'd look nice. Instead you get this weird Faux Blunt Bob look that is just doing nothing for anyone. Not even this lovely Marina Bychkova doll lady in evening attire.
finally, I would loathe to the very depths of my soul fashion's madate to wear The Pouter Pigeon Silhouette:
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TO WHOM DOES THE "SMUGGLING BOWLING BALL IN BLOUSE" LOOK APPEAL????
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bracketsoffear · 10 months
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The Batter (OFF) "The Batter’s sole goal is to bring about the end of the world—not in death, but to transform it into something else entirely. He initially presents himself to the player and to the rest of the game as a “purifier”, a hero on a pilgrimage to rid the world of spectres and tyrants to bring about a new era. However, it quickly becomes clear by the second Zone that his goal is less than noble. The process of “purification” does remove the spectres, but it also brings about something else, transforming them into white void-husks of their former selves inhabited only by twisted amalgams of human forms called “secretaries” and any poor, hapless survivors that find themselves screaming into the featureless void. He stops at nothing to do so, killing both his wife and his child/creator, (in addition to Multitudinous others), but he takes no joy in the pursuit or the kill, only what waits at the end when everyone is gone. In the end, the player is given the option to either stop the Batter’s mission (revealing how the others see him: as a monster with an elongated snout and hands with baseball attire, notably similar to the sports-themed secretaries inhabiting the purified zones) or to complete the purification, flipping a switch at the end of the world from “ON” to “OFF” and therefore guiding it into a new era of “after”."
John Gaius (The Locked Tomb) "Originally part of a team of scientists tasked with saving humanity from climate change, John was gifted strange necromantic powers by earth itself. He proceeded to use these powers to essentially start a cult. He attempts to convince various nations and companies to follow his plans for how to save the planet, but nothing works and eventually the whole thing has gone to such shit that John NUKES THE EARTH AND EVERY HUMAN STILL ON IT. He can feel them all die and uses their power to fuel himself, spending the next ten thousand years chasing after the trillionaires who escaped the planet, blaming them for the destruction of humanity. He is so afraid of Extinction that he literally causes the mass Extinction of every living thing on earth. Oh also he takes the dead, resurrected soul of planet earth and traps it in a barbie doll, and what is more Extinction than the soul of our planet trapped in plastic?"
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horsefriend · 2 months
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saltburn. SORRY. loved it! sorry. that really spoke to me. i was in the perfect space mentally for all that. i spent most of the time thinking about whoever it was that wrote it. skins, ao3 & the collective sexual psyche's modern interest in period sex (just as an aside, feel ive read a lot about how horror movie trends mirror societal anxieties, and would that it were the case that i could operate a sort of artists workshop the way the bignames do where they sort of float an idea and have a horde of talented craftsppl undertake it for them, then i'd have them at work on trends in erotica and what is says about us altogether), rocking out with your cock out, the music of 2006, the heaviest hand administering the most obvious symbolism directly into my dirty little mouth with the cutest little ergonomic plastic baby teaspoon (yummo), guest appearance by mr aloysius bridesheadrevisited! the contractual mentioning of evelyn waugh to boot! were americans involved at all creatively in this? sorry i really did not read a single thing about this except for a couple of my highly respected homosexual blogger colleagues mentioning it. ok so - are you still listening? - so all i could think about was the writer and fanfiction and then at a particular point, the way that i used write in high school. the sort of like. serial escalation that has to take us to murder and suicide and weird sex and plot twist! tone shift! so that felt really juvenile to me in a way that was actually really exciting. im sure i got an A- on a short story once where someone chucks their friend off a roof and then goes about the business of eating cornflakes and toast. my respect levels for the writer was on par with the average ao3 writer, until the grave scene where it escalated to above-average ao3 writer, and then when i saw on tumblr just now (blessed algorithm) that that was improvised, slipped back to average. i thought that was really good. i think what goes on on ao3 most film makers couldnt dream of. john waters could never write about, you know, roadhog and junkrat fucking in a pool of eachothers vomit, and have it also be genuinely emotionally effecting. i think, i think... i think most artists wouldnt really hold a place in their heart for goatse and jarsit you know? i think shock is like so important, to me, my sort of neural programming/soul. i have to really think on this. haha. saltburn was good in the way that a formulaic coffee shop au is when theres sounding in the 3rd chapter or something. just for eg. not to say i think sounding is shocking it's just typically romcom inappropriate, and that is quite fun. so yes everyone in conclusion saltburn (god i can not stop trying to write saltbush!!) was really fun i think really stupid really appreciate putting such a stupid thing in such a beautiful place, and have it be performed so gorgeously, and also what a slap in the face it is to see 2006 through the vintage lens. i love it. perfect time to throw back to. i literally couldnt have asked for a more pimply and awkward and uncomfortable time to set such a story in like literally the era of this fucking cheap and nasty sparkly grimey sleazy glamour like noel fielding & terry richardson. amy winehouse rehab comes out in 2006 and the next year effie stonem pops into existence. hello! alright i have to go to sleep now sorry if this is all totally well trodden but its new to me. and if you think im uncool cos i loved it then DIE.
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starsopinions · 3 months
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The Golden Globes...
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It has been the hot topic the last few days: The Golden Globes. And because there aren't enough opinions out there already, this is mine. Here is my opinion on all of this from the point of view of a teenage girl who would one day like to work in the film industry.
We as a society have had a history with sexism but I'd like to think that in the twenty-first century, we are all equal. Unfortunately, I am proven wrong time and time again.
I was very excited to watch the Golden Globes, as a film fanatic I was very interested in who would win. Being a Swiftie, I was hoping for a win for Taylor and as a huge Greta Gerwig fan I was rooting for at least a few wins for Barbie. I didn't get either but we did get something far worse. yay!!
I'm sure you've seen the 'jokes' that were made but let me recap:
"Oppenheimer is based on a 721-page Pulitzer Prize-winning book about the Manhattan Project, and Barbie is on a plastic doll with big boobies."
"The key moment in Barbie is when she goes from perfect beauty to bad breath, cellulite, and flat feet. Or what casting directors call character actor!"
"Yo, I got the gig 10 days ago, you want a perfect monologue? Yo, shut up. You’re kidding me, right? Slow down. I wrote some of these, and they’re the ones you’re laughing at.”
“The big difference between the Golden Globes and the NFL — on the Golden Globes, we have fewer camera shots of Taylor Swift."
To make matters worse, he added this in an interview with Variety the morning after The Golden Globes:
"Yes, I’m a stand-up comic but that hosting position it’s a different style. I kind of went in and did the writer’s thing. We had 10 days to write this monologue. It was a crash course. I feel bad, but I got to still say I loved what I did.”
I think that it is disrespectful and the fact that they didn't even think about if it would fall flat or not is horrible. The comments were written by multiple people, so multiple people read them (all men, no doubt) and not a single one thought that it might not go well?? I am baffled. This is not some cheap festival we are talking about these are the Golden Globes! How can something like this go wrong so badly??
I am personally so disappointed about it because 2023 was such a good year for women. The Eras Tour, The Renaissance Tour, Barbie, I can go on.
These aren't just projects featuring women, we all made friendship bracelets for The Eras Tour. We all wore pink to the movie theatre for Barbie and then we all cried for 'What Was I Made For?'. Those are experiences, that is womanhood! and I had so much fun!! I was at the movie theatre and there was this lady and she must have been well in her 70s and she was wearing this beautiful, hot pink (!), prom-style dress and she came up to me and she told me how it was her birthday and she was taking her grandchildren to see Barbie. And if that isn't the best thing you have ever heard then I don't know what to tell you! And that is just one example of how beautiful womanhood is. I am telling you this to showcase that no, Barbie is not just a plastic doll with big boobies. I feel like you would know that if you actually watched the movie and respected the people who worked so hard to create it. It breaks my heart to see people make fun of it like that.
It is so sad for me to see because these are the people I admire. They put their hearts and souls into this and they make these beautiful things. Greta Gerwig and Taylor Swift have worked so hard to get there and they still aren't respected like their male counterparts are. Did you hear a single joke about a man? Me neither because there weren't any.
It is so sad to see because it shows how it doesn't matter what we do, how hard we try or how successful we are. We will never be treated fairly.
It is so sad to see because these are the most successful women in the industry, if they aren't respected, I will never be either.
Loads of people think that these are "just jokes" but I disagree. These kinds of "jokes" reveal how men treat women in society. It might sound dramatic but it is true. It is all good when women make them money and fix the economy, but giving them basic respect is too hard to ask. It makes me angry that a comedian that no one has ever even heard of is allowed to make these kinds of comments about some of the successful women in the world. In the future, they should hire people who are actually funny and not disrespectful (and maybe even a woman? Shocking, I know).
Thanks for reading
- star ☆
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kthecutest · 8 months
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hi!:) can i req basketball-player!jo x fem!reader high school au! ; i feel like in high school he had a tiny fan base and i’m sure he looked super cool (&cute) while playing so maybe something about that lol (don’t actually have an idea hehehe) or like what it’s like being his gf (ofc him as a b-ball player) lol just take it from here pls ??
also thanks for writing my other req jo as bf!! so cute!!<33 i rly enjoyed it >_<
Yes of course! Sorry if I'm too late to answer this request, I couldn't grasp on a solid idea (╥ᆺ╥;) Not so sure if this went along with the lines of your request but I still hope you'll like it! ₍ᵔ•ᴗ•ᵔ₎
⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇ ⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇
☄. *. ⋆The rose that glows ruby⍣ ೋ
Pairing ➳ Basketball-player!Jo x gn!reader Genre ➳ Pure Fluff ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎ A/N ೃ⁀➷ A little detail on the title, ruby and the color red might seem the same but not exactly. Ruby is a jewel color which means it'll appear glossier and glow more than any other red shades. This makes it stand out among all red. Just a little explanation to some who might get confused haha!
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You nudged your way through the vast horde, trying your best to block out the ear-piercing screams and squeals of sweaty figures, just to get a glimpse or two of ‘him’. Your eyes glossed, full of excitement, hope and out of all, love.
Jo and you weren’t exactly friends, far from lovers. A normal passerby would describe you two as a fan and idol kind of relation and it was logically right but you guys were rather more or less than just that single statement. You two seldom talked with words but the looks in both of your eyes tell a whole different story. It was as if a whole telepathic conversation was occurring right in the sparks and glosses that elicit from you and his eyes.
In contradictory to being a pro basketball-player and a popular boy in high school, Jo’s got a pretty chill personality and the atmosphere surrounding him was always so quiet and far from chaotic. He didn’t consider too much contact or conversation with any sorts of fan girls. Unlike the other top students who would use their status or appearance, to pick up girls, for their own satisfaction, he just lived his own life not bothering with any of such matters even when he had both status and appearance.
It wasn’t a surprise why he was such a hot topic among fan girls and even boys. In this era, the type of perfect but chill kinds of people always stood a special place in people’s hearts, as well as in yours. Not that you were all over his status or face, you’d definitely admit, he looked pretty cute considering his expertise in the basketball field. But it was his eyes that pulled your entire soul towards his direction. It’s true that he was hard to read considering his all-time poker face, but despite all that, his eyes told a story of a thousands.
But you knew you had absolutely no chance with him considering there’s a whole fanbase going after him. He would only pick the one rose that glows ruby among all red roses; and percentage of you being the ruby rose? 0.0000001%
You sighed, gripping onto the clear water bottle in your hand with an almost dejected look from all the overwhelming thoughts. You can’t help but to be an overthinker. That’s when you felt the huge cozy hand of a familiar someone, set still on your head. You looked up with a look of surprise to find a tall figure, the school basketball club’s signature shirt wrapped around his body, as he towered above you; his eyes holding an entire galaxy.
“..You should eat more.. You’re always so short and exhausted-looking.”, his words were in a mixture of a tease and concern, as he tugged onto the plastic bottle in your hands. Walking away calmly as he breaks open the bottle cap before you could even let out a single response. Your reply was nowhere to be found, as you stood there shocked; you noticed his ears reddening, shading into the color of the spring sakuras. As your head is disconnecting and reconnecting in several pieces, you let out a slight mumble, only loud enough for a single you to hear;
“..Maybe I do have a chance to be the rose that glows ruby..”
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vinnystaysawake · 1 month
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It's a David fan anon! Could plz elaborate on this miracle of a guy? :>
I waited to answer this because I was working on a ref sheet, actually! Your ask is going to house the sheet for now, bless. But let me like actually elaborate on this guy, huh? Lol.
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He is a very painfully 80's-era late night talkshow host with a mysterious past. Back in highschool, he had a pretty "close relationship" to his friend Kevin, a classic bad boy biker type. One night when running off into the woods for a drunken teenage night of mischief, David and Kevin came across a mysterious knife with odd symbols carved into it.
Kevin, overcome with some strange urge, lost control of his impulses and stabbed the knife into David's chest, embedding a demon into his soul. Kevin runs away, Dave wakes up with no memory of this occurring, and they seperate and continue on with their lives. David hopes to become a journalist, enters a loveless marriage with his highschool sweetheart Amanda, and ends up working as a news anchor at PG-TV. After a messy life of alcohol, plastic surgery, TV scandals, and eventually divorce - he's tired.
Queue freaky demon! He's always had odd habits of forgetting what he was doing, how he ended up someplace, an uncanny smile plastering his face... sometimes people say he seems like he's always acting. Who knew the signs for demonic posession could be so simple? How will he learn to live with this new wacky roommate? What sort of hijinks will ensue? Will he find new love in unexpected places (hell)? Who knows <3
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zaiwritesstuff · 20 days
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My Way Of Life
Title from My Way Of Life - Frank Sinatra
(This song has me in a CHOKEHOLD fr).
Buck x Bucky modern era!
Basic Premise:
John Egan and Gale Cleven are “reborn” into modern society, after the wars and well into high school.
Their souls tied once again by a string of red twine slowly bringing them closer together. But after so long, the tether gets tired and soon begins to fray. Will they make it in time before the cord finally snaps?
Chapter 1 introduction:
There’s a peculiar phenomenon in children where they retell the stories of lives once lived by complete strangers. Some believe them under the assumption that reincarnation exists. A transfer of energy from one life to the next. Some believe it to be stories overheard on the radios, tv documentaries or passing strangers. Children are silent spies, having the ability to see and hear everything even when they appear occupied on flashing lights and colourful shapes.
They soon grow out of it however, making the study seem a waste of time. Perhaps the new memories in their recent life overwrite the old and their old lives become part of the void along with the others.
The same cannot be said for John Egan. In his 18 years of life, he had a constant feeling of emptiness. Something missing from inside himself that he found in blurry memories and distorted dreams.
Every time he looked in the mirror there was a flicker of recognition of someone else. Scars he remembers but no longer own. He always pushed it to the back of his mind, just a glitch in the matrix he excused. Like the feeling of Deja Vu you get when you’re in a scenario you swear you’ve been in before, but you soon shrug your shoulders and forget about it. A simple, passing feeling.
Since starting the new year as a freshman in college, these feelings have become even more recurrent. Again, he assumes it’s stress of a fresh start, though everyone knows he doesn’t pay that much attention in school. He’d much rather go to socialise, get invited to parties with the purpose to get drunk and make a fool of himself. The grades is a ‘future him problem’ when he just wants to have fun.
But there is always a distant nagging in the back of his mind of something he can’t quite figure out yet.
John was almost late to orientation on his first day of college, of course he spent the night celebrating new beginnings with his best friends since kindergarten. He didn’t see the point in making a good first impression since the only people that matters were the people already in his circle. Not that he felt he could, having a raging hangover and bringing up his breakfast that morning. His mother practically pushed him out the door and into the car just to get him there. If he hadn’t made it, she’d kill him.
“How do you expect to meet a nice girl if you can’t put yourself together?” She asked on the drive there that morning. He hadn’t had the chance to get dressed out of his hoodie and pyjama pants.
“I thought you only cared about my attendance?” He answered. Holding his head in his hands, hiding from the bright morning sun.
“Well you’re only getting older and you’ve never brought anyone home to us, your father is beginning to worry”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He looks over at her, his eyebrows crossed in confusion.
“You’re a handsome boy, don’t waste it”
They pulled into the parking lot outside the main entrance and John rolled his eyes.
“Thanks mom, such kind words”
“Have a good day sweetie!” She shouts through the window as he slams the door, dragging his worn trainers along the concrete as he slumps toward the building.
He snuck into the assembly hall just as the meeting started. The principal began the welcome speech and didn’t seem phased on his late arrival. He quickly found his mates sat at the back and they all snickered at his attire.
“Good morning sleeping beauty” one of them muttered. John replied with a middle finger and fell into his seat with a grunt. The plastic chair beneath him already biting into his back in effort to fix his posture, but he was determined to stretch out his long limbs in the minimal space he had between the other students around him.
Once he could get as comfortable as possible, he closed his eyes but was soon interrupted by a sheet of paper being smothered into his face. He slapped the arm away as the others laughed, gaining a few stern shushing noises from staff.
He snatched the paper with a dirty look, finding his name typed onto it along with his student number and a large chart.
“Time-table” Dan whispered to his left.
“I’m not blind, thanks for grabbing it for me” John muttered, reading his incoming lessons for the week.
“Got some bad news, you’re stuck with Curt for History”
He looked at the other man with disbelief etched into his face.
“Just Curt?”
“Just Curt”
“Why didn’t you guys take it?”
He thought they all agreed to take the same classes and even filled out the application forms together. But he knows most of them hated that subject, and even if it was a test of loyalty John wouldn’t put it past them to stab him in the back.
“They had an opening for engineering, you know how much Matt is into that! I couldn’t let him go on his own”
“He’s already making us do Physics!”
More shushing brought them back into the room, snapping them out of their whispered yelling.
“At least Curt is willing to keep me company” John sulked, sinking further into his chair, making it creak under the pressure.
Dan shakes his head and looks back at the principal.
John spent the rest of the meeting battling sleep, his eyes threatening to close with every monotone syllable. Periodically startling awake from a tip in his chair and a chuckle from the witnesses of his struggle. Once they gave the all clear to rise from their seats to attend their first class, he stretched his sore shoulders with a groan and swayed as he stood up.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He hears beside him for a moment and looked down. Curt was looking up at him with his mouth agape in shock.
“What are your parents feeding you? Have you gotten taller?”
He smirks down at his short friend and pats his head. In response he got a smack to the stomach.
“Puberty will find you soon enough kiddo”
“Asshole”
They all chuckled to each other as they made their way out of the hall, making an effort to run through the doors before the rush of students.
[TO BE CONTINUED & EDITED ON AO3]
I am still deciding to make the original characters mentioned characters from the show but at the very least I got my beloved Curt back.
Also being a Brit writing about American school system is HARD gimme a break or tips idk help me out here.
Basically a slow burn longfic yk, so if you like the idea stay tuned I guess! These men have really become my Roman Empire and I will not stop.
Hope you enjoyed!
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ashesandhackles · 11 months
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Fic recs
I read a couple of fantastic fics recently, and they all deserve some love. So, giving them a shoutout. As Moments Do by @thecat-isblogging-blog
Canon compliant. Remus Lupin centric fanfic that follows him through OOTP and HBP. Chapter 3 has been updated and here is a chilling excerpt of Remus channeling his "Goodbye Peter" side:
Keep up, Peter. You’ll get lost. James would say. Wrong way, Peter.
Reaching the end of the platform Lupin called out in unison with James’ ghostly voice:
“Wrong way, Peter.”
Peter stopped in his footsteps, shoulders tensed just as Lupin pointed his wand to his exposed back.
Peter’s rat sense seemed to be keenly threaded to him. He turned to peer over his shoulder, the sliver of moonlight catching his nervous, watery eyes.
The Sultan and Scheherazade are One by eldritcher Grindeldore, with the most fantastically careful imagery. I am so taken by the prose of this author. Excerpt:
"I will build you a Rome," I promised him. 
"We will build us a Rome," he corrected me, placing an easy hand on mine.
"The Rome that the ancients yearned for, egalitarian," I murmured.
Our dreams were one, and our wills twined.  
Albus's hands came to clasp mine in his. The magic of him seeped into me, and mine unto him. 
Trothed became he and I, to man and cause, under a yew tree. 
The Snow Child by @saintsenara
A short folk horror story with Merope Gaunt, Tom Riddle Snr, and of course Voldemort.
Excerpt:
Merope has seen the little boy too. 
He comes to her window - she sleeps on the floor of the kitchen, while Morfin and Marvolo sleep in their one, tiny bedroom - and peers in. He has his father’s face, and his father's jet black hair, but his skin is unnatural, waxy and snow-pale, and his eyes are as red as blood.
‘I created you,’ she says to him. ‘I dreamed of you and now you are real.’
The boy shakes his head. ‘I am not yet real, because my father does not believe. You must make him.’
Merope nods. 
Bistable by TheDivine Comedian
Always a sucker for OOTP era Sirius and Remus, and I adored this one shot.
Excerpt:
James, he thinks. James. I am walking to my grave.
The train stops with a shudder and he nearly loses his precarious footing. Turn around , James says. Turn around now. You’ll go mad in there again.
Sirius laughs under his breath. Like anyone would notice. Besides, this is for you.
The James in his mind huffs and shuts up. Spilled out onto the platform, Sirius once again comes face to face with his own mugshot, a faded print on a tattered wanted poster.
Think/ Hope by @whinlatter
Post break up, bittersweet Hinny, with RON cameo? Sign me up. Cutting out an excerpt from the larger rhythm (you'll know when you read it) of this fic feels blasphemous, but I committed to the format:
He flops down on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table, eats straight from the hot plastic as he flicks through channels. The nine o'clock news is all budget this, Hong Kong that, Tim Henman out at Wimbledon. The nine o’clock news is not Dumbledore's dead, Snape murdered him, there’s a war on, Harry Potter's dropped out of school to go hunt bits of Voldemort's dismembered soul.  
Dropped out of school, he thinks. Scandalous, delinquent. What d'you reckon? he asks the Ginny in his head. Harry Potter, troubled dropout? Do anything for you? The Ginny in his head laughs. 
I also recently made other fic recs here: Nymphadora by @bluethepineapple and a bunch here for a rarepair tag game
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finalgirlguy · 3 months
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fave first watches of november 🎸💌💥
peeping tom (1960) – sick and fucking twistedddd absolutely obsessed. i could go on and on abt the exploitative nature of cinema and women and being looked at as a form of violence and horror and the audience as a voyeur i could go on and on. but this movie already said everything and had sick kills too
suspiria (1977) – the fucking. colors. love how crazy it is and how crazy these people are. love the lack of control over your body specially when this is a dancer and control of her body is probably her most prized possession!!
eyes without a face (1960) – what was in the water for horror filmmakers in 1960. fascinating how such a simple visual idea (a girl wears a mask that makes her entire face plastic except her eyes which drill into your soul) can give so much over an entire movie. just looking at her makes you so unsettled it’s so simple and so effective. and i was surprised at the body horror for the era it was very bloody and made me crawl out of my skin it was great
desperate living (1977) – i’m a john waters girlie through and through this was great. you get mink stole as a hysterical housewife and you think surely this can’t get better. ho ho ho it can. i just love john waters so so so much specially his dirtier earlier movies it’s soooo great
crash (1996) – what’s there to say. car crashes and sex and bisexualism. it’s as great as everyone says it is. it’s car crash sex scene car crash sex scene car crash sex scene car crash sex scene. and it’s great 👍
american mary (2012) – I LOVE. MOVIES. i don’t even have words. i love surgery i love morally ambiguous women. some surgery scenes i was so irked out and so turned on. there’s a moment you think she’s going to do bottom surgery on a trans woman but actually she wants to be smooth like a doll so people can’t sexualize her so she’s never vulnerable. i actually just discovered i’m really into surgery horror so if you have any recs let me know!
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randomvarious · 6 months
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Today's compilation:
Plastic Surgery 2 2001 Drum n Bass / Liquid Funk
There are so many different strains of drum n bass that are out there, folks, but one specific type that ended up proving pretty dang popular in the UK is one with the groovy name of liquid funk. This is the kind that, more or less, removes an absolute necessity for the drums and bass to be the focal points of the songs, and allows them to serve as more of a steady and foundational backdrop for whatever melodic, harmonic, or ambient fuss is made to surround them. But while this proved a surefire way to expand dnb's reach to people who hadn't originally been fans of the music in the first place, some true heads also naturally bristled at it too, because it seemed that the genre that they had loved was having its sharper edges sanded off a bit.
Beloved dnb DJ and producer Fabio was a pioneer of the liquid funk style, though, and so was Hospital Records, a label that was founded by the duo of London Elektricity, which is now a solo act. And back in '01, when LE were still making music together, Hospital dropped a fantastic liquid double-disc called Plastic Surgery 2, which featured a bunch of exclusives from the label on the first disc, and then a full DJ mix from London Elektricity themselves on the second, with that latter one incorporating a bunch of the tracks from the former.
But another key aspect of this era was the use of the 2-step break, which is typically defined by a snare hit on every second and fourth beat, and ended up giving the music a bouncier feel. Almost every song on here utilizes one.
So, if you like the liquid 2-step stuff, or are just interested in hearing it, this comp is a total can't-miss. Everything on here is dope and should have your head happily bobbing up and down in no time, but one that really stands out among the rest is High Contrast's "Suddenly," a powerful jam with glorious splashes of orchestral strings and a layer of swift hand-drum taps. And for an example of how liquid funk could effectively serve a broader audience, there's London Elektricity's own "Round the Corner," which features Liane Carroll providing soulful verses alongside and between LE's grinding hoover grooves.
But not all of this comp seems to have had its wagon hitched to the 2-step trend, either. Oxford duo Total Science deliver a deep and adventurous stunner in "Let It Go," which is a track that's sure to keep the real heads satisfied, as it does an excellent job of combining drum breaks, and is nowhere near as stable as the rest of the tunes in this crop.
So, drum n bass sure has spawned a whole lot of different branches since it started to emerge from jungle in the mid-90s, but liquid funk was one of its most popular during the early-to-mid-aughts. And this double-disc, from one of the labels that was on the style's forefront before it ended up reaching its zenith, is fantastic.
Highlights:
CD1:
London Elektricity - "Wishing Well (Danny Byrd Remix)" London Elektricity - "Superstructure (John B Remix)" High Contrast - "Suddenly" Yukihiro Fukutomi - "I Am (London Elektricity Remix)" London Elektricity - "Round the Corner (Origin Unknown Remix)" DJ Kalm + Citizen - "Venus" Total Science - "Let It Go" Carlito + Addiction - "The Ride" Liane Carroll - "The Trap (Calibre Remix)"
CD2:
London Elektricity - "Continuous Mix"
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