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o f t h c s h v d e s​

     The text from her friend had been replied to immediately, the invite for drinks accepted with no hesitation- Valerie was the kind of woman who was slippery when it came to business affairs, but steadfast and reliable when those she loved needed her.       Her chin is cupped by her palm as her elbow rests on the table, gaze fixed on Jack as he discards that shot glass (caught by a quick hand from the woman so as it wouldn’t shatter on the floor), her own lips curled into a wry smile at his actions. She sets the glass back onto the table delicately before grabbing her own beer bottle, lifting it and tapping it with gusto against his, eyebrows raising at his toast and snorting a laugh at him.      “Slow down J, I’m in the mood to go dancing tonight and if you’re too drunk to stand- who’s gonna do the cha cha slide with me?” Val takes a swig from the bottle and raises a hand to the server, indicating she wanted another bringing over. “However- I’ll bite. What’s eating at you?”

he needs val’s friendship like he needs to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin. otherwise he would feel too alone. his transparent odds with himself were plain all over him for her to see, a tribute to their becoming closer. he doesn’t dare to hide himself. friendship is necessary to him. a perfect counter, a weight to rebalance the scale, from the hole that had been left by the woman he loved. once loved, he must remember. 

“i have a hard enough time dancing without two left feet even when sober. i feel sorry for your toes already.” he’s golden with gratification at the idea of dancing the night away. what a novel idea for a man who would need be up at 5 in the morning to tend to his business. chuckling at the absurdity of his whims and worse, the fact that he will be indulging in spite of their desperately poor deliberation. 

“oh. well, it’s nothing really. feeling down, i suppose.” he supplants rather than explain. and the waiter comes and he takes val’s words into account, “can i have a water instead? i should slow down,” he tells the waiter and waits for his companion’s order before picking up where he left off. “it’s just- i’m often thinking about my mistakes these days. and it’s making me miserable. i don’t know how to stop them. do you ever overthink?” he’s curious, as they are friends, but he has much to learn about the daring woman before him.

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birthday boy best boy

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the dimples please😭

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v i c i o u s h a u n t i n g s ​

jack moon && simon muhn

Despite spending years of rigorous training in his ability and even more time studying various aspects of it, Simon is certain he’ll never get used to the feeling of possession. His skin grows clammy, his voice becomes a quiet part in his own mind, and he always remains forced to watch his limbs move without his control. Most of his memories grow hazy - it’s his mind, but not really his mind. He doesn’t know the name of the spirit currently inhabiting his body, but seeing others stagger along…it seems Simon’s body is not the only one in use.

Parts of possession are hazy. But death never is. He doesn’t know which of the other possessed bodies wields the knife that drives into his gut, and he supposes it doesn’t really matter; they’re not really the ones at fault. And, unlike any of the other potential casualties in this back-alley fight, Simon’s the only one guaranteed to still come through. He feels the spirit’s fear at the red blood on Simon’s fingers. The spirit loses grip on reality, and the pressure in his head fades.

His thoughts are, once again, his own. Until the world around him fades and his eyes grow glossy life settles into nothingness.

And then it isn’t.

Simon sits straight up with a gasp for air. Dying is uncomfortable. Coming back is just so. His chest hurts. His head aches. There’s a bitter numbness in his fingers and toes he knows he won’t be able to stand until his blood begins circulating again. He’s certain he looks like death - given that he was just dead minutes prior, he knows the descriptor is accurate.

He tries to get the attention of the other man in the alleyway, who seems to wear a look of concern. Simon raises his stiff arm as much as he’s able to. “ – Excuse me –” He coughs out. “Do you have a spare jacket? A…a blanket?” He asks. “–I’m freezing –”

​

he’s been through this so much, his first instinct is never panic. the tingling in his extremities, the colors that dilute from his vision, feeling far away from himself. it felt crowded in his own body and mind, the feeling of someone plucking flower petals from the stem.

when he comes to, he’s winded. as he finally moves his limbs, like a cracking clay pot, his bones feel brittle. he can almost recall what happened, in flashes, like turning the light off and on in a room he had been trapped in. sometimes he got glimpses.

that’s the nature of possession.

what he finds when he comes to is disorienting and shocking. nearly as shocking as the body laying next to him when he comes to. he scrambles over on all fours, gripping the limp man in his grasp, “hey man, stay with me,” but he’s cold and heavy as a bolder, completely void of life and jack has seen many things, been put in harrowing situations, but this is a first. panicking, he stands and takes out his phone, right where he left it in his pocket, despite the possession dragging him all over town and back alley. 

he’s pushing the button to call emergency when the voice calls out and he panics. “holy hell,” turning around he runs to the man, propping him up, concern turning his features into a whirlwind, “i thought you were dead,” he strips off the sweater he was wearing, leaving him with a stained and well worn undershirt. he wraps it over the man in his lap, “how is it possible?” he places his finger on the man’s pulse, which was indeed, weak but present. “i only sorta know what happened. it’s been a while since i’ve been possessed like this,” he can only hope it doesn’t take too much to explain to the man what happened. (explaining that they were taken for a joy ride across town isn’t an exciting prospect, especially not when it ended up seriously injuring the stranger.)

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* /    𝒃𝒖𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒔    /  

𝙤𝙛 jack  ;   regret has a name        |            𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝          |    messages, a history

messages sent and unsent over the years. 

including the first message, sent to his first love, for the first time, in nearly as many years as he has fingers.

regret has a name. a very pretty name. 

cerise. @axdently​

he’s 20 years old and the years have passed with much consequence, as cram packed with evident as his suitcase as he left the apartment he and his mother had miraculously been in for the last 4 years. or was it 5. it must be 5. they had only just moved there when he was still dating his last girlfriend.

his first girlfriend, the first real one. not counting nikola who he held hands with on the bus when he was 13. 

nostalgia leads him to send the message. in case she called, in case they never met again. and for no other reason (he tells himself.)

─ 💬 ⋅ cerise :    how’ve you been?  ─ 💬 ⋅ cerise :    me and mom are moving, isn’t that crazy? ─ 💬 ⋅ cerise :    seems like yesterday we were eating noodles after class at this stupid place

⋅  ⋅  ⋅

─ 💬 ⋅ cerise :    doesn’t this remind you of something? ─ 💬 ⋅ cerise :    [embedded img]

⋅  ⋅  ⋅

because of medina, he rarely spoke to most of his friends. having a serious girlfriend, and a serious interest in spellcasting, he rarely made time for anything else. between classes, he spent his time bringing her lunch and checking on her day. he was the type of person who fell into his partners, often lost sight of everything else.

when he ran into cerise, it both surprised him that they were in the same specialty, and reassured him. ah. she hadn’t changed much. she and him were still two sides of the same coin.

beyond the scalding burns of their last arguments, the scars of their last days, the bad memories ─ there’s all of the times he thought she was so much like him.

─ 💬 ⋅ cerise :    how’s the casting coming along ─ 💬 ⋅ cerise :    you must be a natural by now

⋅  ⋅  ⋅

─ 💬 ⋅ cerise :    how’s your brother? ─ 💬 ⋅ cerise :    my mom asked about you...

⋅  ⋅  ⋅

after his fiancé ran off on him, he had been hiding in himself, in his duties, in the dimness of wish fulfillment, unsatisfied with sorrow, fighting off an incursion of ire.

he didn’t want to hate her. to blame her for wanting to live a full and fulfilling life. her second chance.

second chances should be given and taken without restraint. otherwise, what’s the point of them?

he thinks of all the moments he wished he had sieged. taken up residence inside of the wants in his hearts, the yearning that cast shadows of regret over the memories that took up inside of him. like pitchforks, they waved to keep him at bay, ready and waiting to mob him when he closed his eyes to sleep.

that’s the thing about wishing, second chances, regrets.

they’re too stubborn to go away on their own.

he had more than a few himself. beyond the fiancé he loved so deeply, and was so deeply devastated by.

there was baggage called regret in the compartments of his mind that had been there for almost forever. covered in spiderwebs, covered in dust. his regrets had a name. he never regretted turning his life in to yuuko for his fiancé. 

but he did regret never making things right with her.

his regrets had a name.

─ 💬 ⋅ cerise :    hey bud ─ 💬 ⋅ cerise :    thought of you ─ 💬 ⋅ cerise :    painting the storage room at work ─ 💬 ⋅ cerise :    is yellow still your fav color? ─ 💬 ⋅ cerise :    [embedded img]

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g c m e c h a n g e r​

a blank stare is all that greets the drunken male. coryn occupied with his sketchbook, the graphic artist ignorant of his immediate surroundings and the obvious grievance his tipsy companion shoulders. not that he cares or is in the mood trade misfortune like uno cards. coryn positive he could pull a draw four out of thin air with his. but he’s not going to. he’s far too private of a person for that. always has been, always will be.

“if you can even manage that. at the rate you’re going, you’ll be glued to a toilet bowl for the next couple of hours.” coryn comments with a wry grin, tickled by the thought. “but if you still feel the need to confess, please do. I’m in the mood for inspiration.” the handsome blonde quietly teases, closing his leather bound book while turning to face the needy stranger. coryn taking note of his distinctive features as if committing them to memory. “let me guess, you got dumped?”

he isn’t engineering a way to get out of the question, or to get an answer, he’s ready to swallow the bitter pill (helped immensely by the alcohol he had taken in), “the only way it might inspire you is to inspire you not to make the same mistakes, hopefully.” swallowing his pride like he swallows down another gulp of strong liquor he’s glad that it’s finally empty with that and he can’t imbibe more. “dumped, that’s a kind way of putting it.” jack isn’t the bitter or rancorous type. it had never been his nature to put down someone who had done him wrong. so the sigh that tumbles out is partially spurred by his own sense of morality, a tornado ripping through the intoxication to remind him that his ex had a life and a choice. “people have to do what’s right for them, y’know?” he tells the man, a soft and gentle defense, “that’s why it’s best not to date at all.”

gathering the clinking bottles around them to have something to do, he collects and cleans them into a neat pile, knocking them over once or twice in the process. too drunk to be neat but not to be clean. “if i’m destined to be face down in the porcelain chamber tonight, will you be there holding my hair?” he tries to steer the conversation away from a place that strangles his mood like a lack of air in the room, and back to the reason he was here tonight. to get away from her ghost. 

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a x d e n t l y 

Cerise is not one to venture out of her own comfort zone. in fact, her footsteps only stay within their already beaten tracks to the inn keeper’s building, the forest ( escorted carefully by her brother, of course ), to the market square for more flour, or flower picking by the sidewalks and tiny fields in Selphia. BB her inherited pet friend, and toy poodle was recently a reason for her to take walks around the neighborhood as well, but the bar wasn’t any place for the young woman– 

but their plans never seem to line up. when he texts it’s to share pictures of spilled paint at the shop, but she sends pictures of her lunch– alone. she sends him pictures of her puppy BB asking for Jack to join them, but he always… seems to ghost her. when she asks about how his new happy home life, he clams up– and despite how much she doesn’t like to admit it, it makes her feel guilty. she wants answers, but she doesn’t want to pry. there is a fear, a big fear that she’ll lose him all over again. she watches him cheers a stranger, and he seems off– much more different than the boy she fell for half her life ago. he’s a lot more alive, than the last time too, you know, that time when she almost killed him… but even now, standing in that bar she feels like she’s the one with the temporary wave of paralysis washing over her. she has to remind herself, they are just friends, and friends can just meet at bars. 

“Hi Jack.” she doesn’t mean to surprise him, in fact, her voice comes out in a bit of a squeak. but as it would happen, bad luck is always on her side, the waitress behind her bumps into her, a glass of something bubbling and strong spills over her shoes before she can say anything else. a couple of glasses shatter and clash as a circular tray spins on the ground causing even more of a ruckus. she was definitely in the wrong place, especially now that the entire bar was watching her frozen in her tracks. “Oh… no.”

jack watches the stranger attempt to down the liquor with a tireless expression like a badge of intent– and it occurs to him how very unlike him it is to sit at a bar, watching a stranger try (and mostly fail) to drink and get drunk. not that he’s shy but, he doesn’t do this. he doesn’t even like to drink. he looks at his held bottle and creates a whirlwind inside, watching the reflection of himself spin and distort. 

the smudge of his features served as an excellent distraction from the drunken man next to him, but not to the hauntingly accurate rendition of a voice from his past. “cerise.” the suddenness and reminiscences of it draws jack’s gaze over instantly, a trite too quickly, so that the room tilts and blurs, his thoughts slosh in his skull, he almost spills his drink. and then, a drink is spilled, right where he’s busy catching on the vision of a woman he hadn’t seen this close in too long. reading the words on his phone in her voice isn’t quite the same as hearing it, seeing her, watching the world fold in around her. he’s out of his seat as fast as the tray hits the ground. he’s at her side in slow motion. passing her to try helping the staff member who tells him not to interfere as other employees come out with spill kits and rolling eyes just as fast. he turns his attention to cerise who he’s now standing next to (and that’s such a strange, incredible realization) “no worries, this kind of thing must happen a lot in a bar.” he tries to reassure her, standing between her and the mess so that he can block it from existence. 

“i didn’t expect to see you here?” it’s a question, a miraculous wish he didn’t ask for, “this is crazy. i was just thinking about you.” his skin is buzzing and he can’t tell if the cause is building intoxication or nerves that he’s standing face to face with the woman he had only been able to text with confidence until now. “you– do you want to have a drink with me?”

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*   |          𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞        |

𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚, 881w, winter 2002. an exploration into a nightmare, oh wait that’s just a memory. 𝐭𝐰 there is symbolism / references toward attempted suicide here. very dark symbolism. 𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬  jack’s mother and a glimpses into a breakdown. set shortly before their being kicked out of the house, and smudging of jack & his mother from the family record.

he was practicing to be a bird.

first — it’s knees painted with dirt and grass stains, working overtime to get him as high in the air as he can possibly go on the swing. a full circle? all the way around? can he lift off if he hops out of his seat at just the right time, so that the wind that lashes against his cheeks, raw from the cold and red, can take him to the sky?

jack’s playing on the swing set where his mother had sent him off to. the chains are freezing, he forgot to put on his overcoat — but he had never gone this high before. a distinct lack of concern for his chattering teeth when his ambitious heart radiates such soaring warmth.

the thing about, well, every day, is that jack is bored and lonely. but especially during the holiday’s when his cousins aren’t there to keep him company. even if his father were home, there would be no contact, certainly none pertaining to fun. and jack had no school to attend. (his mother is usually his only company.) that, and the worn ground beneath his feet where he had made a home kicking his heels at the swing. and his mother, who he watches from the rhythm he block as he picks up speed.

he’s good at going very very high, very fast, because no one is better than him at playing here on this set. his mother used to go along with him, slow, not high at all, just a steady, smooth rocking motion where her feet never left the ground but instead rolled back and forth on the heels of her feet. he remembers how her long, floral summer dresses would drag the ground.

“it’ll get dirty,” he once said, a sunray in his voice as he remained out of breath from working so hard.

“it’s no matter,” mother would say and she’s swing just a tiny bit higher, “it’s just a dress.” and he saw no flaws in the statement, even though the dress seemed too pretty to get dirty. (if it had been his clothes getting dirty like that, his father would have locked him away in his room to teach him the value of property and taking care of oneself. then he would be stuck there until his mother snuck in to let him free after his father went to work. of course, she would clean the dirt from them and tell him once again that it’s just clothes. so maybe, it all checks out and he had been listening too well to his father when it came to his worries) “i have so many dresses. i’ll just get a new one. this dress isn’t special. dirt comes off, remember?” she always talked to him so much, like a soundboard, he listened and soaked it all up, never knowing what to say and being too young to care, or reply with anything more than —

“look how high i can go!” he cried in the middle of her sentence and she smiled and her jewelry sparkled in the sun.

“you’re like a bird.”

his roseous laughter was high in tone, a shriek that she winced at but just as quickly she shook her head and looked back. then, would look out into the yard lost in thought.

“look, look,” he called again and again. her gaze returned to him every time and the smile endlessly returned with it.

he looks up at her today, all alone from the swing set. from there, when he goes just as high as he possibly can, he can see her at the second floor window, the panes flapping in the cold wind, the clatter of wood frame and glass smacking into the side of the house. waving frenetically with one hand from the swing, he screams her name to get her to watch him as she always did.

with her slacks and barefoot hanging from the window, she might be practicing to be a bird, too. perfected on the window seal with her feet dangling, and her long hair blowing in the icy wind. his mother didn’t like to go too high, so it seems so obvious she’s trying to fly just like him.

he calls again, louder, with a smile amplified to match.

she doesn’t answer, so he tries to show her he can fly like she can, pumping his legs so that he goes high and — he jumps.

it’s much faster than he thought it would be. and it doesn’t feel like flying, it feels hot and cold and sharp and blunt and he cries when he crashes right back into the ground with the wind knocked out of him so that he gasps and gasps, and the sobs start instantly.

jack can’t quite fly yet.

maybe he’s too little?

he rolls over in the frigid grass as it pokes his face and hands and bare arms, and he sniffles and heaves to get the breath back into his lungs.

by the time he can almost breathe again, there are frantic hands scooping him up so rapidly that he cries out from being startled, his mother’s voice in his ear and the only thought he has: maybe she really can fly.

one hand is hectically scathing every inch of him with pats to check for pieces missing, as the other rubs slow circles over his back and all at once as if she had summoned it, the oxygen slowly creeps back into his lungs.

“hey, breathe son, breath,” she pats slower now and she’s crouched next to him.

her features seem red today, red and blue and gray, no makeup, no silver jewelry. she pulls him into her lap and now all he can breathe is her perfume.

“don’t ever jump like that again.” she scolds him, with a hand in his hair. “please don’t scare me like that.”

how did she get down so fast? there’s a tear in her knee of her slacks, but she just hugs him tighter and he can’t see it any longer.

he can’t see her crying either, but he feels that in the jagged sobs and the way she squeezes him so hard he nearly can’t breathe again.

his mother can fly like a bird, he knows because he’s seen it happen. one day, maybe he can learn too.

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to who : @chocalafolie​ !   info : cagliostro plaza, 8pm, near the fountain, beneath the stars ! (for dot)

dancing stars overhead, the clouds appear to have taken vacation (and though it’s chilly out, it’s nothing his baggy sweater doesn’t take the edge off of) and he’s finding himself enjoying his moment away of freedom. with nothing on the schedule (for once), he had been exploring the shops at the plaza, shopping bags on his shoulders and one dangling in his hand. the sweet voices of the beyond had called him away from wandering into a traditional clothing shop where he was entertaining the idea of buying a set of robes for exorcisms (he wasn’t always received well when he would show up to hauntings wearing torn jeans and thrifted sweaters, more than a few elderly women suspected he was a sham instead of the consort of the dimension witch), but then he heard the voices, noticed the sky, realized he was living a life.

he wondered, did that happen to others? the sudden realization that they were living their life on autopilot. staring up at the sky, he ruminated in his life and where he ended up, on a smaller scale realizing that he hadn’t taken notice of the world around him in too long. he hadn’t noticed how quiet it was at this time of night, or the only other person nearby, situated before the fountain like him. the streak of light across the sky, a comet streaking its way to explore the galaxy, or commonly called, a falling star.

“it’s a falling star,” he commented for the stranger to hear, still staring up at the sky, “make a wish.” looking over at last with a comic grin, “but you have to believe in it, otherwise it won’t come true.” the power of a truly, fiercely yearned for wish — now that was a power he knew all too well.

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to who : @ofthcshvdes​​ ! info :  at gabs place, after midnight  !

regrettably, his tempestuous relationship with the day was not made easier with the weight of creeping through the dimly lit house and completely dark hallway of gabriella’s family home. holding her hand and sliding through the crack in the door into her room. the second he’s in the room, in the light again, he leans against the door and breathes out a sigh of relief. “i thought i was a goner when i knocked over the umbrella stand.” but he smiles down at her with a joy he hadn’t shown in too long. (especially with gabs, as they hadn’t spoken as of late, much to his intentional dedication.) it’s not that he’s afraid of being caught, or that they aren’t adults, but meeting the family wasn’t high on his priority list right now. he’s keeping his voice to a minimum, inside tones. one of the last conversations they had comes to mind (the conversation between gritted teeth, the mistake that fell his lips “you’re not getting it”, the fact that he had given her such a hard time when in reality, it was all his fault to begin with) “thanks for smuggling me in.” he cups from her hair to her cheek, a complete tonal dissonance from the last 200 words he had said, or actions he had taken, “i don’t have any excuses. i just wanted to make it up to you for being so annoying,” he quotes, in an imitation of her voice. nothing would make things better, or easier. nothing could take back the steps they had taken forward, or his stomach ache over the thought of the future, or their friendship. and for tomorrow, he might just consider avoiding this whole debacle once again, set fire to the past and their future together for fear of the sun setting on them tomorrow. but that’s tomorrow. tonight he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out her favorite snacks. he shakes them proudly and smartly says, “consider this my apology.” it’s all an elaborate cover up for the fact that he hadn’t, in reality, apologized for much of anything at all, and especially, had no plans to make things easier in the slightest. because easier and gabs was not an equation he could solve.

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* /        PLAYLIST ━   /   ♫ ─ 𝒃𝒐𝒚 𝒂𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒕  . 𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒈 • 10 𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗴𝘀, 34 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥, 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘶𝘱 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩.

exploring jack and all he is, 1 of a hundred step process. jack’s presence is comfortable like a tight hug, cozy blankets and the candle scents you love. overall it’s not a secret that his surface is soft, he goes deeper and stronger than he comes across on the surface. i’d like to explore that by starting first with this! what most people see except expanded a bit. the package is effortless, almost perfect but beneath the surface, he’s first and foremost, a person you can feel at ease with. he speaks slow, because he’s stupid and because he’s exhausted, he touches seldom except when it counts, and he smiles only for the purpose of making others smile. playlist: songs with a meaning to who jack is, that sound and feel like the person you might find just beyond the surface, when you’re first getting to know him. these are the easy entry into who jack is tracks. a look closer, but not inside. mostly songs with emotional centers and easy listening, much like the man himself.

hcs:  it’s general aesthetics, concepts, words and feelings that remind me of jack at a one-step-closer level. 

𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘫𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘷𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘴    （（　𝗮𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗰　＋　𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁　＋ 　𝐡𝐜　））

 jack in a 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈

jeans you’ve worn in and feel most comfortable in.

gnawing on the inside of your cheek when you’re deep in thought or without thinking.

stop motion.

sunrise in the morning, sunrays waking you up with a kiss but you’re too tired to hear it.

popping of logs on a fire, kindling making sparks. the glow that becomes brighter when the wind blows.

holes in a sweater.

sluggish and slow speech patterns, deep, quiet, unhurried.

smudged glasses but too lazy to clean them.

a perfectly tuned instrument, greased, cleaned, in sync, making cleanly and exactly the sound you wanted.

leaning into someone taller than you.

gritted teeth.

firm, indisputable truths.

awkward, bubbling laughter that starts loud and gets quieter and quieter.

dedicating something to someone.

morning jogs. working out until your muscles are sore.

tripping over something you left lying on the ground that you told yourself you wouldn’t forget.

smiling at the sound of someone’s laugh.

writing too hard on paper so that the lead tip of your pencil breaks. the indentions it leaves on the next page like ghost prints.

the scent of seafoam, cool, salty, light, sandy. the way it melts between your fingers under the heat of your skin.

typing a message, staring at it too long until you second guess and erase to start over.

fresh ice water in your favorite cup.

the tender touches and hugs that come when you make up with someone after an argument. when someone wipes your tears and anger dissipates or gently pats your back.

silky, messy hair that’s always in your eyes.

collecting timepieces. “the right watch” for every new day. different ones for different moods.

slightly oversized clothes, comfortable and cozy clothes that you can sleep in.

taking a long pause, then starting all over again with a different approach.

burning the ends of yarn, thread, fabric, to keep it from unraveling.

the lethargic feeling in the morning, going through motions without using complex thought, all motions and no meaning.

coffee when it’s too hot to drink so you just breathe it in and wait patiently.

taking a breath so deep it hurts your chest.

liking a song so much you put it on repeat.

natural colors, warm earth tones and cool neutrals.

not knowing your own strength.

everything feeling just a bit more when it’s 3am. more inspired. more sad. more funny. more hungry.

desperately wanting to win. working up a sweat trying to be the last one standing.

holding the door for someone.

high quality fabrics, well made clothes.

rich and savory scents and linger, smelling food for another room or across a house and knowing it’ll be time to eat soon ♥.

having a lucky number.

sweaters, cardigans, hoodies and overcoats.

a half made bed, blankets and pillows fluffed quickly and thoughtlessly.

blankets wrapped around your legs and between your thighs.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

jack in a 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅

ASTROBOY.  ━  SUGGI

i grew up loving the stars though they taught me to hate the night back of my mind, loving the dark always wanting to touch the moon

BE RIGHT THERE ━  KUNGS, STARGATE, JOSH GOLDEN

when the lights go down, and the stars come out i’ll be right here, i’ll be right here under stars girl, underwater, when you can’t breathe i’ll be here for you when it’s past three in the morning and you can’t sleep

:M (MIND)  ━  ALEX

how are you? I’m fine same answer today when are you going to give me a longer answer? i’m melting my frozen heart again and my mouth is coming out. i’m so :m

SLEEP MODE ━  BERNARD PARK

pullin’ up my sheets over my head even when the sun is bright locked up and i can’t get out ye i know it’s only her whose gonna set me free get me back up on my feet

SWEET NIGHT ━  ORIGIN (V)

if you are too good to be true and would it be alright if i pulled you closer how could i know one day i’d wake up feeling more but i had already reached the shore

STAY ━  GAHO

please, stay by my side please, stay by my side if you stay like that, like that please wrap me again in the words of your belief in me

I’D BE SAD IF YOU WERE GONE ━  SLCHLD

did i put you down it was an accident i swear where are you now? don’t go yet. you have to endure the pain that’s coming. don’t go

NO ONE TOLD ME WHY ━  ALEPH

tell me why do i always hang onto something things that are about to collapse, days that have passed by if you love me, please tell me now please love me before it’s too late

I.L.Y ━  THE ROSE

after a tiring day it’s always your smile every time i’m with you i feel comfortable

I SWEAR I’LL NEVER LEAVE AGAIN ━  KESHI

mirror on the wall, can you tell me who i am? i think that i forgot, so remind me once again maybe i was going too fast babe, i’d give it all to go back

[disastercg]

[disastercg]

to who : @axdently​ !  info :  at wish fulfillment !

he could use magic to do it. yes, he could. but why make things easier on himself when he’s planned to use the time reminiscing and thinking on schedules, the breadth of his life and all things jack in the box. the box he’s currently painting, standing atop the ladder with a brush in hand, carefully lining the walls of the shop near the the flat boards and wondering where the twins had gone to that they can’t at least keep him company if the two good for nothings had no intentions of helping.

the year had gotten off to a start he can’t call anything but hair-trigger. he feels left behind, like sickly stone that crumbles and cracks when he puts any pressure on himself. memories present nearly feverish reminder of what lies on the line, duties for yuuko offering up a daunting reminder of what is expected of him and that’s just what lies far in front and recently behind.

there’s a finish line somewhere. or there used to be. jack used to be able to envision it, around the bend, at the end. now when he closes his eyes it seems boundless. what else is there, when his life isn’t his own anymore? when he has nothing to do but work and think about why he’s working (the woman who put him here, the situation that brought him to his boundless future), and he drips paint on the floor accidentally while overthinking about it.

the jingle of someone entering brings him to the surface of experience and out of his head. “oi, you two,” he assumes it to be the twins, “who said you could leave a man all alone with his thoughts for this long?” he teases, no reservations with the unliving. but turning around, it’s not the twins he sees, it’s a (seemingly) living person. “welcome,” his words drain from his lips, with a perplexed grimace drying over his paint smudged face, “do i know you?” on his ladder, with his paintbrush, he thinks he’s seeing something realer than any ghost, but just as lost.

[disastercg]

to who : @cagliostrostart​​ !  where :  the modern misfit, an arthouse bar (ref) , selphia ! around 11pm !  

alcohol doesn’t suit his system. it’s like molecules, chemical substances that when combined with each other, typically harmless ones, simply create an inhospitable result. it’s a matter of science, in a way. getting drunk after only a few shots and rapidly nosediving into an unraveling, cathartic mess, was a prime example of why he rarely drank more than a single glass. (especially when constantly under the thumb of the dimension witch these days; he put down more laundry baskets and priceless artifacts than booze.) but these things have been known to happen. the cavern of his thoughts was an entangled disaster that not even the brave could trespass and he needed this break tonight to vent. (or else he might implode.)

pupils are blown, hair is slipshod like the state of his heart but there’s a curious smile pinned in place that’s gone empathetic.

he tosses aside a shot glass to instead ready a whole bottle, tilted at an incline to make a toast with the person across from him. not the kind for celebrating. he cheers to them, the moral support kind, as he offers a crisp clink. “just get it all out. what better time to talk about our problems than when we’re too drunk to remember it tomorrow?”