#indigo books & music

[samspicturesandwords]

A sign I made for a recent pro-Palestine protest outside of an !ndigo store. The CEO of Indigo Books & Music, Heather Reisman, is one of the people who started the HESEG Foundation. This organization financially supports IDF soldiers after their "service", sweetening the deal for foreign volunteers to Israel's genocidal terrorist army.

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

You mean to tell me instead of paying stupid shipping rates and markups to the TS store I could have just purchased my 1989 TV CD and vinyl from Indigo locally???

[plaidos]

somebody made a post claiming you said anyone who went to michfest back in the day is transphobic, i didnt believe the post but you should know about this rumor about you

well Michfest segregated trans women from attendance as a policy for decades, and everybody who attended this from at least the 90s onwards was intimately & personally aware of that segregation, because Camp Trans protested outside every single year.

just from a glance at the opening paragraph of wikipedia, you’d find out that The Human Rights Campaign, GLAAD, the National Center for Lesbian Rights, and the National LGBTQ Task Force all publicly opposed Michfest & its transphobic policies. even fucking celebrities like The Indigo Girls announced in 2013 they would not be returning or performing again whilst the exclusionary policy was still in place — which it was, right up until Michfest stopped in 2015 due to lack of support & constant boycotts.

i need yall to understand Michfest wasn’t like… incidentally transphobic, this was a massive massive conversation all throughout the 90s until 2015. Dyke Marches were canceling performances from musicians who attended Michfest, because it was universally seen as dirty, bigoted, “I got mine” behaviour to anybody who gave a fuck about trans rights.

Like, I have to reiterate; Michfest was a music festival that by policy segregated trans women (and trans women specifically by the way). It is segregation. Yes I fucking think everybody who happily attended SegrationFest, known for the violent hatecrimes & sexual assault that routinely happened to trans women who snuck in, and hasn’t apologised for it is transphobic.

Alison Bechdel was talking positively about Michfest being free from “the male socialised” (read: trans women) in 2017. Her most recent book, which only came out a couple years ago, openly praised it for its segregation policy.

It’s not a rumour, I think it: Michfest attendees are/were all terfs. The word terf was literally coined to describe Michfest attendees. By even the most basic & oldest usecase of the word, Alison Bechdel is definitionally a terf. just because she drew a nice cartoon or two about us doesn’t change the fact all her idols were terfs and all the people she hung out with were terfs and her politics are copy-pasted directly from the terf playbook.

[r3starttt]

STOCKINGS

PAIRING: Abby x Reader

SUMMARY: You made her a stocking

CW: tlou universe. sfw. fluff. lev included!! cs Abby is such a boy mom and ughh cute.

NOTE: For this fic Abby did not try to go and look for the fireflies again so the last fight with Ellie did not happen.

*Can you tell I love acts of service... can you tell I wrote this while listening to music for indigo...

TAGLIST: @twopeoplee @greysontheidiot @sapphic-ovaries @bilsvlt @tlouloser @marsworlddd @1-800-fantasy @prwttiestbunny @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @abbys-muscles @lott6i @usuck @thalchmy @lovelyy-moonlight @fakevalentine

The cold floor hit your bare feet as you tiptoed your way toward a small chair near the bed, reaching for an old hoodie to shield yourself from the chill. Abby was still asleep, her steady breathing and quiet snoring letting you know she was deeply wrapped in the comfort of her cocoon. You didn’t have much time, though—she would wake the second the bed grew too cold and her arm could no longer find you, desperately pulling you closer to warm herself.

She lay on her stomach, one arm draped across the mattress, reaching into the warmth you’d left behind. The white sheet beneath her, its soft folds matching the pine-green ones above, held her gently. Loose strands of hair from her thick braid fell against the sides of her face, barely brushing her skin with each soft exhale. Her eyebrows, usually so bold, were peacefully soft, and her lips—plump and rosy—mirrored the flush of her cheeks. You couldn’t resist leaving a soft kiss near her ear, a gentle touch before you left the room.

Each step toward the door made you regret not putting on socks last night—maybe Abby’s old slippers would do. With your steps now messy and hesitant, you made your way downstairs. The worn wood creaked slightly beneath you, the house itself groaning in the quiet of the morning.

You had eventually made yourselves comfortable in this small house nestled in the heart of the woods, large enough for the three of you—Abby, Lev, and yourself. Together, you had worked tirelessly to make it a safe and secure place, not just from the infected, but from other, more dangerous people. You had made it a home.

You ensured that everyone felt welcome, particularly Lev. You took every opportunity to talk with him, to teach him what he hadn’t yet learned, and to share the things you loved—books, music, art—while helping him discover his own interests. And with Abby, your love deepened with every day she returned from her small patrols, always bringing back something for Lev—a plushie or a trinket—and for you, perhaps a new vinyl to play. She would ask you to show her the record, and later, you would listen together, the soothing classical music filling the house while you shared a quiet dinner.

As the months passed and your future materialized in the present, you found yourself gathering small gifts. It would be Lev’s first holiday, and Abby’s too, at least with you. The first time you would all celebrate Christmas together. You wanted it to be special, a way of thanking them for everything they had done for you. All the words Lev had shared when he realized you were just as broken as he was, and how, despite it all, he allowed you into his life. And Abby—your way of giving her the love she had always shown you, in the form of the most precious gift.

You knew Abby would appreciate it—celebrating the season was something she had learned from her father. She had told you once that receiving a gift was the way she could feel loved, a reminder that she was not a monster. And you wanted to show her that—wanted to remind her that she was seen, that she was loved, and that you all had each other.

Since the weather had turned colder, you’d offered to join in the patrols, even begging Abby to let you go outside. She always insisted it was too dangerous, but you knew you could take care of yourself, and somehow, you managed to sneak out on occasion. You gathered small things—some fabric, trinkets, and a few essentials. And when Abby took Lev to care for the animals you’d gathered, or when she napped after lunch, you’d use your quiet time to craft their gifts.

It wasn’t too difficult, given that they were often busy—Abby tending to the animals or decorating the little pine tree you’d dragged home from the nearby woods, with Abby’s approval, of course. You had to be careful, though, not to trust too easily that they would be distracted. But it worked.

The sight before you made your stomach flutter, like a child eager with excitement. Three stockings hung from the mantle, each chosen with care—yours in the middle. Beneath the homemade tree, a few gifts waited for everyone—unwrapped, because there wasn’t enough paper, but neatly arranged, placed with care just as the stockings were.

The next task was to light the fire, to warm the house and prepare breakfast, just as you had for months. It was small, but it had become part of your routine—after all, lunch and dinner were a family affair, something you all shared.

Once the food was ready, you made your way upstairs. The light from the cloudy sun streamed through the windows, warming the house with its yellow hues. You returned to the bed, noting that Abby was still asleep—though not for long, it seemed, as her lips were slightly parted and her breathing had shifted into quiet mumbling. You sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hand and brushing the stray hairs from her face before pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"Abby... Abs—baby?" you murmured, tracing soft circles on her back, the rhythm calming her as her mumbling slowed.

"Abby..."

Her eyes opened slowly, clearly disoriented by the nightmare and the sudden waking, but you were quick to soothe her. "Shh, I’m here... It’s alright. You were dreaming."

She grasped your hand, groaning quietly before turning to face you, her face flushed with the softness of sleep, her lips plump and cheeks full. The sight made you smile, warmth blooming in your chest.

"Merry Christmas," she murmured, trying to pull you back into bed.

You chuckled softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. "Not yet..."

She rolled her eyes, laughing softly. "Is Lev awake yet?" she asked, her voice still thick with sleep as she rubbed her eyes.

"I haven’t checked, but... probably not," you hummed in response, pausing to study her, to savor this moment of quiet contentment with the woman you loved. A slow, peaceful morning like this was a dream come true for many—and here you were, living it.

"Breakfast’s ready," you added, patting her stomach lightly.

You leaned in for a kiss, despite her typical aversion to those unshowered, still-groggy moments. But you couldn’t care less—she was the woman you loved, in all her unrefined beauty, even in these fleeting moments.

"See you downstairs, alright?" you murmured, pressing another kiss to her forehead.

She nodded, but you knew her well.

"Abigail... I’m serious."

She laughed quietly, rolling over and letting her arms fall to her sides as she stretched out. You left the door open as you moved to the curtains, letting the light in while ensuring Abby wouldn’t fall asleep again. You then made your way to Lev’s room, the blue walls of his space greeting you.

He was tangled in blankets, his back to you, but you gently brushed his shoulder, calling out in a soft whisper.

"Lev... morning."

"Morning," he murmured, his eyes still closed.

You smiled, the privilege of caring for this young boy—who still had so much ahead of him—filling your heart.

"Breakfast is ready, alright? Take your time." You caressed his shoulder before stepping out of his room, hearing Abby’s groan as she dramatically climbed from the bed.

"Did you take my shoes?" she called out loudly, too much for the quiet of the morning.

"Yep! I took your slippers," you teased, and Abby laughed quietly in response. She was falling in love with you all over again.

You went downstairs, retracing your steps from earlier, and settled on the couch, waiting for them to come down. Neither of them knew about the stockings or the gifts—it was supposed to be a small, intimate gesture, a simple way of celebrating the season. Just making food together, exchanging small self-made gifts—maybe a letter.

But as much as you were excited, there was a hint of anxiety too. What if it was too much? What if they didn’t like what you had chosen?

"What is that?" Abby’s voice broke you from your thoughts, and you turned to find her standing at the foot of the stairs, still in her pajamas, holding the railing for support.

Her eyes, illuminated in the soft morning light, met yours—she looked so precious.

"Did you seriously make us a stocking?" she whispered, so amused she barely seemed to believe it. Maybe she thought she was still dreaming.

"I did," you said, standing and moving toward her.

"You told me once that you wished someone loved you enough to make you one. I do... I love you."

The words hit her, and you watched as she fought back tears, her jaw clenching, her teeth biting at her bottom lip before she looked back at you.

"I didn’t... Come here." She opened her arms, and you stepped into them, feeling the weight of the moment settle in.

She buried her face in your neck, wrapping her arms around you as all her emotions—fear, love, anxiety—washed over her.

You were real, and so was this. She had someone who listened, who remembered her words, who cared enough to create something special—something that said, "I love you."

And as much as she feared that this day might bring painful memories of her father, the love that surrounded her now was taking up more space. This was hers—this love was real, and it was for her.

You felt Lev coming downstairs, his confused expression slowly softening as understanding spread across his face. You had told him about the stockings, explained what they meant one evening when you and Abby had talked about Christmas traditions.

Lev hesitated, cradling the fabric of the stocking in his hands. He peeked inside, then looked up at you for reassurance. With a nod from you, he carefully pulled out each gift, his eyes brightening with quiet joy.

There was nothing extravagant or meaningful in the traditional sense—but the gifts held things they liked, things they could use, things they wanted. They weren’t

about purpose, but about love. They were a reminder that you saw them, that you loved them, and that they were always safe in your arms.

[reaveries]

▬  𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐲

gif credit to @robpattinsongifs (much higher resolution on their account)

summary: late-night visits from your definitely human boyfriend

pairings: edward cullen x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k (approximately 7 minutes reading time)

a/n:  I’ve had this baby marinating in my drafts since January, when I was going through my bi-annual Twilight Renaissance. I was actually in the middle of writing a RE2R Leon Kennedy fic today and decided to put on a twilight playlist, and then I just knew I had to finish this one. It’s my first *published* non-RDR fic heehee (I have so much in my drafts, it’s insane). Anyways, enjoy (pardners)!

masterlist archive of our own

It’s that dreadful time of year again. 

The sun is making its curtain call as students from the nearby elementary school trip over themselves running home. Little girls and boys have sticky remnants of lunch peeking from the corners of their mouths and the grass is still slick from morning showers. But dusk is impatient in February, and its eagerness is encouraged in a town hidden beneath perpetual overcast nine months out of the year.

The school children ran past her window minutes ago when the sky had been painted brilliant indigo. Now, when she looks up the only thing left to see is her own dark reflection and the warm orange glow from a candle on the sill. Its tall flame stutters, collapsing and rising with the damp breeze. 

A page turns, disrupting the otherwise quiet room. The only other noise that can be heard is a soft pitter of water dripping onto the floorboards from a coat hanging off the closet door. 

She reaches for a mug sitting on the corner of her nightstand and promptly sets it back down upon finding it empty. It returns to its spot atop crumpled receipts and library hold slips belonging to the growing stack of books accumulating dust at her bedside. These books tower over the permanent nightstand residents: lazily discarded beaded necklaces, a sample bottle of floral perfume from Christmas, two little ceramic bunnies purchased from an antique mall in Port Angeles last summer, car keys, and drugstore chapstick. It might be worth convincing her to let go of some of these post-object permanence discoveries, but that is a matter for another time.

In a desperate attempt to comprehend the words she’s reading, she rolls onto her back and extends her arms straight in the air so the book hovers a foot from her face—a change of perspective to freshen the mind.

It does not help. 

No matter how much she shifts or squints, the antiquated prose remains stubbornly uninviting. She can’t fathom why anyone would willingly subject themselves to something so archaic and convoluted and furthermore, recommend it as one of their favorite novels.

With a huff, she adjusts the headphones at her ears, hoping the music will clear her mind. But despite her best efforts, the book slowly drifts closer to her chest and her eyelids grow heavier as the music lulls her into a dreamless sleep. 

When she wakes to cold fingers grazing her jaw it’s impossible to tell whether she’d fallen asleep or if she just blinked. The weight of the headphones gently disappears as they’re pulled off and set down on the nightstand. She grumbles incoherently and stretches out her legs, not unlike a cat after a long, difficult day of lounging around. Her eyes begrudgingly flutter open and immediately find him only inches away. He’s watching her, peering down with a twinkle in his amber-colored eyes.

“Edward…” she whispers.

“Dracula,” he says, eyebrows raised as he makes the observation. “I thought you didn’t like Gothics.”

She reaches a finger into the book on her chest and folds the page over before tossing it carelessly into the sea of knitted and quilted blankets at the foot of the bed. With the haze of sleep still clouding her eyes, she smiles sheepishly up at him.

“I’m trying.”

He chuckles lightly and brings his hand to her hair again, brushing stray strands off her forehead and tucking them behind her ears before leaning down to place a chaste kiss above her eyes. Though his lips are soft, the icy touch of his skin sends a shiver down her spine. He’s always cold; a result of his anemia, he says. However, the downpour that's dampened his hair and clothes to his skin has chilled him even more so.

In an effort to sit up, she raises herself onto her elbows and catches a glimpse of the bright red digital numbers on her bedside clock.

“You’re late, you know,” she chides, watching him settle uncomfortably at the head of the bed. He sinks down among the pillows, their plushness contrasting humorously with the stiffness of his demeanor. He reaches behind his back and tugs free a stuffed rabbit lodged between him and the headboard, then sets it down softly beside himself.

“I had to make a quick stop. I hope you can forgive me,” he says in a hushed voice, so as not to make too much noise in the resting house. His eyes flit towards the nightstand and she follows them to see a new item sitting amongst the disorder. A tall styrofoam cup with steam rising thinly from the lid. Coffee. 

The mug she just finished sits right beside it. She’d considered brewing more but that was before being rendered unconscious by Bram Stoker nearly an hour ago. Her heart swells at his thoughtfulness, but a more pressing question comes to mind before she can voice her gratitude.

“How did you even climb up here with that?” She asks, reaching for the cup with both hands.

“I’m very…agile.” There’s a look in his eyes that tells her there’s more to it, but she chooses to ignore it for now with a shake of her head.

The taste is immediately harsh, significantly more bitter than how she makes it herself. Any trace of a smile dissipates and is replaced with a pronounced look of disgust.

“Good God, Edward,” she exclaims. “Decaf? What did I ever do to you?”

He laughs and takes it from her hands, leaving her still reeling from the unexpected taste. “As much as I love staying up with you, you need sleep,” he says, a hint of sternness in his voice. “You didn’t get any last night and you don’t hide it well.”

He says the last part sweetly, tilting his head to the side and following her motions with his eyes, watching her pick up the stuffed rabbit by its cotton paw.

“Don’t hide it well?” She repeats, the indignation in her voice contrasting with the softness of the toy as she raises it high into the air and brings it down against his chest with a soft thud. “Well maybe I wouldn’t have to hide anything if you—weren’t—keeping—me—up—all—night!”

With every word, the rabbit hits his forearms poorly attempting to shield himself from the blows. Edward grins as she attacks him, the soft toy barely making a sound against his arms. He watches as her hair falls across her face in the midst of the unrelenting attack, the warm glow of the candle casting a soft halo around her.

But then, his amusement fades as he sees the exhaustion in her eyes. 

He gently takes the rabbit from her and sets it aside before grabbing her arm mid-swing and pulling her into his chest. She sighs heavily and surrenders, relaxing against him. "I’m sorry," he whispers, his lips brushing against her hair. “I’ll let you rest tonight.”

Despite his tender words, a residual half-baked frustration lingers inside her. “How did you manage to stay awake in class?” she mumbles into his sweater, the words muffled. “I mean, you didn’t get any sleep either.”

He chuckles, as if privy to some inside joke.

“Well, someone had to take your notes for you,” he says, his fingers trailing through her hair in a soothing motion. “And besides, you looked so peaceful drooling away.” 

She looks up at him, a hint of a drowsy smile playing at the corners of her lips. “I did not drool,” she insists.

He grins down at her, his eyes alight with fondness. “Of course not.”

She groans and buries her head into his chest, to which he responds by encircling his arms around her waist and pulling her closer.

“I’m never falling asleep in front of you again,” she grumbles.

His chest rumbles beneath her cheek as he laughs. “Alright, angel.”

He shifts his hand from the crown of her head to the curve of her back, tracing languid circles over the fabric of her t-shirt as the room fills with a comfortable silence. The rain outside grows heavier, tapping against the glass with a more insistent force. Her body is warm against his and he can feel the steady thumping of her heartbeat as if it's his own. A few minutes slip by, and he senses her breathing even out and deepen. Without disturbing her, he reaches for a nearby blanket and drapes it over her, then turns his gaze to the candle on the windowsill.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispers, as the dwindling flame fades out of focus. 

This is his favorite part of the day.

Vague arrays of soft, muted hues and shapes swirl around in his vision, overtaking the warm surroundings of her bedroom. They morph into recognizable figures after some time, and he can hear them speaking when he focuses. For the most part, they sound as if he’s underwater and they’re conversing on the shore. But every now and then, a clear phrase emerges.

Suddenly, the floating shapes assimilate into a figure resembling him and he realizes what this dream is. It’s a recurring one he’s particularly fond of. He settles in and pulls her closer as the scene ebbs between reality and distortions of the unconscious mind. 

He can’t remember how he used to pass the night hours before he met her. Books, records, films--looking back, they feel hollow compared to nights spent like this. Part of him hopes he’ll never know what it's like to want for this. But these dreams, and her thoughts in the waking hours, assure him he won’t ever have to find out.

[propheticclown]

I need you all to understand. I've seen so many people talk about how Eridan would be slaying the fashion scene. How his fashion sense is awesome and epic, or whatever. NO! Firstly, I wanna preface this by saying that Pesterquest falls under the category of "Dubiously Canon." so his massive closet isn't actually canon. But secondly, LOOK AT HIS FUCKING FIT, MY GUY!

THE DEEP BLUE WITH THE PURPLE??? THE CAPE??? THE HAIR??? BROOOOOTHER!!! THEY EVEN CHANGED THE COLORS OF HIS SCARF AND PANTS TO LOOK BETTER IN PESTERQUEST!

It's subtle but the color shifts towards indigo/cobalt rather than royal blue. "B-But what about March Eridan? March Eridan looks good and is canon!" I don't know how brainrotted you are from buying all your clothes from shien (derogatory) and temu (derogatory) to think that March Eridan looks good, but let me just show you what it looks like again to refresh your memory.

Ignoring the insanity that's even happening with this image in the first place, this IS the Original March Eridan image. Now let me tell you why this fit is more atrocious than Kankri Vantas' takes on feminism. 1. THE COLORS DO NOT WORK!!! His VIOLET symbol combined with MAGENTA arm warmers and thigh highs and a RED SKIRT???? AUUHHG NONE OF THESE COLORS LOOK AESTHETICALLY PLEASING TOGETHER IN A FASHION SENSE!!! NAME ONE TIME RED AND PURPLE HAVE EVER LOOKED GOOD TOGETHER IN TERMS OF FASHION??? 2. STRIPES AND FUCKING PLAID??? WHAT??? IN CARTOONS, MUSIC, BOOKS, AND EVEN FUCKING GAMES, DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH "Ew stripes and plaid." IS SAID??? THAT IS LIKE THE NUMBER 1 NONO IN ANY FASHION WORLD!!! 3. AND WHILE THIS ONE IS A BIT OF A STRETCH, THERE IS NO CONVINCING ME THAT ERIDAN AMPORA WOULD WILLINGLY WEAR THIS SHIT! IT JUST DOES NOT MAKE SENSE FOR HIS CHARACTER TO WEAR THIS OUTFIT! FASHION IS A WAY OF EXPRESSING ONESELVES! FASHION, AS A MEDIUM OF ART, IS A WAY A PERSON CAN EXPRESS HOW THEY FEEL ON THE INSIDE! March Eridan as an outfit, artistically expresses confidence, empowerment and a general "I'm a bad bitch you can't kill me" energy. Here's the problem. Eridan at his base components is envious, closed off, emotionally volatile, and a massive fucking nerd, which the old outfit actually does express.

His clothes are long-sleeved, showing the least possible amount of skin he can, which usually can represent being closed off. His cape is large and grandiose, showing that he likes to be exaggerated and theatrical. His scarf indicates his nerdiness, with it being a reference to Harry Potter and how it could be a tie-back to his nerdy love of wizards. The only other outfit he's shown wearing is with a flashback to when he and Vriska were a kismesis.

Here the outfit, even with as little as we see of it, is big and intense. Unlike Vriska, who essentially doesn't change outfits, Eridan puts time and effort into each theatrical performance he considers himself to be a part of. He adores intricate and exaggerated outfits. Things that are fancy, complex, and over-the-top. So that even though he doesn't feel great on the inside, even though he feels as though he's "wworse than evverybody. all the bodies." He can still look well put together. And that's WHY I don't think March Eridan as an outfit works. It's too casual for him. It's not big or flashy in a way he likes. There's not enough for him. It doesn't cover him up and because of that, he'd feel exposed. He's not closed off anymore. It doesn't exude "Eridan Ampora". Who's "most casual" piece of apparel is probably a sweater vest.

Even in the original image, he looks uncomfortable, like he doesn't actually LIKE wearing it. The only way I can find this artistically working from a writing standpoint is if Kanaya made it for him because, in the story, it is shown time and time again that Kanaya doesn't understand Eridan, so by making him this outfit, she'd take it a step further by not even understanding what he likes. Kanaya doesn't understand that Eridan is terrified of being culled, because Kanaya doesn't have to worry about that. Kanaya doesn't understand the pressures Alternian society is forcing upon him, as an Orphaner. Because Kanaya's only societal expectation is raising the new mother grub. Kanaya doesn't think about how he's most likely going to live the longest out of all his friends. Eridan has the second highest lifespan out of every troll blood color, but even then with Feferi, she's most likely going to get culled by the Condense when she's the proper age to inherit the throne. So in Eridan's mind, he's going to be alone, expected to be an Orphaner until the day he dies, utterly alone to feed Feferi's lusus until he eventually succumbs to old age or dies in war. That's why he's so closed off, yet so emotionally grand. That's why March Eridan doesn't suit him from a fashion-artistic standpoint. It's not what Eridan Ampora embodies as a character. Envy.

[nishiyako]

After Party (NSFW)

Paring : DJ!Tamaki x RaveGirl!Reader

Tags : vaginal penetration, creampie, hair pulling (m receiving), older male x younger female (3 years apart), pussyjob, sex on table (dj table), reunited, mention of whiskey, tamaki was a perv back in highschool

Summary : After an incident, you never thought you'd go back to a rave. That was until your friend pestered you to come with her to check out this new artist. After finding out this artist was an old friend, he invited you backstage for more than a chat.

Your friend had found this new artist and have been edging you to come to a rave again, after an incident a few years ago you thought you'd never return to one but that didn't stop your friends on reminiscing on the 'good days'.

You were a party animal, absolutely wild. It was always fun when you'd be around since you never had an off-switch.

After a few days of pestering, you finally gave in agreeing to go on a few conditions. Once your friend complied, it was only a few hours until it started.

You arrived as the laser lights flashed and loud music peirced your ears. you defenetly missed the feeling, the blinding lights and bass full music made your brain all fuzzy.

You rushed to the front with your friend but as you inched closer you were found in suprise as you saw exactly who was behind the booth, fiddling with the buttons and knobs.

Amajiki was always quiet, eyes to the floor and always well reserved, so you meeting him at a rave was unexpected. What was even more unexpected was him being the DJ.

It was him, without a doubt, his scruffy dark hair and pointed ears. Though he was wearing a headset, it was only covering one ear, which made it easy to identify him

Your friend was already in her element. She couldn't care less what was going on. You stood there as his once-focused eyes turned to you. In the dim club, you could still see his piercing indigo eyes.

His eyes widened seeing you, like he was surprised you were there, that was defenetly him.

The night still continued. he'd steal glances from time to time to watch how you moved your body. The vibrations of the bass rushed through you as you experienced the rave like it was your first.

You felt a strange sense of nostalgia as the night came to an end, as people started leaving a bouncer approached you, you and your friend started to panic trying to recount if you did anything wrong but the man pulled you away from your friend for "a talk".

Long story short, you didn't do anything wrong. Tamaki has simply invited you backstage, and only you. The bouncer said you weren't allowed to bring your little friend.

You told her, and instead of being a jealous bitch she was absolutely ecstatic. She left as soon as possible telling you to tell her every single detail in the morning, before you could even remind her to be safe going home she was alredy out the door booking an Uber.

You were escorted behind the stage of the huge club, the bouncer opened the door for you, you saw him sitting on some couch in the dimly lit room, manspred and hand holding a cup of what you assumed was whiskey from its dark-yellow, almost orange color.

Your eyes took him in, trying to see every new detail and compare it from when you last saw him.

His hands were tired, nails painted black as his wrists were covered by multiple rainbow kandi bracelets. his physique is still the same from high school. He was a little muscular, yes, but he still had that lean body you always had a type for.

His hair was a mess as his forehead had a glisten of sweat, his eyeliner smudged as his bulky headsets hanged round his neck, necklaces scattering over a black buckle chocker, this was not the Tamaki you remembered.

"Long time no see," you said nervously. He stood up as he placed his drink on a random table. "Yeah, long time..." his voice was still shakey. It was so familiar.

He was taller than you remembered, he was always taller than you but now you were just around his lower shoulder, it intimidated you as he walked around the room "When did you start raving? I never knew you were into this type of thing." He asked.

"Right after we graduated from UA, collage was stressful. I stoped after an incident. What about you? You also never seemed the type." You asked the question back

"Ever since my first year in UA, before you enrolled. the loudness drowned out all the bad thoughts which I found helpful"

You never thought such a quiet person like him would be into such loud music, especially Amajiki.

"How about DJing? This is a pretty popular club. Only a few local artists perform, " you said, sitting beside him on the velvet couch.

You saw his eyes run down your body, your barely exposed tits only being hid by a skimpy top, to your skinny bottoms highlighting your hips and thighs for him. It was clear that he wasent the only one who changed

"I haven't done it for long, I just know what's good. So I got popular quickly. I DJ here during EDM nights and do a few shows around the city." He said, "I can show you the booth if that's what you want..."

The night was young, and you were still curious about his new hobby, of course you said yes.

As he took you to the booth, you were overwhelmed, looking at all the scales and knobs, "is it okay if I touch some stuff?" You ask. He nodded. He could just fix everything later.

It was just you and him at the club at that moment. You fiddled with the controls as his eyes stayed fixated on you. He took in every detail of your perfect body, huggable waist and your fuckable ass in those tight jeans. You weren't the timid first year he remembered, the both of you have grown so even if he was a little older than you, it wouldn't be that bad since you're both adults now, Right?

You turned around to see him standing behind you, still with his signature slouch and a tent in his baggy pants. You squeezed your thighs at the sight. Was this because of you? Most probably.

Artists mostly call girls backstage cause they think they're hot and most likely want to fuck so you took it upon yourself to guess he didn't just want a chat about catching up between old friends.

"So did you just want to talk or did you have something else in mind..?" You asked turning around, sandwiched bewteen the booth and Tamaki. obviously rubbing your thighs together as your hands rested on the metal table waiting for his response.

"Well, that's up to you." He said, placing his hands on the sides of your waist, traping you between him and the booth. He inched closer as you started to get lost in his indigo eyes. We're the both of you really gonna do it here, right now?

You hugged his neck going in for the kiss hoping that you played your cards right, you felt his grip only grow tighter on the skin of your waist, his quivering lips against yours. If this is how it happened he wouldn't really mind.

Tamakis hands wandered to your thighs to lift them up, making you make you sit on the edge of his beloved table. Your legs dangled off the edge, spreading open for his convenience.

His hands wandered to his studded belt, unbuckled in a few seconds he pulled down his pants to expose himself, alredy been twitching from your kisses. You didn't want him to do all the work, of course.

You eagerly slipped off your tight jeans and pushed your panties to the side. He buried his face into the crook of your neck as he rubbed against you, bucking his hips to the addictive friction.

You were already eager to have him inside you. You tugged on his hair as you were impatient and needy for his cock.

"Amajiki, don't tease me like this." You begged, he snapped back onto reality .Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know I was teasing you like that..." he said, voice shakey and awkward.

"If you wanted it inside you, could've just asked..." he hinted, he loved hearing that voice of yours. "Just fuck me alredy... please. I need you right now Tamaki." You pleaded.

He pulled you closer to him as his hips were against yours, the distance between you closes as he kisses you once more. You felt his body against yours as you melted in his touch.

Your body jolted as he sliped in slowly, stretching you to take him whole, you whined into his kiss as you tugged on his scruffy hair.

He gave you time to re-adjust, but that would be the most mercy he'd show you. He slipped in and out of you as your chest pressed against his.

He pulled away from the kiss as you threw your head back, moaning from the feeling of him hitting your gummy sweet spot over and over again.

You didn't expect expect him to be so good. He was attractive and talented so you could guess a bunch of girls would be throwing themselves at him after shows.

His thrusts quickened, making your body tense as he held you with his arms. Your hand grabbed a handful and tugged on his hair as he peppered your neck with kisses and bites.

Your moans and the sound of skin slapping echoed around the dim room, He fucked you on the stages booth mercilessly making you drip on the metal table, no problem, he'll just clean it after.

Even if you knew it was wrong having sex with someone you haven't talked to in years, it still felt so good, like you were meant to be there.

He didn't know if he was a pervert for enjoying this veiw, once a freshman now a DJ's whore.

He used to watch you as you walked down UA's halls in your little dark-green skirt, plush thighs pouring out of your black thigh highs, he always felt wrong for having a lust for you.

But now he could indulge every nasty fantasy he had now the both of you were all grown up.

He dragged his cock in and out of you, watching your cute little reactions as your head was thrown back with your mouth wide open, screaming and pleading his name.

His breaths grew heavy, and his thrusts sloppy, yet he couldn't get enough of you. You were better than any glass of whiskey or bass drop he could ask for, and he kind of hated it.

With the bites on your neck and the fluids dripping down your thighs, not to mention your sluty moans, they were music to his ears. He knew you were close, no doubt about it.

He fucked you raw and senseless, like an animal in heat, you wonder how long it's been since you've felt like this, it felt divine.

Your legs wrapped around his waist to get him deeper into you, begging for even more of his cock he couldn't say no, his palm pressed against your arched back closing whatever distance your once had.

He held you close. It made you feel... protected. " 'Tmaki, I'm close!" You muttered, "You want it, baby?" He cooed, his voice was shakey as his hands were shaking from the pleasure.

After a frantic nod he picked up his speed, not the smartest decision but it worked. Your legs were left shaking as he filled you full.

Your arched back, loud moans and sopping cunt was perfect to him, it drove Tamaki crazy.

You caught your breath as he slipped out of you. You can't believe you just did that, and honestly, neither did he.

But at the end of the night, you appreciated your persuasive friend. If she didn't pester you for a few weeks, this wouldn't have happened.

The night ended with shakey legs and a new phone number in your contacts, Tamakis obviously.

(Inspired by DJ WH0RE by S3RL)

[starryharps]

the veil of love

pairing: rhaegar targaryen/ arryn! reader

summary: rhaegar visits an old flame at the eyrie, determined to do things right this time.

word count: 2,741

part of: heartlines series

tags: angst with a happy ending (smut, fluff in later parts)

a/n: prefacing this by saying that this is a nonlinear series titled "heartlines", many questions about the reader and the nature of her relationship with rhaegar will be subsequently answered. but I will say, the next chapter is smut. haha.

read on ao3 | masterlist |

there was a storm picking up, the prince noted as he cursed his way into the journey across the narrow bridges that connected the formidable fortress of the vale.

you were situated in the last tower of the eyrie, according to jon arryn. the most isolated one of it all. rhaegar grimaced at its height as he entered the reception hall, nodding to the ladies in waiting. the climb towards the top of the tower proved to be endless, but he found himself in front of a grand door of mahogany regardless.

how will you react? will you smile kindly on him, eyes sparkling upon seeing your lover after four years? or would you throw a shoe at him, cursing whatever is left of his scant bloodline and hoping he falls through the moon door? or would you do nothing, ignoring his presence like you always did when he teased your inability to play the harp or when he read a couple of chapters of the romance novel you shared in advance?

his cheeks flushed slightly at the memory, remembering how you once asked him to act out a few scenes with him. oh, the things you had teased out of him.

rhaegar shook his head.

he knocked.

the door creaked on its own, almost inviting him in. he could swear he heard the sounds of pages turning. you were most likely reading, he inferred. the ivory light crept in his vision as he opened the door fully, taking in the blue chambers cloistered at the top of the tower, and gasped at the regality of it.

blue so dark, it was indigo. everywhere. constellations drawn on every bit of the ceiling stretching up and up and up, to the cosmic hand-painted tapestries and scattered paintings, a few left to dry. there were instruments of all types scattered in an organized manner: telescopes, vials, maps, and books. gods above, so many books were pouring out of the shelves. by the glowing white canopy bed was a giant glass-stained window that refracted a rainbow of lights. rhaegar could hear the echoes of the strong wind howling. he marveled at the strength of the glass to hold up at such an altitude.

his eyes shifted to the corner of the room, where a window lay open, and there, in all your glory, alive and breathing, you sat. clad in arryn blue, reading a book, the wind kissing your cheeks as you leaned by the window.

he looks at you. you’ve paled a bit in these unforgiving heights, there’s a certain sense of unease in him as he notes your figure hidden by the loose robes. you’ve thinned out, there’s a lack of something in you that he can’t quite pinpoint.

you raise your eyes at him and quietly lock in a staring contest with the prince regent of the seven kingdoms.

the winds howled louder.

neither of you speaks, rhaegar stands by the door. gripping it like a terrified child, he wants to run to you, do ablutions, prostate, and beg. but your aura is one of quiet lethality. he could do angry, he could do sad, he could do hysterical….but he couldn’t do….whatever this was…an air of nothingness that seemed to emanate from you.

“your grace.” he winced. it was always rhae.

he held back his tongue. watching you put a bookmark and close what you were reading.

“what brings his grace to the eyrie?” he hates this. he hates the tone. the lack of musicality and mirth in your voice. how you would harmonize with his vocals and run around, laughing as he took in the happy tones he wanted to drown in, those memories being one of the few things he remembered from his otherwise somber childhood.

he calls out your name, unable to stop the wavering in his mouth, and takes a shy step forward, boots clacking against the smooth marble. gods, you were so close, just within his reach.

you depart from the reading nest, shuffling towards the solar of the room, and put your hands in front of yourself, almost protective.

“i came…to see you.” rhaegar exhaled.

“there was no need to your grace. i am well. a letter would’ve done. you needn’t climb the eyrie for me.”

he quietly put his sword to the table in front of him, and walked closer. “i had to. letters wouldn’t be able to do justice to what i wished to say.”

he met her questioning gaze, restraining himself from slipping further into them, but the task seemed more and more so arduous.

“you…you fled. that night.” he watched as you took interest in the sword at your table.

“my family had to return sooner or later.”

“lord arryn and his retinue were to embark within a month, yet you rode out on horseback weeks in advance, vanished into the vale…left the palace within hours.”

“the vale cannot be left alone for long.”

rhaegar pressed on, frustrated. “no,” “the royce and lord arryn’s fostered wards were present at the eyrie. you fled. you ran away.” you left me.

he watched you watch the window.

“there was nothing left for me there, in that palace.”

“i was there.”

“the prince of dragonstone was there. but rhaegar wasn’t. to be wed to elia of dorne. for political purposes. with zero fight from the groom-to-be. despite the court knowing he had a lover of three years lurking right next to him as the deal was finalized by the king.”

rhaegar recoiled at the jab, it was as if dragonglass pierced him straight into his heart. the iron tones of your voice hammering him, wounding his chest at the cruel remark.

“n-no.”

“you promised me. underneath the star showers to be mine. you told me over and over in the kingswood, by the waterfalls that i am yours. that we would run hand in hand by the grasslands together, plucking fruit and making play endlessly. rule the realm with peace and prosperity, rebuild the peace your father had ruined brick by brick with me by your side. our song of sky and the dragon.

there is no emotion but a hollowed loss in your voice as you continued, “for years. you promised me. for years of this endless winter, i thought a spring of our love would bloom and i would vow myself to you till the end of my days. you said you were mine. i thought you were mine.”

rhaegar felt tears prick his eyes, he breathed deeply.

“i…” he took your name again. “politics..”

then, rage seethed in your icy gaze.

“politics?” you scoff. “you wish to lecture me on politics? your match was political, yes. but let me remind you dorne is already on good terms with westeros. the alliances with house dayne, yronwood and martells were strong regardless and were stable. viserys showed an interest in doran’s daughter from a young age itself when she had visited. what does the vale lack that the dorne has for us to be cast aside over and over in alliances? your king demands of our warriors but won’t wed one of his kin despite openly knowing that his son has been besotted with jon arryn’s niece for years!”

“you know the girl is weak, you know she is frail! i doubt she’ll be able to handle a child, leave the poor girl alone, let her be in dorne. grant her this mercy. you rejected the tyrell match, the dayne match, the blackwood match, yet you accepted the martell match. but why couldn’t you for once in your life grow a spine and run after the one thing you have claimed to love more than your god forsaken prophecy for once? let me suffer in her place, I am begging you, let me burn with you."

“my father will murder you!” he spoke out, frantic.

“and you’ll let somebody else take in my place?” i gasp out. “are you that cruel your grace?”

“i was trying to protect you.”

“you’re shit at protecting things.”

“from him.” his voice cracked “from myself.”

“..what?”

“the prophecy.”

“shut the fuck up.”

his eyes blazed. “listen to me!”

“no!”

“i didn’t want you to be part of my suffering!”

you gawked at him.

“tread carefully.”

rhaegar put his hands up, breathing deeply before he continued. 

“i didn’t want to hurt you.” rhaegar was on his knees by now, holding your blue robes.

“i know how i can get. i know it. i know i would’ve forced you into a life you didn’t want.”

“so just scurry me to the side under the garb of care, an awfully easy excuse.”

a flash of irritation crossed rhaegar’s face. “you do not understand, the prophecy-“

“your ego is as magnanimous as the oily black stones that make the citadel. your entire sense of self is trapped within the five lines you read when you were a boy and made to believe it was for you and only you. the only time you feel ease with the shadows of your mind is when you take points of your life and bend them to fit the narrative of the eight thousand year old prophecy in a language you don’t even speak properly. did you ever stop to think how many in the past have tried the same? how many of them believe themselves to be azor ahai?”

your chest was rising up and down like a madman as you seethed. “the only time you stood up for yourself and not the identity of the prince who was promised was when you kissed me for the first time near the godswood. i threw a wrench in your plans by existing. and you were frightened by the way we completed each other. perhaps you loved me for a bit, but ultimately you kept me to bide your time with me for three years until you found a suitable match for yourself and sire three heads of a dragon who will save the world and be this all powerful messiah while you overthrow your father.”

“you are a selfish, spineless, cowardly prick of-“ rhaegar didn’t let you finish the sentence, grappling your knees and knocking you down to the myrish carpets, holding you close to him. he smelled like lilac and gooseberries.

“you weren’t a wrench,” he muttered, refusing to let go.

“and i never used you to bide my time until a, so you say, better match came up.” you sighed.

“i swear on my honor. i love you. i didn’t use you. we learned to walk together, played together, i watched you lose teeth and you saw mine, we studied together. hunted together. played as king and queen in the godswood. can a seven-year-old plot that early?”

“i know i hurt you. i know it was stupid of me to agree to that arrangement in front of you. i humiliated you. i should’ve said something. but i had plans.” he shuddered. “we…we were planning on rallying dornish support to remove the king. i intended to…take over.”

“and what does dorne have the vale doesn’t? one word from you and uncle would’ve descended our knights.”

“i didn’t have a choice…the king was set on a dornish alliance, i was merely trying to make the best of a situation. i would’ve joined the vale’s support had..had the match not been forced on me.”

putting the palm to your head. “and then?”

“i…i turned to you, only to see your face, you, you were so distraught, i….followed you, but you were gone. and i didn’t hear from you for months.” his voice broke.

“everybody told me you accepted the match happily and chatted with her.”

rhaegar had tears in his eyes. “poor elia. the…the emotions she’s seen of me. i ..i cried to her. pleaded to her and oberyn. please. to do something. they know about you. they were uncomfortable with aerys as elia’s father in law too. they convinced doran to withdraw the offer but aerys was resolute in watching the match go forth.”

rhaegar continued, “so i….i did the unthinkable.”

your heart dropped. this idiot.

“...what did you do?” 

“i broke it off.” he murmured to the floor. “i couldn’t do it. wrote to all the lords. citing my intentions for the throne. many responded…then, i ran.”

you stilled, aghast.

“did you…don’t tell me…did you start a rebellion against the crown?”

he nodded slowly.

you felt the earth shift under your feet.

what in the seven fucking hells is wrong with you? you wanted to scream.

“why?” you asked instead.

he responded, feverishly. “he burns people to death. he upsets century-long relations. he hurts my mother. he exiles my guard. he sabotages my relationships. the lords are stewing, ready to overthrow, i can’t keep seeing this. i can’t keep watching this.”

“please. besides this, i did for you. i do not want to live out my life without you by my side.”

“-but your prophecy.”

he shut his eyes, as if in pain.

“i,” he takes a deep breath, as if his lungs are shattered with glass. “heeded. to what you said. i lulled on it…when you were gone. i heard your ballads and songs…i….realised that in the quest for a future that may or may not exist, i failed to see the beauty that surrounded me in the very present moment.”

he gathers himself as he continues, “prophecies…may be true, and they mostly come true when one steers clears of them. i remembered this as i recalled everything that i’ve chased at the end has run away from me..unlike things that hold onto me for far too long when i haven’t been paying attention.” he looks at you, smiling softly.

he breathes, burying his face into your lap, “i came to the realization, after years of being away from you that, even if the prophecy doesn’t come true, i won’t base my existence off it anymore, i would, do what the realm needs me to, be a good ruler, and assure happiness..make song and love, and hope of being loved in return by the one i want.”

rhaegar notices you take his hand, and he quivers, as he continues.

he kisses your hand.

“i have come to ask you for your hand in marriage. not just as the future king of the seven kingdoms who would have the privilege of a lifetime to have you as his queen. but as the rhaegar you grew up with and made flower crowns with. who watched me play the harp over and over till my fingers bled, carved stars within the wood of the same. who snuck in food in my satchel when i disappeared to summerhall. who dreamed of running away to lys or pentos with you when all of this is over for a long vacation.”

silence. silence greets him. you seem frozen to him, looking at him with pensive eyes and a neutral face.

he softly calls out the name he had given you, indigo eyes wide, and sad, yet tinged with hope, of longing.

slowly, your face broke. it began with the eyes, slowly melting like a glacier, joining the sea of emotions that colored your face red with tears as you shook. rhaegar couldn’t help himself, his tears followed as you grabbed your robe your free hand, sobbing into your other.

he put his head in your lap, feeling your hands run across his silver-white hair, remembering how often you used to do it those nights in his chambers. and he let himself cry.

he called out your name weakly, “…please.”

you kicked him slightly, muttering a “of course i would, you fool.” before taking him in your embrace, the two of you crying within each others arms as the storm picked up.

“of course i will. i have loved you since for as long as i could remember. how could i deny you? how could i ever say no to you?”

rhaegar chuckled wetly. his dourness subsided a little as he relished in your warmth.

“i don’t have much of good memories, and despite them being only a handful, i know that, my happiness begins and ends in the shape of your face, written in the tongue of your soul.”

the winds rattle the eyrie once more.

[kusanagihaku]

indigo orioles

⭢ gen edward, 2.2k

i is for indigo. ˖⁺‧₊⟡ alphabet series | ao3 supernatural bar owner au, anyone?

It is half past midnight when you first see it. 

There is nothing between the flower shop and the second-hand bookstore one moment, and the next moment, there is. Shards of light spill out onto the pavement from cracks in its deep velvet curtains,  but you don’t need the light to read the gold, tarnished lettering painted onto the glass storefront – The Obscuary Bar. 

You stumble to a stop, drunken feet unwillingly obeying your commands, and tug on Lucas’ jacket, “Do you see that?"

Lucas pauses too, and squints past the pale yellow streetlight at where you’re pointing. “The flower shop?” 

You shake your head. “The bar. ‘S new.” 

Lucas frowns. “What bar?” 

“Between the… the flower place and the… the book place.” You jab your finger somewhat insistently at the bar. Its wooden door is ajar, strains of piano and jazz drifting out from its curtained entrance. Can’t he hear it? 

Kaito leans around Luca to peer at the shops, face flushed and eyes bright, and Lucas has to adjust his grip around both your waists to account for the change in weight. “‘S nothing there. You’re– hic– you’re drunk.” 

“No, no, it’s right there, the– the door is open, right there–“ 

As the words leave your mouth, however, a slender hand, pale as moonlight, reaches out from between the heavy curtains blocking its entrance. It finds the handle of the door easily, and with a firm tug it yanks the door closed. 

You blink, and there is once again nothing between the flower shop and the bookstore, cement walls melding together like nothing was ever there in the first place. 

You open your mouth again to protest, but Lucas just sighs. 

“You’re both drunk,” he informs the both of you, solemnly. “Let’s go home.” 

-

“I,” Kaito says, carefully, “am never drinking again.” 

You want to nod in agreement, but you’re not sure if you can move your head without pissing off whoever has installed a high-power drill on the inside of your skull. “Mmng,” you say, instead.

There are two thumps as Lucas sets something down into the table in front of you. “Coffee. Drink up.” 

You crack open a heavy eyelid and immediately groan when sunlight assaults your vision. “Fuck.” 

Lucas takes a seat, drawing his chair out noisily and scraping it back in. The sound drags nails down the chalkboard of your mind, and Kaito whimpers from where his pose mirrors yours across the table - head buried in hands buried in regret. 

“Told you not to take those shots,” Lucas says, grinning into his coffee. His hair is standing up in the back, testament to the night spent on the floor of Kaito’s studio apartment, and he is slightly haloed by the warm light of the kitchen island. 

Fitting for an angel, you think, tugging a mug closer to you. How the hell Lucas managed to wake up to make coffee for you all when he also took those shots of tequila is a mystery, but a mystery quickly forgotten the moment the coffee hits your tongue. 

“Thought it’d be fun,” Kaito mutters. He takes a sip of his coffee, and groans in satisfaction. “Thanks, man.” 

The conversation wanders around your plans for the day, a vague reminiscence for weekends past and some griping about the current job market before Lucas sets his cup down. “You said something last night about seeing a bar?” 

You shake your head. “Yeah, it was really weird. It was between the bookstore and the flower shop, and it had lights on and a door and everything, and I could hear the music playing. But then the door shut and it disappeared.” 

Kaito looks at you skeptically. “You sure it wasn’t, like, a drunk hallucination?” 

You frown. It looked real enough that you can remember exactly where the gold of its ornate painted lettering had started to rub off the glass, and the exact shade of wine-red the velvet of its curtains were. 

Lucas shakes his head, then gathers up your empty mugs. “You were probably confusing it with the bar we just left. Come on, get your laptops out. Don’t you both have job applications to submit?” 

“Ah, shit–“

-

It is a quarter past five the second time you see it. 

It is still bright out – the grey pavements are painted shades of orange by a nearly setting sun, and you have to shade your eyes against the glare of sunlight against glass windows as you make your way home. 

You pass by the grocery store and the bakery, then the flower shop and the– 

You stop. 

Ornate, gold letters wink at you from against velvet curtains. The Obscuary Bar. 

You blink. It is still there. 

You lift a hand to rub your eyes in slight disbelief, but the sting of knuckle against your eyelids reminds you that it is, in fact, real and not a figment of your drunken imagination. When you reach out to press your fingers against the smooth glass window it feels cold to the touch. 

Huh. 

The wooden door right by the storefront is set ajar. There is no music coming from inside the bar, this time, but the heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains are still there like you remembered, obscuring the interior of the bar from your view. 

You stand for a moment, stuck between the flower shop and the bookstore, between going in and going home. 

It’s a new bar, you reason with yourself – it’d be nice to bring Kaito and Lucas somewhere new, if the vibes in there are good. You take a step towards the open door. 

On the other hand, if someone closed the door while you were in there and you winked out of existence along with it… You pause. And yet there is something still so strangely compelling about the open door, like it is calling out to your blood and your blood is singing back, that you find yourself taking another step towards the entrance anyway. 

Curiosity gets the better of you in the end, and you find yourself pushing aside the maroon curtains and stepping inside. 

The interior of the bar is more dimly lit than you expected. There are low-hanging lamps suspended from the ceiling that illuminate the large wooden-top bar, each lighting up a place for tall iron barstools padded with velvet cushions the same colour as the entrance curtain. There are booths as well, tucked into the back wall, and their wooden panelling extends to the front of the house, lending an overall warmth to the place. Any evening light that has followed you in from the entrance has quickly been swallowed up by the black of the floor, clean and matte under your feet. 

There are shelves upon shelves of bottles behind the bar, backlit so they diffuse light across the room. You don’t recognise any of the labels on the bottles – they seem to be more home-made than from commercial brands. Foxglove, reads one. Wolfsbane + Mint, reads another. 

Your brow furrows. Aren’t those poisonous? 

“Hello,” a voice says. You jump; in taking all this in you nearly fail to notice the bartender lounging behind the bar before he straightens up. 

His hair is a dark, indistinguishable colour in the dim light, but it falls over eyes as bright as the moon. They are an unnerving sort of red, the kind you’d think pools of blood might be the shade of, and fixed on you they glint almost unnaturally in interest. 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” the bartender drawls, smile widening. “Or the dog, rather. He never remembers to shut the door.”

It is most likely a trick of the light, you think, but his teeth look… sharp. 

“Um,” you say. “What dog?” 

The man laughs this time, a lazy sound that hangs in the air between the both of you. Instead of answering your question, however, he leans forward on the counter. A silver cross dangles from his ear, catching the light. “I suppose you’re here for the job opening.”

“Um,” you say, but the man’s eyes narrow, and you stumble quickly on a, “yes, yes, I am.” 

You’re technically not lying – you are on the hunt for a job, after all. If an interview happens to fall into your lap after days of sending out resume after resume… you won’t complain. You clear your throat. “Yes, I am.” 

The man stays quiet for a while. His gaze sweeps you up and down, and its piercing quality sends a sort of chill down your spine that you don’t quite like. He crooks a finger. “Come here, my dear.” 

You feel as though you should be more unwilling, more wary, but your feet carry you to the bar without much hesitance. You find yourself moving towards one of the high barstools right across from the bartender, plush velvet cushion soft under your weight as you seat yourself. 

Your grandmother had always warned you against stepping foot into strange places. You never know to whom it might belong. 

You swallow. You’re finding out too quickly too late that she might be right. 

“Give me your hand,” the man says. You wonder briefly if he’s going to read your palm or something odd and mystical and overall fitting with this strange bar, but when you search his face his eyes glint ruby red under the lamp above you, unreadable. 

You reluctantly set your right hand on the table, palm-side up. He takes it between his own, one hand cupping the back of yours and the other tilting your fingertips upwards, as if for closer inspection. 

“Don’t move.” 

It happens so quickly you barely have time to react. A gold dagger appears in one hand while the other pinches your fingertips tightly. There is a low whistle as the blade slices through the air and sings through your skin, neatly splitting the tip of your middle finger open to reveal a small pearl of blood. 

You gasp. You try to jerk your hand away, nerves firing at the slight sting that envelopes your fingertip, but the man is stronger than he looks – the cold alabaster of his grip tightens around you, a jail of marble. 

You struggle for a second, eyes wild with panic, before the man tsks at you. 

“I told you not to move,” he murmurs, disdainfully, then presses the tip of the dagger to your fingertip once more. The red pearl tips slightly, rolling onto the smooth surface of the dagger before the man lifts it to eye-level. 

In the process he lets go of your hand; you quickly snatch it back. Miraculously, there is no trace of a cut, skin at the tip of your middle finger smooth like it hadn’t just been bleeding a moment before. 

What the fuck. 

You wonder how long it might take you to dash to the door. 

The bartender hums, interrupting the sweaty train of calculations you have running in your mind. His eyes are still on where he has collected your blood on the dagger’s surface. “Good list of references. Worked a waitressing job during your last two years of college – you’d do good here. Your previous manager liked you a lot.” 

You pause. How the fuck–

“Pity he was stealing from the register,” the man continues, frowning slightly. He tilts the dagger, watches the pearl of blood smudge itself down the gold. “Good thing you quit when you did. He wanted to pin it on you.” 

Your jaw drops. You’ve never told anyone about the time you saw your manager slipping cash into his pocket during closing – you don’t think he’s even been caught yet, that conniving bastard, much less have news about himself spread around the neighbourhood. Come to think of it, you haven’t even told this bartender your name, how does he even know– 

The man smiles, close-lipped. It doesn’t quite meet his eyes, but there is a degree of cool approval all the same. “Looks like you’re good at keeping secrets too, I’d say.” 

He leans back, gold dagger disappearing as quickly as it appeared. “What’s that around your throat?”

Your hand goes instantly to the silver locket your grandmother gave you when you were younger that you keep hidden under the collar of your shirt. “Um.” 

The man’s eyes narrow. He cocks his head to one side, fingers playing with a small shot glass on the counter. “No matter. Protection or not, if you could see this bar in the first place, you’ve got supernatural in you, anyway.” 

You always heard from family whispers that your grandmother was part-something, but you’ve never outright, like, confirmed it or anything. Things like this weren’t simply talked about, in your family. Now, you wonder… 

The man sets the shot glass upright, then reaches under the bar to pull out an unlabelled bottle. “Anyway, now that you’re no longer thinking about running out the door, you’re hired.”

“Wh-“

“I don’t have the contract or documents or whatever it is you humans need – Rui handles those – but you start on Monday.” He sets a full shot of something transparent and sickly-sweet smelling on the bar between you, then gestures for you to take a drink. 

He leans forward again, eyes gleaming blood-red as your fingers close around the glass. He grins, widely this time, with all his teeth and then some, and you realise with a dawning sense of frightening fascination how sharp they indeed are.

“By the way, I’m Ed. What’s your name?” 

-

some background this time! title from 《颂古四首》, a classical chinese poem about how hidden some truths are, and how fleetingly close people come to understanding the. when i first read it the imagery reminded me of obscuary, so... roughly translated:

The thorny forest carries a curious meaning,  The vine-filled garden emits a faint glow.  Nobody understands its multitude of messages,  But the indigo oriole flies over the wall. 

[shadowsegregious]

some jammy n pip i swear i didnt forget ab them 🩷💙i wanted to add some fun facts pages!!! so theyre under the cut

sorry if the questions are lame/generic 😭

Favorite movie?

🍓OH, FOR SURE LEGALLY BLONDE. ELLE WOODS IS TOTALLY KICKASS!

🫐 hm…i think i like a goofy movie. i like the music. or probably bridge to terabithia.

Favorite colors?

*They glance at each other, amused.

🍓BLUE!

🫐pink.

*For some reason you feel as though you’re not in on the joke…

Favorite book?

🍓UM, WELL LEMME THINK…I WOULD HAVE TO SAY “SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY: COCO CHANEL.” I PICKED IT UP THINKING IT WOULD BE MORE ABOUT FASHION LIKE MY MAGAZINES, BUT IT TURNED OUT TO BE A NONFICTION DRAMA!!! IT’S SUCH AN INTERESTING TALE ABOUT SUCH A MYSTERIOUS PERSON!!

🫐i like my archie comics. my copy of “the physics of everyday things.”

Favorite song?

🍓GIRLFRIEND BY HEMLOCKE SPRINGS!! IT HAS SUCH A FUN BEAT IT JUST MAKES ME WANNA GET UP AND DANCE!

🫐another believer by rufus wainwright. feels right.

Biggest fear?

🍓JEEZ, I’M NOT SO SURE! I PRIDE MYSELF ON BEING AS BRAVE AS I CAN BE!! (ESPECIALLY FOR MY LITTLE BROTHER OVER THERE, EHEH) BUT I THINK I WOULD HAVE TO SAY…BEING FORGOTTEN? MAYBE THAT’S A BIT TOO DREARY.

🫐…

*It looks like he doesn’t want to say.

Any hobbies?

🍓MY BROTHER AND I QUITE ENJOY BAKING! IT'S JUST SOMETHING WE HAVE ALWAYS DONE TOGETHER. HE ALSO LIKES TO DRAW AND HE IS INCREDIBLE AT IT! YOU SHOULD SEE HIS ARTWORK!!!

🫐jeez, pip...

*Jam is blushing a harsh indigo.

🍓HEHEH, I'M SORRY, BROTHER. I ALSO LOVE TO DO MY OWN MAKEUP AND CREATE CLOTHING! I FOUND AN OLD SEWING MACHINE AT THE DUMP ONCE BUT IT DOESN'T WORK ANYMORE. OH WELL!

Any regrets?

🍓HM..I ONCE WENT TO SEE A MTT SHOW LIVE. I REALLY WANTED TO ASK THEM FOR AN AUTOGRAPH BUT HAD GOTTEN..ADMITTEDLY A BIT NERVOUS AND INSTEAD WENT HOME! SUCH A SHAME REALLY.

*Jam pulls you aside.

🫐hey, don't tell him anything, but i totally got that poster for 'em. gyftmas this year is gonna be awesome, heh.

[kararisa]

darling, starling

— 9. iridescence — ✦ (wc: 0.6k)

“Is this going to take any longer?” you ask.

It’s an interesting feeling, having Scaramouche in your lap while he does your makeup. The side of his palm gently rests against your cheek as he does your eyeliner, his brow furrowed in concentration while you rest against the cushions of your sofa. His indigo hair and indigo eyes are barely illuminated by the dimmed lights of your living room, an insistence of his even at your protest of the horrid lighting for makeup.

“It’ll only take a moment longer,” he responds.

“You said that ten minutes ago,” an over-exaggeration on your part, but you couldn’t see how a makeover could take so damn long.

Scaramoche grins, his voice dripping in mock innocence, “Perfection takes time. Or however that saying goes. I’m not used to putting makeup on another person so just cooperate with me, will you?”

You do your best to glare at Scaramouche as he finishes up your eyeliner. The two of you have been at this for a while now, bantering while he does your makeup. When he finishes, whenever that may be, the two of you will swap places so you can give him a makeover in return. Admittedly an interesting arrangement to re-enact for a scene in his book, but you have to admit it’s been alright so far. He isn’t terrible, he just takes too long for your liking.

“Part your lips a bit. I’m putting lipstick on you,” you oblige, and Scaramouche continues while he dabs color on your lips. “Our ruse has been quite effective so far. But people seem to think we’ve been in love for longer than we’ve been dating.”

Amusement colors your voice, “I mean, I like to think it makes our whole act more effective.”

He finally leans back to inspect his work after what seems like forever and declares that he’s done — time for you to switch places. He gets off you to take a seat by your side. You take the opportunity to reposition yourself and straddle him.

Only to get a proper look at him while you give him a makeover, of course.

A few minutes of silence pass when Scaramouche speaks up, “The whole point of me asking you to do this was for us to talk. So talk.”

“Like what, the groceries?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just talk.”

“Well,” you pause, twisting the makeup sponge in your hand before getting back to work. “I think we’re running out of eggs? And we only have a little bit of flour left.”

“Did you add it to the list on the fridge?”

“I already did, smartass. You were the one who told me to talk.” you laugh slightly when you see him glaring at you, and you move your other hand to rest on his shoulder. “Stop looking all grumpy like that. You’re gonna make me mess up.”

“I am not ‘looking all grumpy’.”

“Oh, you definitely are.” you chide, dabbing his cheek with your makeup sponge. “Ooooh is my grumpy face mad at me?”

“Shut up and just get this over with, will you?” Scaramouche averts his gaze. “Absolute terror.”

You move on to doing his eyeliner before you continue talking, “I could help you cook dinner tonight if you want.”

“Absolutely not,” he answers curtly. “You’re still banned from the kitchen.”

“The thing that happened with the air fryer wasn’t even that bad.” you protest.

“Do I need to remind you what happened? You quite literally –”

“Okay fine, maybe I should leave the cooking to you today. But one day you’ll lift my ban from my own fucking kitchen.”

“Not happening until you learn how to actually cook.”

“Gonna need a good teacher for that, so why don’t you teach me?” you jest

He gives you an incredulous look before responding, “Sure. Whatever. Are you done with my eyeliner yet?”

“Stop moving and I’ll get done quicker.”

✧— previous — masterlist — next —✧

summary: being the world-famous singer-songwriter "zenith", the limelight has been on you ever since the start of your career. however, the media becomes relentless when leaks of music you never meant to release begin to circulate. your friend scaramouche, meanwhile, seems to have gotten stuck while writing his second book. with a deadline fast approaching, he comes to you with a deal: act as if you're dating him so he can gather reference material and, in turn, he'll help keep the press' eyes off of your leaks until you release your next album. a win-win in your book, so why not help a friend out?

author's notes:

they're definitely not in love guys trust me

taglist — currently CLOSED:

@aestherin @unsterblich-prinz @yourstrulykore @krnzysh @syriiina @yumiaur @featuredtofu @kodzusmiles @meigalaxy @fangygf @motherscrustytoenailclippings @samyayaya @hiimera @beriiov @e0nssadrift @dazaisboner @nillajhayne @chluuvr @nillajhayne @deffenferofjustice @romyoia @xiaomainlmao @hotgirlshit5 @potabletable @letthewindlead @esuz @toriiee @kclremin @angelkazusstuff @phoenix-eclipses @sakiimeo @mayuumine @ako-ang-mahal-ko @only-cherry-blossom @keiiqq @what-just-happened-huh @n3r0-1417 @haunts-gh0st @layla240 @mamafly @duckyyyx @certified-shrimp @kgogoma @xtobefreex @aeongiies @mechanicalbeat1 @meidnightrain @nordicbananas @feiherp @erzarq

[samspicturesandwords]

Today is the national day of action protesting Indigo Books and Music! The company's CEO, Heather Reisman, co-founded a "charity" which supports the IDF, a genocidal terrorist force currently slaughtering thousands of innocent civilians in occupied Palestine. I will be protesting in front of my local Indigo location. In fact, more than 40 protests are planned for today! If you are able to join one, please do. Let's make sure everyone knows that Indigo's CEO is complicit in genocide!

[incorrect-green-lantern-quotes]

I thought of a headcanon that Kyle, as a side effect of becoming the White Lantern, can see more colors than humans naturally can (he got them shrimp eyeballs). Just a funny theory that doesn't even really make that much sense since the white light is comprised of the ROYGBIV gang, and it's not like Kyle had to master the Octarine Light of Hysteria or whatever Ultraviolet was.

For whatever reason, this leads into a mostly separate line of thought about whether the colors of the emotions make sense for the various forms of life in the DC universe (at least the ones who can perceive the ROYGBIV colors). Like, did the Kryptonians know about the Emotional Spectrum before their planet went kablooey? Did the Martians understand that green was the color of willpower?

The flaw with this questioning however, is that even within the confines of the American culture that is the foundation for the comics that Green Lanterns are a part of, the colors of the spectrum aren't a perfect match. Like if you ask someone who's never picked up a GL book what the color of willpower is, it's not a guarantee that they'll answer green.

Sure some of the emotions line up with western color associations, like yellow with fear or red with rage. But red is also tied to love, probably more than violet is. And the other color-emotion matchups like Orange Avarice or Indigo Compassion are just as arbitrary as Green Willpower.

It only gets even more complicated when taking into consideration all the other cultures around the world! Like, in many East Asian cultures, white signifies mourning and death, the complete opposite of it being the color of life in DC's cosmology!

Hell, the reason there's only seven colors in the spectrum is because those are the ones that Geoff Johns picked, presumably because they're the ones we traditionally associate with the rainbow created by refracting white light! And it's not like the colors in a rainbow are clearly distinct and defined like they are in a kid's drawing, they actually blend together. Come to think of it, I vaguely recall one of my elementary school teachers saying indigo wasn't a real color, it was just Isaac Newton's shitty eyesight. Lemme check if that's actually true.

*opens Wikipedia's article on the rainbow*

No. No, fuck you Modern interpretation I am not saying "Cyan Lantern of Hope-"

At least the old newt's arbitrary division of the rainbow into seven means the emotional spectrum lines up with musical notes and Rot Lop Fan being the F Sharp Bell makes sense. But wait, isn't the major scale being seven notes only a western thing? Motherfu-

If there's one conclusion I can pull from this rambling mess of my 5 AM brain, it's that the Emotional Spectrum is probably not universal for any culture within DC's universe, and that's okay

Anyways going back to the idea of Kyle being able to see more colors than humanly possible, it's probably because he did it to himself by accident while he still had reality-altering powers

[simeralla]

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[struggle-but-its-all-ocean-floor]

Mini & Moni Music was... interesting, kind of concerning? We really know so little about the members - especially if you're like me and don't watch all the lives and documentaries, and read every book or interview. Even if I did all that, though, I wouldn't know much. The more honest they are, the more obvious it is they're "hiding" so much from us and how little we know them. This honesty unintentionally increases the disconnect between us and them, throwing every memory of them in a different light. A lot of the intimacy we feel/felt isn't real because, sometimes, when they look happy they're actually struggling while we enjoy ourselves and their "happiness".

The thing about RM for me is I've struggled to understand him, even if I probably have more in common with him than other members. The way he expresses himself is very opaque to me. I lack the sensibility, or context, I guess, to understand his thought process.

This special content between Jimin and Namjoon was a bit sad. RM doesn't seem happy. Every year, I feel like he reveals that he wasn't happy in the previous year. Has there been any year where Namjoon didn't suddenly reveal he'd been struggling? Because last year he made it seem as if he'd been doing pretty well, and I guess he was better at some point, while working on RPWP, but he'd been having a really rough time. Hearing him say he had to distance himself from BTS in order to heal (I think in 2023, after Indigo, but also applies to chapter 2 in general?) and Jimin saying the members thought he liked them less now... was sad.

RM really had(s) been struggling with the group. I know Hobi really wanted a chance to do something solo, but Festa dinner still feels mostly like it was brought on by Namjoon. I'm pretty sure Jungkook, Jimin, Jin, Suga, and V would've been fine carrying on with group activities with little to no solo activities, and Hobi only wanted a chance to do something different, not necessarily a big break from the group (I think; I haven't watched a lot of chapter 2 solo content, maybe I'm wrong). But RM was truly "done", to the point where the members felt him pulling away from them... RM popping up during one of Jungkook's live and their whole interaction kind of takes on a new meaning. Jungkook had been really happy to talk to Namjoon, and Namjoon said he missed Jungkook and that they needed to hang out. At the time maybe RM had already created distance between himself and the members so they missed each other a lot and there was a kind of uncertainty in their relationship.

I believe in BTS, but this content has made RM, the leader, seem the least excited about BTS, which may be untrue - contradictory and conflicted feelings can coexist. I kind of became concerned about how they'll return as a group (and what that will sound like...) if RM just looks so burnt out and even regretful about many things in their past (like his seriousness before). I know that each member struggled a lot, and for every hard moment there is a good one RM remembers, but I hope that when he comes back he learns how to enjoy being in the group again (or maybe for the first time; maybe he never really knew how to love the group without feeling weighted down by it). Like he says, RM speaks for the group. Most of Festa seems like him speaking for the group while the group itself didn't share his feelings completely but wanted to support him. It's ironic because RM said he feared that the group only represented his thoughts and not the group's, but I really want to know what the other members think. Suga, for example, has always blamed their hiatus on the enlistment, whereas Namjoon has made it clear that wasn't the main reason.

I don't know, I know the group has been through a lot, including the time they almost disbanded (I say almost, but how close were they, truly? Thinking heavily about something and having the intention of doing it are quite different), but this made me lose confidence in the group a bit, at least in RM. In the eyes of the members he's equated to BTS, but it seems like he's drifted apart from them. That's life, but as a fan it was hard to hear. Maybe they all feel the same, and I'm putting it all on Namjoon... This conversation with Jimin was very negative, but that's not the whole truth, and I shouldn't forget that.

[gh0stlyb34r]

Welcome to my blog!

logan / johnny / astrid ⌇ 19 ⌇ agere

trans ⌇ he / they / it + neos / xenos

dni ; nsfw , abdl / ddlg + variants , kink , gore

ed / sh , anti recovery , basic criteria

pronouns page ⌇ strawpage ⌇ request rules ⌇ masterlist

discord server post ⌇ f/o's

interests

movies / shows ; mcu , dc , star wars , harry potter , xmen , monster high , phantom of the opera , moulin rouge , hairspray , sweeny todd , the legand of vox machina , arcane , black swan , heartstopper , grease , the rise of the pink ladies , andor , moon knight , criminal minds , new girl , into the woods , anastasia , deadpool & wolverine , descendants , acolyte , bluey , tangled , tangled the series , maze runner , hunger games , the mandalorian

games ; call of duty , overwatch , valorant , roblox , minecraft , red dead redemtion 2 , little nightmares , resident evil , detroit become human , the last of us , hogwarts legacy , fnaf , indigo park , forza horizon , animal crossing , good pizza great pizza , unpacking , stray , jedi fallen order , jedi survivor , coffee talk

music ; my chemical romance , twenty one pilots , taylor swift , chappell roan , fall out boy , billie eilish , panic! at the disco , ajr , sleep token , james marriott , james arthur , one direction , conan gray , jls , chase atlantic , Jeff buckley , hozier , noah kahan & more

misc ; dolls , books , lego , sylvanian families , making jewellery , posters , halloween

my faves

characters ; percy de rolo , vax'ildan , vex'ahlia , simon riley , john mactavish , john price , kyle garrick , kate laswell , steven grant , marc spector , logan howlett , wade wilson , agatha harkness , din djarin , cole cassidy , anakin skywalker , luke skywalker , 10th doctor , 15th doctor , loki , foxy , the riddler , newt scamander , obi-wan kenobi , glitchtrap , vanny , danny zuko , luther hargreeves , Ben hargreeves , Steve harrington , eddie munson

youtubers ; smii7y , blarg , bigpuffer , elasticdroid , pezzy , grizzy , warn , frogger , aspen , james marriott , willne , critical role , george clarkey , flats , kryoz , cam kirkham , sinjin drowning , dawko , game theory , gtlive , keeoh , film cooper

celebs ; pedro pascal , matthew grey gubler , ashley johnson , troy baker , mat mercer , hugh jackman , barry sloane , neil ellice , oscar isaac , gerard way , frank iero

other blogs

@b4bywr1t3s - fanfic blog

@royaldaycare - caregiver blog

@astrogrphx - editblr

@l0v34sp3nc3r - fandom blog (may contain nsfw themes)

@kitkatshifts - shifting blog

my tags

#╰ lo's rambles ୧ - general posts

#╰ lo creates ୧ - my creations

#╰ lo's pics ୧ - my photos

#╰ lo's f/o's ୧ - my fictional others / selfships

#🐾.lo's fictional faves - my favourite characters

#🐾. lo's fictional cgs - my fictional carefivers

#talking.🐾 - answering asks

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