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#posts that are incomprehensible to everyone else but me

boilingheart · 2 years

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council slowly moving to tumblr and i keep thinking back to the line arthas the lich king in wotlk says to tirion after tirion busts his ass for a hot second on the grounds of the church and the lich king’s all like “when next we meet, it won’t be on holy grounds, paladin” and i’m like yeah feeling it bro hellow council boys crew tumblr is a new playing field u cannot hurt anyone in a way that matters

#bheart talks #posts that are incomprehensible to everyone else but me #anyways i'm happy to see jrwicrew moving to tumblr cause jrwitwt is Too Fucking Much and it's so much nicer over here #it's a much more even playing field and significantly calmer #but i also feel very strongly that i won't have nearly as much of a visceral reaction if they interacted with folks on here #than they do over on twitter #like tizen jumpscares and whatnot #am i making sense to anyone. eh #don't care if i am i am absolutely lucid right now #the migraine is getting me

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amoneki-ramblings · 4 months

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and if you have time 002 Kaneki :) (I am asking everyone)

Let's go !!

002 | Give me a character & I will tell you

How i feel about this character: Ironically I cannot verbalize my thoughts about Kaneki coherently whatsoever. I need him dead. I need to hit him over the head with several hammers. I need him to let himself just relax and drink some coffee and read a good book. He sucks I hate him /affectionate he’s also so fucking cringe Jesus. For every coherent and analytical thought I have about the other characters I have none for Kaneki he simply. Is. He’s Kaneki he’s That Guy he brings me immense pain and he’s so self-destructive and he tries so hard and it Sucks /pos I need to stuff him into a blender

All the people I ship romantically with this character: Hmm oh boy I sure do wonder…Well, aside from the obvious I think Shuuneki could be very interesting when done right, and while I’m not as inclined towards their relationship romantically Hidekane definitely hurts my soul, especially thinking of them before everything went to shit for our poor protagonist

My non-romantic OTP for this character: I love his relationship with Hinami so much he’s such a good big bro :(( Even when he’s out trying to hunt down people and change the world he still sets aside time for her, but even then she’s so concerned for his wellbeing because she can tell how he’s Changed and how he’s pushing himself she just wants him to be happy and take a break :((

My unpopular opinion about this character: Hmmm not sure if I have any at the moment?? I’d agree with anything as long as it’s accurate to his character. Whether you love or despise this guy I will nod my head, I guess just don’t say he’s flawless, person/moral-wise, there’s a lot of good argument for why he can suck actually, but I feel like most people know that.

One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in canon: I remember seeing in the original storyboards for Root A that Shironeki and Kuroneki actually interact more. While I like how it was saved until the end in the original series (when they hugged) I wouldn’t have minded seeing more of it beforehand. Kuroneki is Shironeki’s doubts voiced back to himself, the more uncertain version of himself that he locks away, and Shironeki simply calls that part of him weak. It makes me miserable. I love it

my OTP: *whistles, looks away*

my cross over ship: Don’t think I have any

a headcanon fact: This is gonna be so random (read: projection) but Kaneki probably bites a lot of things. He bites pencils, he chews straws, he’s especially guilty of biting/chewing his hands/fingers and when he was a human it used to leave marks all over his hands. The hand biting problem gets even worse after the torture. If you put your hand in front of his face he’ll probably bite your fingers. Like a weirdo. He needs to be stopped (I say, fully supporting this behavior; let him be weird and a little unnatural :thumbsup:)

#asks #shewhoeatssand #kaneki ken #One down one (technically two?) to go !!#I say one because one of them is the ship ask for Amoneki but I already answered that..#Considering answering it with amonhaise?? Idk?? Should i do that??#anyway. kaneki my silly guy #he makes me go insane and i have many thoughts about him #but unlike with everyone else theyre so incomprehensible even i dont know what they are #also sidenote but writing posts on mobile is a nightmare godbless

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forlix · 6 months

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𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠・h.h.

— you're uninviting, there's no doubt about that, your resolve like unpolished diamond and tongue like broken glass. but hyunjin finds you're not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.

words・11.1k

pairing・idol!hyunjin x female stylist!reader (inspired by this)

genres・fluff, angst, eventual smut so MDNI, some hurt/comfort, some humor, mc is a bad bitch and hyunjin is a #simp, enemies? to lovers, sexual tension, workplace relationship, mutual pining, slow burn, nonlinear narrative, alternating perspectives

warnings・cunnilingus, overstimulation, creampie (practice safe sex!!), mild dacryphilia. again, MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS THAT INTERACT WITH THIS POST WILL BE BLOCKED.

warnings (cont'd.)・reader vividly remembers an anxiety attack. alcohol is consumed. lots of compartmentalization and imperfect communication. latter half is just kind of sad in general tbh but what do u expect from a fic based off alex turner lyrics

playlist・farewell, neverland by txt・like crazy by jimin・black friday by tom odell・collide by justine skye・crying lightning by arctic monkeys

a/n・call me victor frankenstein bc i've given birth to a MONSTER (except i actually love and care for mine ofc). this was easily the greatest challenge of my fanfiction-writing career and it feels like my magnum opus; i hope it's worth the wait! also a huge shoutout to sahar for being my voice of reason and my biggest supporter :’) i don’t deserve u i love u

Present day. Cannes, France. 5:54 P.M.

You’ve long made peace with the fact that Hwang Hyunjin is incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes.

As it is, the man has a mouth that runs like a cross-country marathon; then throw in his uncanny aptitude for annoying you, and what do you get? A nonstop slew of terrible jokes and teasing quips, tailored according to his thorough mental manual of what gets under your skin hardest and fastest.

This is the reality you live in, presumably because you were evil in your past life, and you’ve steeled yourself to see it through.

But twenty minutes have passed since you and Hyunjin ducked into the back of a cab and gave the driver the show’s address—and, as stunning as the red rooftops and lazuline coastline of Cannes are, you find you’re more interested in Hyunjin’s peculiar silence.

You move your gaze to his face. He’s looking outside, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand, the afternoon sunlight dusting over his chiseled features like polish on pottery; his complexion an exuberant gold against the cream-colored linen that makes up his clothing.

Maybe it’s because you opted for a simpler makeup look today, leaving the most telling contours of his face warm and bare, or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last year committing his every mannerism and expression to memory. Nevertheless, you see through his pursed lips and tight brow right away.

“Nervous?”

Hyunjin’s head swivels towards you with a small snap, like he’s forgotten you’re here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.

“No,” he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. “Fuck, maybe a little. It’s just hard to believe, you know?”

You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brand’s pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the world’s most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even you’ve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjin’s anxiety.

You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But you’ve always known just what to say when it comes to him.

“Just remember who you are.”

Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You don’t see this change in posture, though. You’re too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.

Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjin’s lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.

Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.

“I want you to meet my parents.”

Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; “please,” he adds, and you’re biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.

The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He can’t tell if you hate each other or if you’re married.

One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.

“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

“For my newborn daughter.”

“Yeah, okay. I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I don’t?”

“My genes, to begin with.”

“That’s unfair. She’s using—”

An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their “good morning”s prim and professional.

“She’s using cheats,” Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.

Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.

Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, he’d grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than he’d thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because they’d become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldn’t imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.

Today is a Saturday, but it’s also Seojun’s last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

“Fourth floor,” Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. “Thanks.”

The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.

“What was her name again?” Hyunjin asks.

“Y/N,” Seojun returns. “Y/L/N.”

“Is she here already?”

“No, she’ll be here at nine.”

There’s a small pause.

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“I feel like I’m being married off to another family for political reasons.”

“God, I can’t wait to be free of your theatrics.”

At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seojun reassures. “She’s the best of the best. I hear she’s basically running the industry these days. I’m surprised she agreed to take you on.”

“I’m surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,” Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Seojun concedes. “We happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hell—”

They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.

She reminds me of him.

“He’s forgotten how to walk,” the him in question whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. “Is this what fatherhood does to a man?”

Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.

The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and he’s suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.

At 8:57, Seojun’s phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjin’s direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.

“For that,” Hyunjin sputters, “I’m the godfather.”

“Absolutely the hell not.”

Then, it is 9:00.

When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.

“There she is,” Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. “God, how long has it been? Two, three years now?”

You’re not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojun’s direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that you’re cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path.

With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojun’s hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like you’ve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.

Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and he’s reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.

“Something like that,” you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.”

“Please, Seojun is fine,” he answers hastily. “And thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you.”

“You’re too kind—I’m excited too.”

Upon uttering the word “we,” Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.

The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like he’s approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.

Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until he’s as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.

He ends up losing its trail, but he won’t forget that it’s there.

“My client, I’m guessing?” You say, extending your hand. “Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”

Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.

But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; he’s nothing, if not tenacious.

“Hyunjin,” he returns. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.

Hyunjin isn’t sure why—maybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingers—but he’s learned over the last four weeks that you’re different, gentler, when you’re doing his makeup.

Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco you’ve painted upon him.

Your expression doesn’t give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that there’s a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like you’re touching his petals, trying not to tear them.

Too bad you never let him daydream for long.

“Close.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. Close them.”

His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjin’s features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.

A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.

“Witch,” Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.

“Thank you,” you reply, completely earnestly.

And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if there’s anything you don’t know.

“You smudged your lipstick already.” There’s a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. “See? That’s why we need the setting spray.”

“Uh huh.” And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.

“You’re done, by the way,” you say, stepping aside. “Take a look.”

He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if he’s never seen it before. But that’s how he’s felt since he started working with you.

Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like it’s the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when it’s you maneuvering them. And then some.

He would call what you have “talent,” but he knows it’s more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering you’ve only known him for two months. So no, it’s not just talent that you possess. It’s some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhuman—and sexy as fuck.

Speaking of sexy. Hyunjin’s look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But it’s the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesn’t look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.

You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. “You can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought you’d appreciate that detail.”

At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. “You suck.”

He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks it’s so painfully on brand that the two times it’s appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.

“Well?” You implore. “What do you think?”

“No notes.”

It’s the answer you’re expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you after the show, then.”

You have an important conference call to attend before tonight’s concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour.

It’s rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesn’t want it to end. Not just yet.

“I lied, actually,” he calls. “I do have notes.”

You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laugh—the concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.

“Do tell,” you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.

“You have any jewelry for me?”

You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the group’s dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.

You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. “Come here, then,” you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.

You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.

“You’re sure you won’t be uncomfortable?”

He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you don’t seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.

Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, you’re already working on the third and final necklace. It’s not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; he’s been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows you’re closer to each other than you’ve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesn’t show—the soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lips—and these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.

You are the type of beautiful that’s been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.

In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.

When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but you’re debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hip—lightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjin’s hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.

And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that it’ll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesn’t give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesn’t care.

“Let me take you out,” he murmurs. “One date.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You reply under your breath.

“You know what I’m talking about, beautiful.”

Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you don’t. You merely hiss out a whetted “you’re fucking crazy,” and that’s his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.

“About you? Damn straight.”

At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isn’t just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.

And he’s surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you would’ve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever he’s been granted the privilege of your presence.

This might be the first time he’s admitted it out loud, but he hasn’t tried—hasn’t been able—to hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. It’s been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.

“Hwang—” You begin.

“Hyung!”

At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like you’re about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now you’re just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.

“Hey, Innie!” Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boy’s sunny tone. “What’s up?”

In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You don’t think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.

You’re flustered.

You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall.

“Nothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,” Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany you’re having behind him. “Chan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?”

“She’s in high demand.” Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. “The usual.”

“Ah.”

Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjin’s face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isn’t stupid, unlike his older counterpart.

“I saw a vending machine on my way here,” Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. “You want anything, hyung? Noona?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Hyunjin says.

Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.

You wait until you can’t hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks you’re about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.

Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows he’ll live to see another day.

“You still owe me an answer,” Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply.

One day, I’ll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjin’s head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, I’ll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. That’s the two of you, in a nutshell.

Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.

When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

There’s an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjin’s empty vanity chair. She hasn’t noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonight’s performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.

You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until she’s within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.

“Never gets old.” You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.

“I can’t remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.”

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because they’re so eerily similar—and it’s adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.

But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeun’s voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, that’s another quality that she and her client share; they’re both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.

Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeun’s is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. You’ve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasn’t a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.

You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the album’s cover and pushing it closed.

“Come with me,” you say. “We’re gonna try a new approach.”

Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.

“What do you have in mind?” She sighs instead.

“You’ll see.”

With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.

The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venue’s backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the group’s manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonight’s concert.

Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze.

“Let me ask you this,” you say, just audible over the din. “Can you style a performer if you don’t know how he performs?”

And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.

“I want you to watch him,” you continue. “Tell me how he performs.”

Han’s part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t think, Haeun. Just speak.”

She blows out a deep breath before obliging. “It’s hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, he’s so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But he’s like a different person on stage. He’s so intense, it’s almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, though—you just get the impression that he’s very confident in himself and his music.

You don’t say another word, but don’t need to. She’s hit her stride.

“His voice and enunciation are so clear. It’s crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; he’s not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.

“And this is gonna sound bad, but I didn’t know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is being—”

Right there.

She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.

“It’s his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "He’s demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. That’s how he performs.”

A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework you’ve helped her forge. She’s almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“I do, but I appreciate the reminder.”

She can’t help but giggle. It’s a you answer if she’s ever heard one. “Do you do that with all of your clients?”

Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesn’t think she’s ever witnessed before, and she’s momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.

As the song’s final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then it’s palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.

Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mind—but one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.

Artistry.

“No,” you reply. “Not all of them.”

And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?

Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you don’t elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.

The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage manager’s voice comes through the monitors.

“And that’s a wrap! We’re all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.”

There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.

You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.

You’re annoyed before he says a word.

“I didn’t know they were letting fans backstage now,” he hums happily. “Want an autograph, gorgeous?”

“Put a sock in it.” You whisk the towel you’ve been holding in his direction. “Wet freak.”

But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. You’ve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.

“No.” You take a shaky step back. “No, nope, don’t even think about—”

The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. “Call me a wet freak again, go on,” he manages to say through his laughter.

In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjin’s ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesn’t relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.

You tighten your grip. “Wet,” you seethe, “freak.”

“Ow—okay, don’t make it hot, what’s wrong with you?”

“Wha—what’s wrong with YOU?!”

As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that she’s still standing here. She’s not even sure if she’s in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when it’s him on the receiving end.

“Psst. We’ve been placing bets on them. You want in?”

Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasn’t so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.

But what if she’s not hallucinating?

No, not all of them, you’d said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.

“Yes,” she says, and Han beams. “Absolutely.”

Three months ago. Seoul, South Korea. 2:26 A.M.

On a tranquil Saturday night, you’re sitting at your desk, your knees tucked to your chest, the newest episode of your drama playing quietly on your laptop, a half-empty glass of rosé and open sketchbook laid before you. This is your happy place—a safe haven that the trials and tribulations of the real world can’t reach. But you think you’ve really gone and lost your mind when you find yourself thinking about your job.

Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.

You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like they’re topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like you’re monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.

You’ve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.

You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that you’ve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.

When you were little, you came across a children’s book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.

At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industry’s most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.

You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.

For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the world’s most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.

If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.

The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.

You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that you’d been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds.

As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how you’d shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.

By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.

You are now twenty-two, and the word “cold” has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but you’re no longer surprised to find it at your door. It’s a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks you’re not looking—a fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couch—and you know whenever you’re being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.

You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.

Hyunjin does not.

“Three words to describe yourself. Go,” he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session.

You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didn’t bother trying to dodge this one. “You first.”

“Smart, sexy, suave,” he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. “Fine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitely—maybe overly so. And artistic. I’d like to think so, at least. Satisfied?”

The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.

“Now you.”

Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didn’t trust him—you did, more than you had anyone in years—but because you didn’t know what you’d do with yourself if he agreed. You weren’t sure your heart would be able to take it.

When you met the boy’s gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.

“Cold,” you mumbled. “I’ve been called cold before.”

There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And then—

“That’s a joke, right?”

Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.

“Mean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though I’d rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.”

At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.

“Determined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,” he went on. “You get my point. You’re a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isn’t one—”

He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.

“—and not just because you’re hot.”

You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.

Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.

“Thank you,” you said.

The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.

“Idiot,” he sighed softly.

Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete.

When you stand up, the bottle is mostly gone—and so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin aren’t just theories.

If you’d had even one mouthful less of rosé, you might’ve remembered that you picked up your phone and opened your most recent conversation somewhere between steps two and three.

[3:10 A.M.] To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP) Audio Message.wav

Hi. I’m drunk and I’m going to regret this tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow’s business. There’s something I need to tell you tonight.

After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard ‘I wanna go home’ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I would’ve been happy for it to.

But I haven’t felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. I’ve never felt seen the way you see me. I’ve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I don’t have to dream of it anymore.

You called me fearless the other day, but you’re wrong. I’m terrified. I’m terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And that’s why I’m so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I don’t want to go through that ever again.

So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that I’m scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But it’s not speaking it into existence if I’m drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ll never even hear this. So it doesn’t count. That’s how that works, surely.

Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that I’m so bad at feelings. You must think I’m impossible, and I don’t blame you.

Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.

One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.

When Hyunjin steps out of the hotel’s tall glass double doors, he’s wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like he’s an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.

You’re the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.

A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.

“Tomorrow night,” you’re saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. “The absolute earliest. You’re sure?”

When you finish listening to the manager’s response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that should’ve splintered your screen protector.

Then, you start walking towards him.

“Hi,” Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. “You are so talented and beautiful. I don’t tell you that often enough, do I?”

He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort that’s twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth that’s always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that he’s always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.

A shiver travels down Hyunjin’s spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.

Something’s not right.

“We’re gonna have to stay here another day,” you say. “Can you check us in? I have some calls to make.”

“Us?” Hyunjin repeats.

“Junghan could only reserve one room,” you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. “The hotel is fully booked for the next few months.”

With that, you’re already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that he’s going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.

Go, you mouth, and he obliges.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates it’s an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoever’s inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he can’t think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises should’ve been.

Hyunjin’s initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isn’t an isolated issue. It’s the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.

You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. He’s learned where to look for your feelings when he can’t find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like they’re verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldn’t recognize you. He’d blinked, startled, and then you’d asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.

Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didn’t seem all that different—a bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but you’d been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.

“Stupid,” Hyunjin whispers bitterly.

He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like he’d been dismissed from before your throne.

As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesn’t understand how or why—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s failed you.

Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesn’t know why he even tries. He’s exhausted, but he knows damn well there’s no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.

He doesn’t look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotel’s entrance.

You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.

“Hyunjin?”

His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” you answer. “Move to the bed. You’re not sleeping on that thing.”

He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and there’s a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bed’s mattress.

“Hello? Did you—”

“Is everything okay?”

A short pause follows his interruption.

“I still have a few emails to write, but everything’s been rescheduled, so as long as you don’t miss tomorrow’s flight, too, we should be—”

The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s not what I mean.”

The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but it’s enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjin’s expression.

“Enlighten me, then,” you say finally.

“You really don’t know?”

“What is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“No, that’s not—”

“So what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?”

There’s real frustration in your voice, and it’s the first time you’ve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.

He wonders if you’re prepared to destroy yourself, too.

“I know how you are around me,” you whisper. “You’re always acting like you’re trying to unearth something, and I figure this ‘something’ must be wonderful, because you look at me like I’m made of stars; you speak to me like you’re serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this ‘something’ doesn’t exist, that you’re looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person.

“I know it’s selfish to ask for anything more than what you’ve already given me—you’re so kind, Hyunjin, and you’ve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.

“Tell me what you see in me,” you plead. “Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.”

With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware of—never asked for—the throne you sit upon.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You haven’t felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe.

When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.

“After you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.”

Your mind careens; your heart reels.

“They came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.” He takes a tentative step towards you. “You thought it was going to swallow you alive. You would’ve been happy for it to.”

You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldn’t check for a read receipt.

But there’s not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjin’s lips.

“You haven’t felt that way since you met me, though.” He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. “You’ve never felt seen the way I see you. You’ve never been known the way I know you.”

God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?

“You’re terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.” Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. “I must think you’re impossible.”

And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fracture—

“I don’t,” Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, “because you’re not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. That’s what I see in you.”

—and crumble.

You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjin’s hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.

When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.

Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.

Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you.

One part of it is that he physically can’t; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesn’t want to. He’s afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.

Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesn’t stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.

“Trust me?” He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.

“More than anyone,” you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.

Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your element—tonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand.

Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjin’s privilege alone.

He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and you’re about to ask if he’s okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping folds—and every word of every language you’ve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.

He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that he’s lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjin’s head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.

He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until you’re spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until it’s pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until you’re curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system.

“Coming,” you blabber after some time. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks to himself. “Coming, Hyune. I’m—fuck—”

Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way you’re so dilapidated from pleasure that you’re genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesn’t care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there can’t be rests in the sheet music, can there?

He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your body’s protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.

“Son of a bitch—”

“Trust me?” He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod.

At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. He’s so rough and so fucking careful at once like he can’t decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.

He’ll end up doing both.

Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasure—but he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and it’s not long before the former is compounding with the latter.

Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.

As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.

After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.

He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of spit suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongue—and you know he won’t ask for it. He’s tested you enough tonight; he’d rather your comfort than his pleasure.

But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.

“Love me?” You ask this time, for the first time.

There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, “with everything in me.”

He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff he’d dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him too—and the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.

This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.

Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.

For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen you’ve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.

“Where do you find your inspiration?”

As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versace’s newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.

“My inspiration, hm?” You fall silent for a short time, thinking. “If you asked me this at the start of my career, I’d have said ‘people.’ Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I knew I was a goner when I watched a fashion show for the first time and noticed how the models’ attire helped them harness their innate power and grace—I wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, don’t you?

“Some time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a ‘muse’ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, so—”

Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist would’ve flinched out of habit if he wasn’t so mesmerized by your eloquence.

“—where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?”

A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane.

“That’s the long answer, anyways. The short answer would be my fiancé.”

The journalist laughs, and he doubts you’ll give him this next piece of information—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“And who would that be?”

He’s right. You don’t answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe

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aturinfortheworse · 2 years

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Manifesto of the Committee for the Sick and Useless

Those of us with disabilities form an interest group with an immense number of seemingly abled people. Everyone whose culture, beliefs, age, personality, sexuality, language, immigration status or other inclination makes them less useful to society belongs with disabled people in the fight to exist without justification.

The Committee for the Sick and Useless believe it is the innate and inalienable right of all people to:

Do Nothing

Help No One

Feel Awful

And above all else

Be Useless

In this age of increasing productivity and accomplishment, we too often sacrifice the most sacred right of all living things: to simply exist, asking much and contributing nothing. We sacrifice this right not just for ourselves as individuals but for all life on Earth present and future.

Our existence has been made conditional on the work we are expected to do, whether that work is employment, education, or caring for the home. Even plants and animals must now earn their right to exist by producing food, providing beauty, cleaning our air, warming our hearts. The ugly, unpleasant and useless are abandoned.

We, the committee, do not consider ourselves at odds with health, joy and usefulness. Rather we are united with all good and joyful people in our fight against the demand for productivity. Our enemies are those who demand that the land produce wealth, that the workers produce profit, that the sick produce medical certificates, that children grow up and the elderly make themselves scarce.

The right to exist is the foundation of all human rights and duties; it cannot be made conditional, lest all rights be made conditional. We support the right of everyone, everywhere, to live.

In this admittedly revolutionary goal, we have many allies. These include, but are not limited to: queers, cripples, drug users, the unemployed, the mentally ill, the anti-colonial, the incomprehensible, the celibate, the ugly, mutes, mystics, pessimists, mosquitoes, cats, children, teenagers, the elderly, speakers of suppressed languages, and people without a driving license.

This is Chapter 31 of Redefining Disability, with very minor edits. I held off on posting this until it was published. It is now in a real physical book that they cannot take away from me so here you all go.

If you would like a copy of this or any other chapters from the journal, there is a pinned post on my blog with free download details. I would also be happy to email them to you.

#ruin rambles #disability #writing #100 #committee for the sick and useless

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takeme-totheworld · 5 months

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I don't have the energy right now to try to recreate the post I accidentally yeeted into the void, but I've been having lots of feelings about the ongoing fandom discussion of Aziraphale's decision at the end of S2.

I wasn't surprised by his decision at all. The minute he said "I think I might have misjudged the Metatron" I had an immediate, overwhelming feeling of "OH NO" because I saw exactly where the scene was going. And I was right! I felt zero surprise when the episode ended the way it did. (Devastation, yes. Surprise, no.)

Not only that, I was shocked at how shocked everyone else was. Because I grew up in a toxic religious community, of which I was a very devoted and enthusiastic member until young adulthood. So I have firsthand experience with that kind of indoctrination, and know exactly what a mindfuck it is.

Look, it's possible that there's something else going on under the surface, that Aziraphale was being coerced or that he was lying to Crowley in order to protect him or that he was trying to send Crowley a coded message and it failed or whatever. I'm not the creator of this story, I don't know. But what deeply distresses me is how often I've seen people say that it has to be one of those other things because if it isn't—if Aziraphale made his decision of his own free will because he actually believes that Heaven is the side of good, or at least that it once was and will be again if it can just solve the whole bad leadership problem—that means he's either unforgivably cruel or unforgivably ignorant or both.

It's a painful reminder for me, every time, of the fact that if you are the victim of this type of indoctrination, a lot of people will assume that it's your own fault for being gullible enough to believe such obviously ridiculous and wrong things. (Hint: it's only obvious from the outside! Because if you're on the outside, you are not having your mind directly and repeatedly fucked with!) Or that if you've been exposed to contradicting information, but you still continue to believe the things that were indoctrinated into you, it's because you're willfully choosing to stay clueless.

And that is just not how that works. Yes, some people cling to their indoctrination because they're genuinely happy with their lives as part of whatever institution, because it stacks the deck in their favor in some way, because they like having a respectable-sounding excuse to be bigoted jerks, or whatever. But there are also lots of people who have just legitimately had their minds twisted into pretzels by years or decades (or in Aziraphale's case, millennia) of mental conditioning and manipulation.

You can generally tell the difference between the two. At least, if you come from the kind of background I do, you can. But I imagine that even if you didn't, it's probably fairly obvious once you get to know people who is a shitty person using their religion as an excuse to be shitty, and who is a fundamentally decent person who has just had their mind so thoroughly fucked with that they've been manipulated into believing total bullshit.

And breaking the latter group out of their conditioning isn't as simple as just "show them information that contradicts what they've been taught," as much as we all wish it could be. It's a long, messy, and traumatic process. Your entire worldview falls apart and it's terrifying. You lose a community and an identity in the process. And there's often debilitating guilt afterward, about the person you were and the things you did and said while you were still in it.

So I watched the ending of S2 and my reaction was, "Well, of course Aziraphale said the things he said and made the decision he made, he's not free of his programming yet." It made all the sense in the world to me even as it was excruciatingly painful to watch, because there was a time in my life when I made decisions every bit as jaw-droppingly fucked up and incomprehensible to outside observers, decisions I look back on now and still want to shake my younger self by the shoulders and scream "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU??" And the end of S2 took me right back to that time in my life, when my head was so thoroughly messed up that I made terrible decisions that hurt myself and alienated the people around me, all while wanting nothing more in the world but to be a good person and do the right thing. And I imagine that when Aziraphale finally breaks out of his own indoctrination he is going to be horrified and devastated by a lot of what he did and said, not to mention the betrayal of how thoroughly he was manipulated and gaslit.

Yes, I am projecting hard onto Aziraphale. Yes, this is just my own theory about the final 15. But I don't see anything in the story that flat-out contradicts this reading of his character. And honestly, I care less about the veracity of my interpretation than I do about the fans saying things like "I can't take the final 15 at face value because it would make Aziraphale a terrible person," or "If he really believed that stuff he was saying, Crowley should make him beg and grovel for at least a century before taking him back" or even "if he really believed that stuff, he deserves to have Crowley never speak to him again."

Just...as a person who used to be heavily indoctrinated and has to live with the memory of who I was and what I believed back then for the rest of my life, it's incredibly distressing.

#good omens #good omens meta #good omens 2 spoilers #aziraphale #the final fifteen #religious trauma #religious indoctrination #religious deconstruction #oh look i said i had no energy and then i wrote this much anyway #i'm very normal about this

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piracytheorist · 4 months

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Season Finale, woe is me T_T

Where did time go. It feels like yesterday that the first trailer for the season dropped.

AND THIS EPISODE DARES START WITH YOR HUMMING THE LULLABY

How dare they. Did I ask to be emotionally destroyed like this Yes I did

Bond is so happy to go for a walk with Loid! And Loid isn't exactly reserved with petting his huge dog is he.

I love how heartbroken Bond was over Anya saying she wasn't coming. He even looked back at her as Loid walked him to the exit.

It actually impresses me that Loid is training Bond right out in public, talking to him about where to bite and how much to make sure the target doesn't get too injured. I guess he doesn't expect the SSS to frequent a dog park?

I love the little pat Loid did on his leg to call Bond back. And then of course pet his head :)

Poor Franky's putting up with so much from Twilight, and he doesn't have to. I hope Twilight appreciates that at some point. I'm sure he hasn't developed feelings just for his family.

Sweet cinnamon roll, too good for this world, too pure

Franky talks about how Bond may have associated training with his trauma from getting experimented on, and it sounds like brand new info to Twilight. I guess, despite how much his spy training has scarred him, Twilight has a hard time connecting "having bad memories about something" with "not wanting to engage with that something". After all, he'd spent who knows how long telling himself that he hated children because they're incomprehensible to him, and not because children crying reminded him of his own desperate times. After all, it's easier to do his job and keep training hard if he refuses to accept how soul-crushing that job is, right?

Damn, I got sad again. Because I imagine post-reveal Loid and Yor asking Anya why she chose them, and she says that she thought they were cool, and Loid has a RealizationTM that no he's actually very messed up and it's very sad that this little girl imagined that this devastating way of life could actually look cool to someone from the outside.

Not to worry, there's more angst I'll pull out of nowhere down the road!

Franky calling Loid out for not knowing how to relax and have fun >>>>

I love how after Franky left, Loid and Bond looked at each other like idiots. Old habits die hard, and an entire cruise of Loid trying to relax and have fun wouldn't be enough to break them, I guess XD

She's like "If I can't get real stars might as well fake some" Poor Yor continuing to clap happily even while Anya's origami star fell from her chest XD it taught her how to properly apply tape I guess, for later...

Pretty much everyone around them is wearing winter clothes, even Loid is wearing a turtleneck and a heavy coat. Why are those children in such light clothes eating ice cream? The boy on the left we even see later is wearing shorts

Guess an ice cream was an easy kind of snack for a kid to feel bad about dropping XD

Sweet Bond! He's imagining Loid praising him and telling him he's glad they adopted him, and all while Bond is wagging his tail 😭😭

This family is just four lonely creatures desperate to be wanted (even if Twilight is very far from accepting that) aren't they ;_;

Ice cream goes RIP and Bond has his (probably) first experience of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Look at him he's so 🥺

Later in the episode, Twilight goes all strict with himself for a laugh. Here though, he actually expresses distress and guilt for Bond ruining the kid's ice cream. He could have gone for a simple "I'll buy you a new one" without showing that much emotion in his expression and voice. In the manga he even has a typical "cold sweat lines" expression.

Or however you call that.

I don't know, maybe it circles back to any "starving war orphan" trauma he may be trying to tell himself he doesn't have...

I'm just saying, he was very expressive here, and he didn't have to. It wasn't a conscious choice.

Bond is really such a good boy. Every time he acts on his visions is to help someone else. From something as trivial as dropping a snack to something as important as saving someone's life, whether they're a kid, an old man, or a puppy, Bond is truly a very empathetic and caring creature.

However, the silly music playing over the vision of the old man getting hit was... a choice XD

Yet another example of the anime putting details to help the narrative: the old man is hunched, making him short enough that the corner of the wall/fence to his side is actually covering him. Which makes the biker not seeing him make sense, since he was behind the fence and appeared at the last second.

I actually felt shivers with the tone Twilight used here. Bond's behaviour is making no sense and is actually a first.

But also, Bond is probably only now realizing that unlike Anya, Loid cannot read his mind and cannot see his good intentions. He knows Anya would jump for joy for what he did, but since two of his efforts to help were met with reprimands, he's hesitant to try again because his trauma rears its ugly head and he fears he'll get kicked out. He probably doesn't understand that Loid doesn't know anything about his special powers, and so he can't let Loid's reprimands pass by him unaffected.

It's a bit similar to how he probably connects bad food with bad intentions, and thus fears that Yor will be mean to him, since she makes such horrible meals.

And so he allows the woman to get bird poop on her, but he jumps to action when he realizes someone's life may be in danger of the fire.

And first, I know we talk about how strong Yor is, but can we for a moment talk about how Loid held back this absolute beast of a dog?

Like, Loid allowed him to carry him around twice, but when he felt things got serious, he actually had no issue holding him back. It was only when Bond looked legitimately scary that he let go.

And that was... a shock. Have we ever seen Twilight like that before? Cause he genuinely looks like he hesitated out of fear... and maybe realizing that no, this time Bond is actually dead serious.

Bond probably didn't know what he would be looking for once he stepped inside the burning building. I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one who thought that that "Daisy" was a child... but maybe Bond is more attuned to scents of other dogs, especially little ones that need help, so he could find the puppy amidst all the burning smells.

Badass Loid saving his doggo!

Loid doesn't hesitate to run in after him, either. Even the idea that Bond could be rescuing someone is enough for him to take that risk. I love how, after two attempts of what Loid thought was Bond attacking innocent people, he still believes Bond would have a good reason to run into a burning building and runs after him to help.

I mean, you also ran into that building to save your - for all you know, disobedient - dog, so maybe it's the pot calling the kettle black XD

How sweet is he, though. He really doesn't believe in reprimanding someone after the fact - Bond running into fire was dangerous, but it helped save an innocent life... and Twilight's priorities are very clearly shown in that reaction!

I love how man saves dog, dog saves man, and then Twilight is like "Wow your nose is incredible" because of course he can't think of another explanation, and Bond's affirmative borf there sounds like "Yeah sure, buddy. It's my "nose" alright."

Even though it's only Bond with him, Twilight uses "Twilight voice" as he assesses the situation, and "Loid voice" when he talks to Bond. Is this him putting on a mask... or feeling a little more comfortable around Bond?

I'M HOLDING OUT FOR A HERO TILL THE END OF THE NIGHT

That was so badass! But then!

Miserable creature

Exactly how much water was in that bucket to make Bond's entire massive fur soaking wet XD

This is both so wholesome and, me being me, so fucking heartbreaking at the same time. Like, the other guy let himself laugh his heart out at how Bond looked, but Twilight barely allowed a single sound out of his mouth that he couldn't control. And again, angst is my wont, so it really ruins me that he's not even letting himself laugh over something ridiculous, because he can't let his emotions show... even if it would be totally understandable for him to laugh at that moment.

I mean, as I said, he showed genuine distress when Bond caused the boy to drop his ice cream, but he stopped himself from laughing even when the other guy next to him was laughing too. As in, he allows negative expressions when it's appropriate, but not positive even when it's appropriate and understandable.

I mean, he has been smiling at his family and looking at Yor like the besotted simp he is... but he doesn't realize just how much of his real feelings pour through his face, exactly because he hasn't realized said feelings. Wet Bond was a much clearer example of something funny, so he knew that laughing would be a loss of control...

Anyway what I'm saying is it's sad. He shouldn't feel he has to repress his own laugh like that.

Kinda sad the anime omitted this still-trying-not-to-laugh expression Loid has as he sees Bond sniff around.

Bond's voice adafhgdsfdgfdgd

Arsonist guy is watching sneakily from a corner while wearing a hat that has "Fire" written on it.

Dude couldn't have been more suspicious if he tried.

Pretty sick how he got even more excited at the idea of someone dying from the fire, when he heard the woman say how Daisy was still trapped inside.

Vigilante Bond! Arsonist guy takes out his knife and tells Bond to not be disrespectful of humans and my dude you're the one setting people's lives at risk and having a blast about it

We haven't seen Twilight in such action in a while, have we! Ngl it was kinda, uhm... 😳😳

LOOK AT HIM! So proud of his doggo 😭😭

He then says how it would be bad if either of them were in the news... and you're reminded that this is fictional but still pretty accurate 60s-70s so Twilight has really avoided getting any picture of him published. But also Bond could indeed be recognized by any of the scientists... and it's actually sweet how Twilight cares for Bond's secret not getting out. He helped Bond with his "revenge" and now he's acting to protect him from getting targeted again.

I love how Bond fears he'll get reprimanded for biting the arsonist's leg and not arm... when in the beginning Twilight very clearly said he can bite either a leg or an arm XD

BUT THEN

He tells Bond how "someone" will be sad if anything happens to him (Bond), (and we get a sweet af montage of Anya and Bond having fun together), how Bond is first and foremost a part of the family, how his working duties should come second and he should look after himself...

Oh it's gonna hit him like a brick wall when he realizes the exact same things apply to him 😭

SHUT UP AND LET THE BESTEST BOI LOVE YOU 😭

He's not gonna tell anyone, promise 🥺

And he ends with a promise to go to the dog park the next day so that Bond can have some long overdue fun. Yeah definitely a very detached, cool-headed spy who only cares about the mission not destabilizing. Sure.

The anime did offer us some extra stuff, though!

I love one (1) gremlin

I actually saw it as a knife, too XD

I love her.

I fully expected to see the paper puppets (or whatever you call those) fall apart like Yor's victims' bodies do XD I was not disappointed XD

Anya is still working on accepting that her mother is not very capable of not sprinkling "murder" on anything in her life XD

Loid isn't wearing his coat when they return...

I am amazed that they've had Bond for, how many months has it been now? And yet neither Loid nor Anya had ever seen him wet.

Anyway, Loid appeared back without his coat because his excuse was that someone had sprayed water all over them, so he took it off XD

But where is his coat even XD

Her heroes!

And of course Loid doesn't know Anya knows about the puppy rescue, so he's not that affected by the "Stella" and is instead going like "Yo but could you get going with earning those stars already". He's not used to getting recognition for his hard work and he's not about to start... yet...

The closing montage was so sweet! Especially with the holidays around the corner, it was very fitting to see the children having fun and relaxing, Yuri being very NormalTM, Nightfall and Franky having dreams for the future, and the Forger family having their celebrating dinner!

I love them so much.

And thus, the season has ended, and this anime only will start wondering how her Saturdays will pass from now on :')

I am thinking of doing more crack recaps, finishing my character screen time project, and probably starting on some fics... but for a very specific reason, the completion of those will have to wait until the next season ;)

This was a wonderful season! I may have rewatched every episode almost three times, but I do wanna do a "recap" full rewatch of the season at some point, and share my overall thoughts. I certainly have a lot of time on my hands for that XD

#Spy x Family #sxf reaction #sxf spoilers

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recurring-polynya · 5 months

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Who wants a post about 🎶spirit phones??🎶

lol, j/k who doesn't want a post about spirit phones?

So, me and my kid have just hit the Advance Team filler, specifically #128, the first of the episodes about the Whistle Hollow, and it gave us some really good looks at everyone's spirit phone, starting with Matsumoto's fantastically be-dazzled, magenta model. It looks a lot like a Motorola Razr or a Nokia 6133. I'm gonna assume she managed to get it in a premium color and then decorated it herself.

Next, we see Hitsugaya's, which is not quite the same model, because Matsumoto's has the square external display, and his doesn't. Are they different model years, or does he have some sort of fancy captain model?

I also think it's interesting that his display features an actual map (left), instead of this absolutely incomprehensible crap Rukia's phone gave her back during the Quincy Archer Hates You! Hollow Bait debacle (right).

Here's the real reason I made this post because what the Hell is that, Yumichika??? There were lots of slider phones available at the time, but you didn't usually hold them vertically like that. Is it a T-Mobile Sidekick? (I had a friend who had one of these and it was so extra)

As far as I can tell, Ikkaku does not have a phone, Yumichika handles the telephony in the relationship.

Renji is not in this filler episode for some reason, but we see his phone a few episodes later, in 136. It's pretty hard to see here, but there are some better shots of it back in the Bount Arc, and I think it's pretty clearly the same phone.

It looks pretty similar to Matsumoto's, but his has a light just below the external display that blinks and beeps to indicate Hollow activity. Also, it's lavender.

Rukia has already left for Soul Society at this point, but we got a good look at her phone in the Bount Arc, which appears to be the same one she had in the Agent of the Shinigami Arc, down to the Chappy charm on it.

It looks very similar to Renji's, including the blinky Hollow light. Hers seems to have a grid of dots below the light. I think Renji's may actually have that, too, but the animators were too busy lovingly drawing his tits and pretty braid to worry about air flow to his spirit phone battery. (I support your life choices, nameless Pierrot animator!)

Here's the interface to Rukia's phone, which is significantly different from Hitsugaya's.

Normally, I would accuse Hitsugaya of having some older or cheaper model of spirit phone, but his actually looks significantly nicer than everyone else's (except Yumichika). It definitely looks like Rukia and Renji have the same model (I keep going back and forth over whether or not they are the same color. Rukia's def reads as grey to me and Renji's looks more lavender to me but idk. Maybe it's a trick of the lighting). Matsumoto has a similar, but not identical model. I feel like my takeaway from this is that shinigami have to buy their own phones-- Matsumoto splurged a little on color, Yumichika splurged a lot on rizz, and Rukia and Renji appear to be at the mercy of Byakuya's family plan. I feel like Hitsugaya didn't even have a phone before this and bought one expressly for this mission, which is why his is nicer than it would otherwise be.

#spirit phones #advance team arc #toshiro hitsugaya #rangiku matsumoto #yumichika ayasegawa #ikkaku madarame #renji abarai #rukia kuchiki #i got my first cell phone because i was going to an academic conference across the country I FEEL YOU hitsugaya #i think it might have been a motorola razr actually #why do spirit phones use the same iconography for the battery meter and signal strength as human do? this is the real question

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yjhariani · 1 year

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Doon

Task Force 141 X GN!Reader

A/N: Another dedication, this one is for @itzclouding who got me inspired by this post to write this little something about getting influenced by Soap's accent and dialect.

Disclaimer: This is mostly taken from observation by the media I'm consuming. Please, educate me if I'm pragmatically off. I'm not sure how to categorise this one, maybe for non-English native speaker!Reader? For non-British!Reader? Non-Scottish!Reader?

The stages of a human being learning languages started by the listening phase followed by the speaking phase. It seemed that spending quite some time with three English men and one Scottish man got you into those phases unconsciously.

Firstly, of course, you were listening to what they were saying and how they said it. You started stressing a part of a word differently, adapting to whoever you spent the last few days with. Then, you started picking up some slang they were using in the different ways they were saying them.

When you started using them in your own way of pronunciation, they did not actually notice it. It was as if the slang had been part of your vocabulary this whole time.

Things started to get apparent over time. Like the first time you spent a week on a mission with Soap and you returned a different person.

After that mission, the squad members were gathering for a catch up. All of you were about to have a movie night in a meeting room.

“We’re short on food,” Price realised.

“I’ll fetch it doon at the mess,” you volunteered, not realising that you sounded almost identical to Soap.

The whole group turned to you. Soap had gotten used to it and he still looked entertained. Ghost raised an eyebrow under his mask. Gaz let out a scoff of amusement. Price tilted his head a little.

“Doon at the mess?”Soap asked, a smug smile on his face.

“Where else am I getting food, mate?” you replied before making your way to the door.

“Haste ye back,” Soap yelled.

“Aye,” you replied.

As it turned out, your obliviousness was even funnier to them.

“I swear to God, Soap, if you influence them any further, I will kick you in the throat,” Ghost warned.

“I never did,” Soap insisted. “They just picked it up like that time with you.”

“With me?” Ghost repeated, offended.

“Oh, I remember that,” Gaz nodded. “It’s like hearing a more chatty version of you, LT.”

“I can’t believe back then, of anyone, they have to pick up your accent, Simon,” Price said. “You’re already incomprehensible half of the time, having two of you isn’t an improvement.”

“Incomprehensible? You’re talking about yourself,” Ghost replied. “The thing is, we don’t need to suffer dealing with two of Soap.”

“You mean to say, ‘Thank you, Soap, for leading our good friend to a better path’,” Soap said.

“Fuck off,” Ghost scoffed.

“What? Everyone always wants more of me,” Soap said.

Eventually you returned with another bag of snacks, some canned drinks, and a bowl of something the cook could spare. The bowl was immediately snatched by Soap and Gaz exhaled in disappointment.

“You just brought one bowl of that?” Gaz asked.

“I didnae ken you wanted it,” you answered.

Everyone turned to you again. There was a pause before Gaz chuckled whilst the other—save for Ghost—grinned in amusement.

“What now?” Price asked.

“Shite—I mean, shai—shit!” you struggled to respond, realising what just happened before exhaling. “I didn’t know you wanted it.”

Price patted you on the shoulder, still very much amused.

“Oh, come on, you didn’t make fun of Soap after Las Almas and he’s way worse,” you pointed out. “Also that one time Gaz spent too much time with Farah and can’t stop calling people habibi.”

There was a pause.

“So, where do you wanna sit doon?” Ghost asked.

“Fucking bollocks,” you muttered under your breath.

#soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader #price x reader #captain price x reader

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reve-writes · 9 months

Text

—all aboard; kaz brekker.

ʚ kaz brekker x reader | grishaverse | 0,5k words.

ʚ kaz sees you off when you are leaving for shu han. will your feelings remain unuttered to the very last second?

ʚ post soc & ck; spoilers for crooked kingdom (major character death!); pining with no resolution (yet?); soft!kaz.

ʚ a/n — i wish i wrote more. consider this a writing warmup.

Kaz Brekker doesn't need a reason.

He never does, although you suspect he has always had his own justifications. His trick is to never let anyone know, to conceal his cards in places no one dares to look.

You stand on the docks. The sea ravenous and sprawling in front of you; Kaz pensive and his usual brooding self on your right. The air is salty, mixed with the stench of debauchery permanently wafting from the Barrell. Your belongings that you've accumulated in Ketterdam have dwindled to nothing more than a trunk and a bag, slung across your body from your shoulder.

"I'll say," you start, cracking the silence that has settled over the two of you for too long. "I thought this city would bind me here for the rest of my life."

You chuckle, not that you find your freedom particularly funny. The endless possibilities. Places to go, people to meet, countles versions of yourself you can be. Something more than a barrel rat. You can't help but chuckle at how absurd it all feels. How nearly incomprehensible it is that you're boarding a ship soon, headed off to Shu Han.

"I hoped it would," Kaz says, never mincing his words as usual. Casually cruel to a fault. "Everyone else is quite hopeless with bookkeeping. You are the expert."

You nudge his shoulder with yours slightly, rolling your eyes. You let the implications of everyone go—that everyone includes a certain Fjerdan, for whom you've held a funeral for just weeks prior.

"We each have our strengths," you answer, grip unconsciously tightening on the railing. You feel the cold rusty metal burn against your palms. You try to keep your tone light. The two of you carry enough grief to drown this entire island if you start going down that path. Not exactly what you have in mind for a send off.

You brave a look at Kaz Breaker, finding him in his usual dark overcoat and dark shirt and dark trousers. For a moment, it'll be so easy, you naively think. The words are caught on your throat, punching themselves down before it even reaches your mouth. His dark eyes flit over to you and you immediately swallow.

Love is a foreign concept. To you, whose only family left you for dead when you were barely a teenager. To him, who will forever remember the slick, slimy cold skin of Jordie brushing against his. Your bravery has died as swiftly as it rose. Words of affection staining your tongue but never leaving your lips.

"Have you remembered everything? Shu Han is quite the trip." He nods towards your trunk. "You haven't packed too lightly?"

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Since when have you become so fussy?"

"Since forever, although I prefer the word 'thorough.'"

"What are you, my mother?"

He exhaled sharply, his lips curving into an uncharacteristic amused smile. "Neither you nor I are qualified in talking about parental figures."

You blink at him, mouth agape. "Kaz!"

He shrugs, leaning on his cane. Dark eyes start to drift behind you where a ship has already started boarding. A line of passengers form, many amongst them are talking in Shu, while others Kerch. Kaz points his chin towards the ship, "I believe that is you."

You take your ticket out of your pocket, clutching it in your hand. "I'll be going."

Neither of you move, rooted to your respective spots, staring at each other. Something unsaid hangs in the empty space between you. The tip of your tongue grazes your teeth. Once again, it will be so easy. Just, say it and leave. Bolt as fast as you can to the ship. You will be oceans apart anyway.

The distance may dampen whatever rejection he will hurl your way.

"Best be off," he says. "You might miss your departure."

He clears his throat, looking away. Once again, the ease you've deluded yourself into feeling disappears. There's something tight-wrung in you, fed up of being such an illicit thing.

"I am going," you mumble, lazily hauling your trunk. "Take care, Kaz."

Your stomach drops as you turn around, stepping uncertainly towards the large passenger ship. You turn around swiftly — too quick even — when Kaz calls your name. Like a blossoming flower, you perk up, looking over your shoulder.

His hand is awkwardly hovering, like he's going to shake your hand—or grab it—but it drops right back to his side. It's uncharacteristic; makes him look more like a boy and less of a ringleader.

"Be back in two moons," he says. "For a visit, if you would like."

You let out a puzzled noise. "Why?"

"Would you... be opposed to it?"

"No!" You flush at your exclamation.

"No?"

You gather yourself before saying, "I'll be here in one, how does that sound?"

"I will see you then," he says. "Remember to write."

You feel a little lighter now, less like you're abandoning your closest friend with whom you've shared priceless adventures with. You will see him again. Soon. You will bear stories of faraway lands to him. They may pale in comparison to your escapades and heists, but after what you've been through, mundanity may be what he needs.

"As if you would let me forget."

[ ]

#kaz brekker x you #kaz brekker x reader #—ki writes 🍯

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multicolour-ink · 1 year

Text

Ok everyone listen up

So the One Show did an interview with Chris Pratt and Charlie Day about the Mario Movie, and during this they showed a new clip.

It's shown when the actors and presenters are talking, so you can just barely hear any audio.

Nevertheless, I will not be posting the video with the audio here, but I will be posting gifs and talking about some highlights of this new scene. You can view the clip here (skip to 2.53)

But be warned: if you do not wish to see any new footage until the movie comes out, then skip the video and this post. I will be posting gifs and tagging spoilers so don't go any further if you don't want to be spoilt ⚠️

- - -

In this first bit Mario has come into the warp pipe and is floating in the abyss, and then notices Luigi falling ahead

"LUIGI!"

I slowed the speed down for this bit, but basically Mario and Luigi are spinning out of control through the vortex.

"It's gonna be ok!"

"How is this gonna be ok?!"

There's other dialogue here but it's so incomprehensible, I can't make out what else they are saying.

"It's gonna be ok as long as we're together!"

I can see some of Illumination's style coming through here! Mario's looking a bit stretchy 🤭

Mario just trying to be positive and calm Luigi down 💖 Oh my heart 😭❤💚 Mario will do anything to make sure Luigi feels safe no matter what.

And then...Luigi does this....

NO! No movie you can't do this to me!!! 😭

That look on Luigi's face tells you everything. He trusts Mario's words above anyone else's ❤💚

And dang this will end up being more heavy if it turns out they're orphans and all they have is each other since birth 💖

#dang what a night #i get told of this #and my heart is soaring #I'm a tad annoyed they showed this though...#i mean why not just show an already revealed clip #kind of was looking forward to seeing it first time watching the movie #but oh well #it's out there now #I'm just glad i saw wholesomeness 🥺😭#super mario #mario #luigi #the one show #super mario movie spoilers #mario movie spoilers #the super mario bros movie #super mario movie #mario movie

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unforth · 1 year

Text

I've debated multiple times doing something like cataloging racist microaggressions I see in the danmei tags and making a post about it. I generally see at least one a day, and I block the worst offenders. But in the end I'm a white USAdian and it's really not my place. I'm sure I don't even catch them all.

It's a real issue and I've seen a lot of anecdotal evidence that it drives Chinese and Chinese diaspora fans out of participating in Westernized Tumblr danmei fandom, and that's utterly unacceptable.

One of the most common ones I see is how people talk about the character names. For example:

[Image ID: screen cap of a text post. It reads: "This all came about when I was looking at SVSSS memes on Ao3 and went like "My friends nor coworkers would get heads or tails of what in the world these alphabet smash assortment mean let alone know that they're referencing Soecific individuals or novels." End ID]

THIS IS A MICROAGGRESSION. For fuck's sake, people, acting like the names are ridiculous, incomprehensible, outside of what "friends and colleagues" could comprehend, is RACIST AS FUCK. And I see people say stuff like this constantly.

"But I only meant I was struggling--" THEN WHY DID YOU ASSUME OTHER PEOPLE WOULD STRUGGLE THE SAME WAY? STILL RACIST

"But I could say that about the abbreviations in any--" BUT YOU SAID IT ABOUT THIS FANDOM SPECIFICALLY AND CONTEXT FUCKING MATTERS AND IN THIS CONTEXT IT'S RACIST.

"But it was on my personal blo--" LOOK IF YOU WANT TO BE RACIST ON YOUR PERSONAL BLOG I CAN'T STOP YOU BUT IF YOU TAG ORIGINAL POSTS INTO MAIN FANDOM TAGS THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE WILL SEE YOU AND KNOW YOU ARE RACIST.

The person who posted the above, when I said it was a microaggression, demanded to know how. So, for them and everyone else in this fucking fandoms, I present what any of them could have learned by googling the term. The definition of microaggression:

(Source)

[Image ID: a dictionary entry for the term "microaggression." It reads: "noun. A comment or action that subtle and often unconsciously or unintentionally expresses a prejudiced attitude toward a member if a marginalized group (such as a racial minority)." End ID]

What that screen cap says about names is literally the textbook definition of a microaggression.

Chinese names are just names. The way Chinese sounds is just the way a language sounds. Cultivation is inherently based in Eastern culture and cannot be completely divorced from that context even for a cute AU. I'm so tired of seeing posts saying things like "MXTX just stole the plot of (insert Western myth/folktale/fable here)". Do yall realize how fucking racist you're being? Do yall realize how fucking racist even I've probably been by accident because I'm also a dumb white USAdian?

I've been holding this post in for like a year, but the person who posted that screen cap, who doubled-down by posting a non-apology to all the MXTX main tags, and who acted like I'd said something insane when I told them it was a microaggression...they're apparently my last fucking straw.

DO BETTER, WHITE WESTERN DANMEI FANDOM. We all need to learn and listen and knock it the fuck off already. Me included.

Please, please listen when people say "check yourself." Seeing this stuff everyday is exhausting even for ME and I'm not even in the marginalized group. Chinese people (including diaspora) who stay in the fandom here despite the constant deluge are strong as fuck and they do not deserve this and, as a white person, I'm so so sorry white people are like this.

#unforth rambles #drama #i should not post this #i dont want the drama #but ive seen so many posts by chinese fans ignored #maybe theyll listen to a white person which of course listening to me and not them is itself another fucking microaggression #god im so sorry #ive been debating tagging the fandoms but i dont think i can face the potential consequences #im so tired #but feel free to reblog it i guess

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