#kind of obsessed with its making moodboards so going to be making some posts in that format going forward

[pakcouture]

NATASHA KAMAL

[worshipper-status]

Literally so happy because my God is actually excepting of my obsession, but I’d kinda like to know how to worship him better less directly? (Ie. tips on digital alters/general worship tips?)

An excuse to ramble! Thank you :D

Worshipper's Guide to Indirect Worship

This is going to be my sfw guide for less direct methods of contact and digital altars, I may make an nsfw guide at some point on my own as a counterpart to this but for now...

(long post below)

Digital Shrines

Digital shrines are a good format for indirect worship, because you can curate it from anywhere, and no one will know. Technically I have two digital altars but one is more a back up of the other. One is I have a folder on my computer that contains all the media of the shrine, and the shrine itself is on my personal discord server. Usually I separate the shrine itself into media, devotionals, personal devotionals, writings, and links by using different discord channels. The channels breakdown like this for me:

Media: photos and videos of solely them

Devotionals: images I find on the internet that I feel embody our relationship, media created by someone else. Also picrews usually

Personal Devotionals: Visual media I have personally made to embody our relationship and can take full credit for creating. (This is a specific folder I made just to keep my art and others art separate)

Writings: Poems, songs, rambles, gushing, fantasies, etc. Any thought you have about them that's important enough to write down, put it here.

Links: I use this as a dumping ground for ideas I got from articles, purchases I want to make, or anything that requires a link to something else but directly relates to my worship of My Goddess.

Tumblr can also be a general dumping grounds kind of shrine, where I would not be too honest tbh, but it's a start. I prefer keeping my shrines private for the most part. My general advice is to stay away from tumblr for everything because you're not going to feel 1000% comfortable expressing your worship to its full extent because of the possibility of it being found by strangers. Also some things are just tmi to be honest. I have writings in my folder documenting times me and My Goddess have banged in detail so I don't forget. Tumblr doesn't need that kind of detail on here. So try and keep shrines at least somewhat private for your own sake. People are dicks.

As for advice for things to do to worship indirectly (and this goes hand in hand with the shrine a little bit) here's a list with general advice and ideas:

Scrapbook/Junk Journal about them (I'm biased this is a personal favorite of mine). Get a notebook, some scrapbook supplies, and either dedicate it to photos of your beloved or journal about any time you guys interact in ways that feel meaningful to you! I keep one physical scrapbook that I use for collages for My Goddess's photos, and am planning to start a junk journal for more writing purposes. I'll probably solely be using it to write about personal interactions with My Goddess, and on slower days, things I love about Her in general. It's both kinda a traditional journal and a part of my obsessive behaviors. You can also do stuff like this digitally with moodboard and collage makers like Canva which have free options.

Document about them. This is kinda vague so I'll explain. As part of my shrine, I have a document I'm building dedicated to bullet note points about My Goddess. If She randomly drops a fact on me about Her childhood, or Her interests. I write it down there so I don't forget. I want to be a good worshipper so I want to be an expert in everything about Her. I usually use a note taking app for this that I can organize into subgroups. Notion is a favorite of mine (despite them selling their soul to the AI overlords sigh) because it allows a lot of creative freedom in organizing the documents AND it's linked to my email so I can't lose it. Obviously, a google doc will accomplish the exact same thing, however my entire personality type is best described as extra, so I have to do things with extra effort at all times.

Write for them. This is where my pagan background kicks in a little bit, but in certain pagan traditions, especially stuff like Hellenic Polytheism, writing hymns or poems or songs for the gods was very important to their practices. So why not write those things for your God? It doesn't need to be shared, it can be bad, it can be whatever it wants to be. What I usually do, is I write poems for My Goddess, and keep them in my junk journal or digital shrine, depending on if I'm working physically or digitally, and if I'm feeling brave I'll share it with Her, but most times, they stay hidden in the depths of my shrine stuff.

Biggest overall piece of advice, create for them. Nothing shows devotion, quite like the personal experience of making something for someone else even if they never see it. Honor the Gods with the act of Creation, ya know?? It doesn't even have to require you to be good at drawing or whatever. Are you someone who gardens? Name a plant after them. Like makeup? Figure out what makeup styles they prefer on your chosen gender and wear those all the time, even if they're not there to see. Sewing? Make a stuffed animal of them. Speed runs? Dedicate every run to them, create a record for them. It can be as big or as mundane as you want and none of it has to be outwardly expressed to the other person. Just dedicate whatever hobby you have to them, and suddenly you'll have tons of shrine material.

Now for the quick part, of this!

General Worship Tips! (These are more indirect tho)

When getting dressed, pick outfits you know they'll appreciate. (Just please don't sacrifice your personal style for this)

Capitalize their name/title no matter what. They deserve the respect of one extra button push.

Write letters, even if you live close, even if you see them everyday, and even if you never send them. Use this as a format to express your emotions unbarred.

Save every photo they send you of themselves. If you need to edit people out of the photo do it, but you better be saving every instance of themselves they give you.

Fill your space with things that express yourself yes, but also have stuff that reminds you of them. Do they have a favorite animal? Buy those kinds of stuffed animals. They say they like certain types of aesthetics? Put some of that decor in your space.

I don't paint my nails, but if you do, paint them their favorite color.

Have dedicated jewelry pieces for them. While My Goddess did not give it to me, I have a memory of them associated with a bracelet I wear every single day. You can just buy a piece of jewelry and assign it as a symbol to them. They don't have to know.

Interact with their interests, with passion. Do your best to care about everything they care about. It'll give you guys tons of stuff to do, and help you understand them better.

Make pinterest boards dedicated to certain moments you want i.e. first date, wedding, future house/apartment dreams, pets you want with them, nursery room ideas, etc.

Make playlists dedicated to them.

Alright that's all I really have for right now! I hope some of this advice has been helpful and at the very least legible lol. I hope everything with you and your God goes well! If you want any more advice do not be afraid to ask me more questions :)

[lunarubra]

This is me blabbing away and trying to make sense of this crazy moment that's my life... Kind of like a PSA, without a real structure.

(Let's start with an apology, this was supposed to be short, just a couple of lines long, asking for some forgiveness for being so absent, and it turned into a small vent about my crazy life. Synthesis has never been one of my strongest features, apparently.)

Life has been crazy lately. April, May, and June are always hectic months for a teacher, and this year looks like it's going to be even worse. Right now, I'm juggling a full teaching post, a university research, a social life with a partner, a new kitten bringing me everyday dead lizards (she is a serial killer in disguise), and being selected as an internal commissioner for the high school diploma this year. And no, the last one is not an honor; it's more like a punishment for younger professors who don't have the authority to say no to older colleagues, plus a ton of paperwork and two more months of work while everyone else is on holiday. Yuppie for me. But joking aside, I'm not complaining about my job. I'm happy to teach, and compared to a lot of other jobs out there, I feel privileged to do what I'm doing. I love my kiddos, and even though most of the time they behave like dunderheads, teaching supports my creativity and gives me so many insights into my life.

But let's get to the point of all this. I am feeling slightly guilty for not being as active here as I should be and for not having enough mental energy and time to dedicate myself to writing more. To my lovely mutuals, I'm in awe of all that you're posting right now. I apologize for not replying and commenting on your amazing content as much as I would like. I just wanted to say, it's not because I'm disappearing; I'm just really busy, and I can't wait for the moment when I'll feel more chilled and can treat myself to all your new chapters, moodboards, and all the amazing content you're creating. I know I am being a small silent weight in your tag list, so thank you for still including me <3

About "Shadow of the Sea," I have a chapter ready and one WIP of the following one. I want to post the one that's ready sometime in the next week, but after that, I'm not sure when I'll be able to write the next one. So Jiyan and Cillian are taking a small break. I'm going to continue the story; this is not a goodbye. I have many ideas and plans for those two idiots; I'm just waiting for some writing energy and time in my schedule.

And yeah, I understand if you're thinking, "Are you aware that your blog and story are read by less than 10 people and no one really gives a damn?" Yes, I am aware, and this post is mostly for me, writing it down it helps me a lot, giving some sort of clarity. However, I've had the chance to meet amazing creators since I got busy on Tumblr again a couple of months ago. People who supported me and helped me, so this is more me trying to explain why my support isn't at its 100% right now and trying to excuse myself since I feel like a horrible mutual right now.

Ah, one last thing, maybe the only thing that will pop up on my blog are some "Slow Horses" GIFs. Thanks to Alex, @cillmequick, Jackson Lamb, and River Cartwright have become my new obsession, and creating GIFs is one of the few things that calm me after a busy hectic day and make me use some of that creative energy left.

I think that's it. Please still free to write me and contact me about my fic, blog, shenanigans; I will try to reply as soon as possible. Sending you all a big hug if you arrive till the end of this long long lengthy text xD

[maya-custodios-dionach]

Congratulations to @gothicwoes for their post on steddie having a gomez/morticia dynamic that I IMMEDIATELY shared in our horny-on-main 18+ steddie server, and sent me going on a tangent going INSANE over Vampire Steve Harrington. I hope the excerpts I put in here are coherent, aaaahhh. Hope you enjoy my rambling, yall. Beware, LONG POST AHEAD!!

THOUSAND YEAR OLD VAMPIRE STEVE AND HIS 28YO BOYFRIEND EDDIE, WHO KEEPS CAMPAIGNING TO BE TURNED

steves all angsty about it while eddie is busy about fantasizing the shit he'd do once he's turned

he loved being a bloodbag, dont get him wrong, being drained of blood is hot, BUT ITS TIME TO PUT A RING ON IT

EDDIE'S CLINGING TO THAT VAMPIRE ASS UNTIL THE HEAT DEATH OF THE UNIVERSE

eddie's vampire moodboard is just morticia, which fits bc vamp!steve already treats him like gomez treats morticia

i love love LOVE couples where one is goth and the other is prep/pastel but the soft bright one is the vampire, that shit's so good

also its bc i think people who love and/or dress like a vampire would be turned on by being turned into a bloodbag tbh

all this to say, when steve finally caves and turns eddie, 100 or so years later, they have the same comfy domestic yet still obsessed with each other dynamic that gomez and morticia have

eddie tries to act like some old wisened vamp but steve over here humbling him like-

Eddie, putting on a morticia air and scaring dustin and the Party, who broke into their indiana vacation home to investigate shit: 😈

Steve, too old for this crap and just wants to blend in so that he can keep working as a social worker or some other mundane job: Eddie, la mia vita, you're only 150

Eddie, pouting: I'm an ancient creature of DARKNESS, love!!! * unconsciously stomps foot *

Steve, amused and distantly reminded of his daddy kink at his lover acting childish: You're very scary, amore mio, but let's wait for 100-500 years before that happens 💕

[Some response of another person in the discord talking about how Steve would hate Eddie talking about being an ancient being bc Steve HATES being reminded how old he is.] Wait, oh no, oh that's so much worse for him. I dread the day my sister becomes an adult and we only have a 7 year diff, holy SHIT, Steve just wants to be a normal boring job haver dammit

Ooohhhh, WHAT IF STEVE'S OLD AGE FURTHUR FEEDS INTO HIS LONELINESS AND ABANDOMENT ISSUES?!

SEE, THIS IS WHY VAMPIRE STEVE IS SO GOOD

He's too noble for him NOT to greatly consider him, all the while Eddie is constantly flinging his willing adult body towards him

Bc yk, he cares about Eddie's well-being and personal growt-

Eddie: BUT BABY, I WANT TO STAY WITH YOU FOREVER

steve, flustered but worried:

UGH

Dndkzms I just have SO MANY FUCKING FEELINGS about vampire Steve saying Fuck It to his lonely vampire life and blending in with human society and falling so deeply in love with humanity and passion and LIFE

Sure his other vampire peers shun him bc of it, but he doesn't care about those stagnant sleazebags who only think of themselves

Steve sees humans give birth, give life, give passion, give kindness, give HOPE, enact change and its so fucking BEAUTIFUL

It's why he's so fucking angry at the injustices of the world, but damn, those humans' PERSEVERANCE in face of those injustices is so AWE-INSPIRING

ESP THE CHILDREN!!!

Steve is so FASCINATED by watching these little creatures GROW and CHANGE constantly, he delights in their energy, their creativity, their curiosity, their camaraderie with other another

So much so that Steve created an entire fake history in order to pass for human and gets a Masters in Psychology and Anthropology or something

That's why he's so drawn to Eddie, like a moth to flame

Eddie had been through so much in his life but with the care of his Uncle, his band and his best friend chrissy, Eddie manages to exude so much fucking LIFE, it's INSANE

He's unpredictable, he's spontaneous, he's theatrical and he's always making sure that the people around him who like him really comfortable and entertained. And seeing him around people younger than him??? How could Steve do anything but fall?

[smileytiger28]

ty @theincorrectavengers​ (separate thread lol) and @asherisimmortal for the tag!

btw for people like me who don’t know what website to use, try old.photojoiner.net. it’s meant to stitch photos together but works perfectly for moodboards too.

tagging @grim-ghastly​ @vengefulbutterfliesandloyalbears​ @simply-ellas-stuff​ and @asgardiansofthegalaxyvol3​ <3

Tagged by @daggery (and damn your mb looks so cool) to make a moodboard :D!

Favorite Color + Aesthetic

Favorite Color + Outfit + Aesthetic

Favorite Color + Shoes (and choose which ones go with your style)

Favorite Color + An accessory you like

Type a word you identify with + "quote" and pick one

Favorite Celebrity + Favorite Color (if not celebrity then character)

Type your favorite hobby

Favorite Color + Aesthetic again

Favorite Color + Favorite Word + Aesthetic

And I tag @mossheartlesbian @ur-bro @missmisanthropic @faithandbuffy @barb-l @gwendolynejones-stacy in case any of you wanna do it <3

[apocalypticgargoyle]

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐔𝐌 𝐈𝐈𝐈 ↟ 𝐓𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞

↠  summary: After receiving a few letters from your previous accomplice, your withstanding in Techno's home is questioned.

↠ fantasy au, slow-burn romance

↠  pairing: c!Techno x fm!reader

↠  tw: angst, mentions of blood, slight manipulation, fighting, language, knives, language, a lil fluff

↠  wc: ~2700

↠  previous chapter ↟ make a request ↟ create the next moodboard

this post contains an image of a letter. if you find it difficult to read, here is the transcript.

The wind howled against the cabin, snow beating against the shutters to make the structure trembled as if it was battling the cold like you were. The heavy blanket around your shoulders served as an anchor from your intruding thoughts as you attempted to self-soothe. The fire blazing in front of you was your only consoling friend as you debated whether or not Techno would make it back during the storm.

In your gross self-pity, you wondered if he even would want to come back. You had been living like a parasite in his domain for weeks, relying on him as your wounds slowly mended. How many times had he stayed up to cool your fevers, or told you to sit down when you had been on your ankle for too long? When would it be too much for him? When would he want you gone?

You had never had another person before. Sure, Dream was your friend and partner, but the two of you lived independently of each other. Techno had gained your respect and trust within a short amount of time and you hated to admit that you liked having him around.

But was it the same for him?

You pulled your knees to your chest, hugging the fabric tighter around you as you dug your nose into its velvety coloring. It smelled like Techno, a mix of pine and sage. It quelled your neediness for his presence. You debated whether or not your worry was because of your obsession with his impression of you, or the fact that he was the first person that had let you rely on them.

The blizzard grew stronger with each passing second, and you were a hairline fracture away from throwing on a jacket and searching the snowbanks for him. Your mind darted to if packing your belongings and getting out of his hair would be the option. Clearing out before he had to tell you to leave seemed almost like the better idea; the possibility of gaining back your independence secretly made you melancholy.

With that, the image of Dream came to you. In the summers when the two of you were hunkered down against a rotting log looking for one of the King’s enemies, you could practically smell the sunlight on his skin. His freckles would darken, and his blond hair would shine as if it were a ray in and of itself. If you let yourself, you could feel his green eyes on you, watching as you would dip your knife in a tranquilizing agent if your target were to be delivered alive. He would always wander into your root cellar, running his fingers along the hanging rosemary and strands of lavender.

He would always pitch the idea of poisoning the King and running away to grow mushrooms in the forest together. For most of your time as accomplices, it seemed like the perfect life but as his brain became infatuated with the poison of power and majesty, it seemed a distant fantasy only to be left for the wind.

The door opened abruptly, Techno stomping out his boots as he kicked the entranceway shut. He shook the snow from his clothing, and you pushed yourself to stand. He grabbed one of the candles, using it to light a few of the others beside the door and blowing into his cold hands for more warmth.

You approached him, leaning on the doorframe as he pulled off his cloak. “You made it back,” you chirped, hoping to mask the utter relief washing through your body. His ruby eyes flashed to you, a softness in them that warmed your heart.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, reaching one of his hands out to you to angle the cut on your face towards him. He inspected that cut at least three times a day and if you would let yourself indulge on the thought, it might have just been an excuse to touch you.

His fingers were cold against your jaw, but you had to restrain your urge to lean into his gentle touch as his eyes grazed over the cut. “Better,” you answered with a light sigh. He looked as if he were holding back something from you, something that was plaguing his conscience.

He pulled away from you reluctantly, digging into the bag he had tossed on the table. His knuckles were red from the cold, the stack of letters in his hands appearing almost pure white. There were specks of blood sprinkled on the edge of the stack. “We found another mercenary searching for you,” he let out a soft chuckle. “I know what to look for now,” he mumbled; a small ode to you. The pair of you stared at the envelopes in his hand. “These are for you,” he added, holding them out for you. There was a seal on the last one, the design mimicking the symbol on your shoulder as it wrapped around the letter ‘D.’

You swallowed, hesitantly taking them from him. He watched you carefully as you examined them, your hands shaking from the anticipation of what was in them and why there were so many. “Did you read them?” You asked; the pads over your finger tracing over the broken seal of the top one.

He shook his head. “Only enough to find out they were for you,” he assured. You trusted that fact. “I’ll leave you alone with them. I need to clean up anyway,” he illustrated, eyes scanning you as you stared down at them. He seemed to have a hesitancy to him as if he were reluctantly giving them to you, wanting to know what it meant for your future.

You nodded slowly, unable to find more words as you threaded the dark green ribbon binding them together through your fingers. Your stomach churned, knotting together as if you were awaiting punishment.

As you sank into one of the chairs, Techno left your side wearily, looking over his shoulder at you before closing the door behind him. You opened the letter he had already seen after counting at least eight letters in the stack. Your mind got fuzzy after eight. The seal was dusted with soft gold. You had always found random flowers to give the appearance of wealth and prestige to your letters when you were sending them back and forth to each other. You figured that it was real gold this time since the color didn’t stain your skin while you brushed over it.

Your heart hammered in your ears, thumb drawing against the blood that had seeped through as you read his words, his voice whispering in your ear with each curl of his handwriting.

The next letter sounded similar, detailing what had become of some of your old teams and idols. He had removed the mad King’s advisors, flushing them with his own. Each word you read weighed heavy on your heart until you figured you couldn’t take any more of the venom in his ink. The sickening nature of him begging for your return made your nerves flip. He was an old friend of yours, brought up through the orphanages as your twin practically, but that didn’t mean you trusted the man that he had grown into being. The boy you had once known was now in shreds, held together by the façade he was hiding behind.

You stood, throwing the letters into the fire and standing back, breathing rigid into your chest. Your ankle began to ache, but you couldn’t seem to bring yourself to look away. With Dream’s threats, you knew you had to leave.

“He calls you ‘hemlock,’” Techno mumbled, his voice coming out in a questioning tone, hesitant of overstepping the unspoken boundaries the two of you had set for each other. He played with his fingers, back pressed against the wall behind him as he avoided stepping into your space. He gave you an emotionless look as if refusing to show his true feelings on the situation. You weren’t sure what he thought of you after diving into that letter. “Almost like you’re some kind of…” he paused, chewing on his lip as his eyes fell to the hardwood floor and then back to your gaze. “Malice,” he finished.

Your mouth grew dry, feeling small and vulnerable in front of him. You inhale deeply, attempting to steady your nerves. “It’s always been some kind of joke for him,” you responded. You weren’t sure if you were defending Dream or fishing for Techno’s assurance.

He nodded. “It’s not very funny, is it?” You shook your head quickly, suddenly finding it difficult not to cry. It had been too long of a day for you. Techno watched you, surveying eyes waiting for you to ground yourself.

He took a few steps, sitting down and motioning you toward him. You silently took a seat at his feet, eyes trained on the fire in front of you as his scent surrounded you. You crossed your legs, taking a deep breath once again. His hands moved into your hair, softly running his fingers along the crown of your head as he separated your short locks. His touch was gentle and calming, brushing against your ear as he braided.

You closed your eyes, letting him relax you and bring you back from your frizzled edges. He was quiet while he worked, your mind silencing to only focus on his fingers. You could swear that you had never felt more at ease than you did then. “Thank you,” you whispered, voice barely audible, worry that if you spoke louder he would hear the extent of your distress.

His hands moved to your shoulders, finished with his words as his fingers rolled against the knots forming. You settled your cheek against his hand. “I’m not going to ask for an explanation,” he began, his thumb pressing between your shoulder blades in a sensitive spot. You focused back on the flames, eyelids feeling heavy. “But I need to know if you’re okay.”

You mulled over his words as he loosened the tension weighing on your mind. “I’m okay.”

⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫

The next morning, you were setting your plates on the counter, listening to Techno chop wood outside. The front door clicked open in a rush, a man stepping inside and throwing off his hood. His brown eyes bore into you with a wave of lingering anger you recognized in the eyes of someone when you had been on the other end of their blade. He was increasingly tall, like Techno, but his features were more child-like and innocent, apart from his eyes.

He went after you, lunging for your body as you swiveled out of his path, grabbing onto the knife beside you. Your fingers gripped onto the back of his collar, pinning him to the table with a loud thud. The blade was resting against his throat as the two of you panted, him from being caught off guard and you from being dormant for so long.

He gritted his teeth as you pressed the blade tighter to his neck. “Who are you?” You bit. His Adam’s apple bobbled against the metal as he swallowed, catching his breath.

“I see you two have met,” Techno called, a tired look in his eyes as he spotted the man beneath you.

The brunet chuckled, the sound coming out more like a frustrating example of fear than a true laugh. “I like your new guard dog, Tech,” he mumbled, spitting at you. You pursed your lips, striking the blade against his cheek to draw a bit of blood and making him wince.

Techno rested his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms. The man’s hand reached to brush the collar of your shirt to the side, his eyes focusing on the branded symbol on your shoulder. His breath was warm against your chest as his expression changed. You continued to glare at him. “It really is her, isn’t it?” He muttered, betrayal evident in his tone. You searched his face as his eyes met yours.

“This is Wilbur,” Techno stated, moving towards the two of you. You pulled away from him, letting him up as Techno stood beside you. Wilbur’s hand reached up to brush away the line of blood trickling from his fresh wound.

Wilbur straightened up, digging into his pocket to pull out a wadded-up piece of paper. He unfolded it slapping it on the table where he had just been laid out by you. Bold letters spelled out the terms of your arrest and the price on your head. There was a crude drawing of what you used to look like staring back at you as you took half a step behind Techno’s arm.

Wilbur stiffened and it hit you. He wasn’t actually after you rather than worried for Techno’s safety. Concern was painted across his face at just how close the two of you were standing as he gestured to the Wanted poster. “I’m not sure what she’s told you, but I know I’m right,” he pleaded. It struck you that the two had previously discussed trading you into the authorities. You weren’t surprised, mainly because before you knew Techno, you would have done the same. “Think of the money. You could actually retire. Give up babysitting-“

Techno cut him off. “No,” he answered flatly, shocking you. “We’ve already talked about this.” You stepped back, leaning against the counter to relieve the weight on your ankle. Techno peered over his shoulder briefly, as if feeling you step away from him.

Wilbur shook his head in disbelief. “They’re going to continue to look for her. It’s not safe.”

Techno shrugged, indifferent towards the look Wilbur was giving him. It made you sick to think of the divide you were causing. “We’ll get her name changed then.”

You raised your eyebrows as Techno chuckled, moving to finish your job as Wilbur looked between the two of you. “Yeah, and how are you going to accomplish that?”

Without a beat, Techno replied, “I guess I’ll marry her.”

Your breath hitched, facing flushing a deep red, but before you could reply, someone else barged in; a blond panting slightly as he doubled over to catch his breath. The two men looked upon the boy, waiting for him to stop wheezing. “Tommy, go home. It’s not safe here,” Wilbur commented. His gaze shifted to you. “Techno’s harboring a murderer.”

So, this was Techno’s famous Tommy; a boy barely older than sixteen and tall enough that he could knock your head off your shoulders with a flex of his elbow.

“Wilbur, we can’t give her up. Who knows what will happen,” he groaned, standing up and putting his arms above his head. You wondered just how far he had run to get to Techno’s. “You weren’t there when we found her.” He looked to the side, giving you a half-wave as he attempted to steady his breathing. If they weren’t discussing such intricate matters, you would have giggled at him.

Instead, you cleared your throat. “I’m leaving soon anyway. There’s no need-“

Techno interrupted you. “No. No one’s going anywhere, okay?” He sighed. “Obviously, we can handle ourselves. If not, at least let her get back on her feet before you excommunicate her from my house, Wilbur,” he adjudicated, his tone quipping as if to suggest that Wilbur’s opinion on the matter wasn’t holding water. “Tommy’s right anyway. You don’t know what it was like.”

Wilbur chewed the inside of his cheek, glaring at you. You felt hot and uncomfortable under his gaze as if he were hexing you secretly. He sighed, grabbing onto Tommy’s arm as he brushed past you, knocking into your sore side. “One wrong move and I’ll kill you,” he stated. You could tell he wasn’t normally such an antagonist, and you respected his devotion to Techno.

You nodded. “I’ll let you.”

Tag List: (to be added, please follow this link :))

@udontneedtokno @cyanflowers @more-like-reyna @deepestofwaters @sparkletash @aroyaldarknessbr @camerondiaz48104 @madsbbg @victory-is-here @valkyrieidunn @cdizzlevalntyne @simpforblockguys @ribbitsworld @victoria-a567 @miiilliiee @thegirlwhowritesawksh-t @roryann04 @book-of-anarchy @lightdreamy @hiccupofttea @wreny24 @deepestofwaters @exenestea

[pretty-well-funded]

it’s always kind of funny to me when there’s a panic flaring up over “fandom dying.”

let me tell you something as a fandom old: it doesn’t die. it *moves*, every few years. people change to a new fandom, people find a new platform, people get busy or get writer’s block and drop away for a while - if you’re lucky, they come back.

fandom CHANGES, and sometimes in a way you don’t like. I still miss lj - not the platform, they sucked ass, but the community ties that I felt which tumblr never really helped me cultivate. tumblr has its upsides though. we gained gifsets and moodboards, it seems, at the expense of vids and episode transcripts - c’es la vie

fandom will change. some of it will make you sad, but other things will make you happy. you just have to ride it, because under no circumstances will you be able to stop things from moving on. scores of posts chiding people and begging them to adopt old behavior are pointless - they will not help. I have never once seen the tide reverse.

and you’d be surprised how many of the catastrophic changes are just an ebb and a flow you’ll see again and again if you stick around long enough.

we are obsessive people. we’re creative people. there are always going to be people like that, and they’re always going to find each other and nerd out and create. so shall it ever be.

[thisweekingundamwing]

This Week in Gundam Wing (May 19-25, 2019)

Blog link:

https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thisweekingundamwing

Hello! I hope the week finds you well. Thank you for all your contributions!

Mod Duointherain

May 20 - 26, 2019

Fanfiction: 

Doctormegalomania, Eldritch Holiday Ch 20   https://doctormegalomania.tumblr.com/post/185041737678/eldritch-holiday-creature-of-the-night

There’s something wrong with Happiness. Duo doesn’t know what...

Duointherain, Beneath

Ch 7 https://duointherain.tumblr.com/post/185059008499/fic-beneath-7

Heero saves Duo after he falls back into the lake

Ch 8 https://duointherain.tumblr.com/post/185138585664/beneath-8

Well, that didn’t go as expected... Relena calls her mom.

Fanart: 

@ana-karenina-blog https://ana-karenina-blog.tumblr.com/post/140551670066/gundam-wing-pilots-i-was-recently-re-watching

Lovely pretty boys! :)

@Blancaxlobo https://blancaxlobo.tumblr.com/post/185103760741/one-of-the-most-unfortunate-hairstyle-designs-in

Duo and Trowa - unfortunate hair designs

@Chronicwhimsy https://chronicwhimsy.tumblr.com/post/157288516047/fapuary-day-14-gundam-high-school-host-club-i

The Gundam Boys host club!

@Gundayum  https://gundayum.tumblr.com/post/184983150346/okay-at-least-drool-outside-and-water-the

Hilde and Duo (dad bod Duo) taking a comfy nap!

@Gundayo https://gundayo.tumblr.com/post/185027035406/quatre-raberba-winner-52019-done-with-ugee

Beautiful Quatre

@lookitsmorefandomtrash https://lookitsmorefandomtrash.tumblr.com/post/184031207265/this-occurred-to-me-once-in-a-dream

Duo vs Duolingo - There will be blood!

@SapphireGamgee https://www.deviantart.com/sapphiregamgee/art/Seekers-795155096

Seekers - Trowa, Duo, WuFei, Quatre, Heero, Ryoga

@Snuffie https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/snufffie/134314772065

Heero and Trowa Baking

@bluesquishylemon https://bluesquishylemon.tumblr.com/post/185076915502/title-wufei-sketch-source-gundam-wing-character

Classic sketch of Wufei

@yaboycoach  https://yaboycoach.tumblr.com/post/185104301367/gundam-leg-sleeve-start-51819

Super cool Heero tattoo

Cosplay: (in Alphabetical order by blogger’s url)

@exasperatedagent https://exasperatedagent.tumblr.com/post/184969923943

Une and Noin, in a very cool cosplay

Photosets/Screenshots: (in Alphabetical order by blogger’s url)

@Bluesquishlemon https://bluesquishylemon.tumblr.com/post/184929642507/title-i-used-to-be-sweet-inspired-by

A lovely pic of Quatre - I used to be sweet, until life hit me in the face.

@Wingslanding  https://wingslanding.tumblr.com/post/184951390986/im-a-little-obsessed-i-mean-passionate

photo of manga and art, Heero/Relena

Chats/Dialogs/Discussions: 

@Cinderellaincombatboots https://cinderellaincombatboots.tumblr.com/post/84701884994/a-soldier-of-peace-lucrezia-noin-episode-04-the

An interesting discussion about Noin

@Cinderellaincombatboots https://cinderellaincombatboots.tumblr.com/post/83201371025/episode-03-five-gundams-confirmed-trowa-barton

Trowa and Quatre meet for the first time

@Helmsmistress https://helmistress.tumblr.com/post/184951251024/how-fanon-becomes-canon

It was bad chili... how to make Frozen Teardrop canon.

@Lemontrash https://lemontrash.tumblr.com/post/185103417709/game-night

Only Duo could roll a 20 for getting done by the devil...

Quotes: 

@gundaaamn  https://gundaaamn.tumblr.com/post/185136231062/quatre-i-heard-you-like-bad-boys-trowa

Maybe not that kind of bad, Q...

@Incorrectgundamwing quotes

Heero and Trowa - some dancing at a bar: https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/184957186214/heero-being-carried-out-of-bar-by-bouncers

Duo and Trowa discuss sandwiches and Quatre https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/184995991408/duo-you-ever-ate-something-so-good-that-like

Dorothy thinks we’re all extras https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185029699177/dorothy-out-of-my-way-extras-zechs-stop

Heero promises to kill Relena ... this time. Going to be hard to do with a teddy bear. https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185025017284/doctor-j-and-you-will-definitely-kill-relena-this

Duo and Relena discuss Heero’s mental health, or lack thereof https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185020068827/relena-you-dont-want-heero-to-die-relena-and

Heero does not know the bright side... https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185000573538/heero-look-on-the-bright-side-quatre-heero

Heero and Trowa - Did you miss me? https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185008999206/trowa-undercover-did-you-miss-me-heero-i-have

Zechs who? https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/184980645248/at-preventers-hq-sally-duo-you-need-to-stop

Hilde’s in labor, married to Duo, she’s got a lot to do. https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185044179958/911-operator-whats-your-emergency-duo-my

Alpha!Heero during the wars... https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185053522384/i-understand-that-ft-is-a-dumpster-fire-and-that

Bubble wrap safety for everyone! https://noirangetrois.tumblr.com/post/185042675656/terrablaze514-incorrectgundamwingquotes

Life’s a freak show https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185118145541/quatre-whats-a-freak-show-trowa-its-like-our

Dorothy’s notifications https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185148104337/dorothy-is-she-crying-is-she-crying-sylvia

Zechs may have a head injury https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185122051486/zechs-pointing-at-noin-thats-my-girlfriend

Insufferable People https://gundayum.tumblr.com/post/185067883091/incorrectgundamwingquotes-heero-about-the

Illegal contacts https://janaverse.tumblr.com/post/185068368388/incorrectgundamwingquotes-quatre-you-have

Cold Hearts https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185033256206/at-the-antarctica-base-heero-im-cold

MoodBoards/Aesthetics: (in Alphabetical order by blogger’s url)

@janaverse https://janaverse.tumblr.com/post/185137327258/this-is-my-actual-license-plate-with-the-location

Heero and Duo

Heero and Duo again: https://janaverse.tumblr.com/image/185107799718

Stickies from Heero: https://janaverse.tumblr.com/post/185134611013

No Idea What To Put This Under: 

@christianmswanson  GW opening Remix: https://christianmswanson.tumblr.com/post/184938390981/extended-version-of-the-previous-post-i-know

Revisit the opening, with the EW gundams.

@bobo-is-tha-bomb https://bobo-is-tha-bomb.tumblr.com/post/185090557001/the-building-drive-is-big-lol-after-completing

Lovely new Sandrock model

Calendar Events: 

This Week In Gundam Wing Events: https://thisweekingundamevents.tumblr.com/post/185146959405/mini-bang-rules

Mini Bang Rules! Theme for this Bang: Unorthodox Undercover Work

This Week in Gundam Wing Events: https://thisweekingundamevents.tumblr.com/post/185146909570/mini-bang-results

Voting results are in!

Event name, host, and link

dates

News: 

News: AnimeNewsNetwork, Anime Limited Acquires Gundam Wing, Char's Counterattack https://www.animenewsnetwork.com/news/2019-05-24/anime-limited-acquires-gundam-wing-char-counterattack/.147089

[wonderlustlucas]

honey - na jaemin

⇢ prompt Mara Dyer and Noah Shaw kind of love. ⇢ pairing jaemin x female reader ⇢ word count 3.9k ⇢ genre fluff ⇢ warnings an ungodly amount of fluff ⇢ summary Everyone knows Jaemin is a flirt, but only a few are lucky to truly know him. The luckiest have his love.—highschool!au ; unintentional noah shaw!au ⇢ a/n sorry for not posting anything for awhile! life’s been pretty crazy and prob will be for another month or so, but once school’s over i should be posting a lot more!! i have a lot of ideas & i would love to take requests just kno they won't be out for awhile lol:)) also i couldn't choose between these 2 gifs so i kept both hahahsahdjdfjdf ALSO PART 2 this is a late edit but,,,this is based off an american school system in case there’s confusion

moodboard

It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that Na Jaemin was an outright flirt.

Everything about him was charming in their own special way—from his very infamous beaming smile, to big brown eyes dazzling with mischief, gentle features but impeccably jovial personality, Jaemin broke hearts left and right simply by existing.

Just like the majority of those who found themselves in the unknowing hands of Jaemin, you brought it upon yourself. While you could have listened to the sensible part of your brain, telling you he was more than out of your league, something about Jaemin unexplainably drew you in and locked you there forever. And while it could have ended with a broken heart, one thing led to another and you couldn't help but feel as if it was meant to be.

Your first meeting with Jaemin was enough to have your curiosity peaked. It had been your second day at the new school, having recently moved and, evidently, needing to transfer. As if you weren't stressed enough, your locker wouldn't open.

You struggled in rushed aggravation, curling sweaty fingers around the knob and yanking as if, even after your past attempts, it would miraculously open. “I hate everything,” you hissed between breaths, twisting your wrist awkwardly in order to slip your fingertips through the cracks and somehow, someway, pop the door open.

You growled, slamming a first on the red metal with a thunderous bang because it was only your second day and you could not be late to a class for the fifth time.

You groaned obnoxiously, banging your forehead against the cold metal and accepting the fact that your life was just about worthless now—you contemplated just dropping out, giving up everything, and raising goats for the rest of your life.

“Are you alright?”

Every muscle of your body froze at the sudden voice, and when you glanced up in the direction you swallowed hard because wow, he was cute, but brushed it off and offered a weak smile. “My locker won't open,” you admitted, cringing at how pathetic the entirety of your predicament was.

However, the redhead replied with a beaming grin that reached his eyes and you nearly toppled over at just how gorgeous he was. Was it even allowed to be that attractive? You were stunned. “Lemme see,” he said, inching closer and you instinctively moved back in fear he would hear the rapid beating of your heart.

You ogled at him mindlessly as he fiddled with the shitty metal, rosebud lips pursed and defined eyebrows scrunched in concentration. Your gaze wandered to his hair, and you asked without thinking, “Are you naturally a ginger?”

He glanced up for a second, tearing his attention away from your locker and averting it to you, an impression of sweetness like vanilla pudding gracing his features. “No,” he chuckled, “it’s just dye.”

“Looks good,” you uttered back with red hotness burning up your neck, looking down at your feet even after he turned back around.

“C’mere,” he instructed seconds later, “put your knee here and push.” You did as he said, trying to sweep away the fact that he suddenly was incredibly close and instead focused on putting your weight against the metal where he pointed to.

With a strong bang against the top, Redhead managed to, somehow, pop the door open and you leaped back. “I would've never managed to do that,” you gushed, “thank you so much. I owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Redhead with a satisfied grin, and you spun around to fetch the books you came for in the first place, quietly aware of the fact that he hadn't walked away yet.

“What’s your name?” He asked suddenly and you jumped in surprise, completely and utterly flustered by his presence. There was something about him that you couldn't put a finger on, something luxurious and warm like hot tea in the dead of winter. You told him, of course, heart thumping so wildly you feared a heart attack was possible when yet another charming smile graced his face.

“I’m Jaemin,” he replied, “I guess you’re new?”

“Sadly, yes. It’s, uh, nice to meet you, despite the circumstances,” you said in hushed awkwardness, laughing quietly and mentally slapping yourself for being so cringey.

“Yeah, you too,” he smiled again, “are your fingers okay?”

“What?” You laughed shakily.

You watched in quiet admiration as he reached out and gently took hold of your free hand. “Oh,” you shrugged, forcing a smile when he pinched the crimson indent on the pad of your index finger, “that’s just from trying to get the locker open. It’ll go away.”

“Alright,” said Jaemin, big brown eyes twinkling, “I’ll see you around?” 

“Sure—yeah,” you said, forcing your brain to start functioning once he let go of your hand like one would slap the television remote, “I’ll see you.”

You spun around abruptly and sped down the hall, clutching the textbook for dear life and a heavy sigh escaped your lips because holy shit. However, once you were at the end of the hallway, you made the mistake of turning around for a split second and glancing back.

The gorgeous locker-busting master was still standing there, a lazy smile displayed on his pretty face.

A few hours later, you found yourself sitting at a lunch table with a group of girls you hardly considered acquaintances, sluggishly loosening ramen in its cheap plastic cup.

“So, how’s your second day going so far?”

After a few seconds deemed way longer than necessary, you finally processed the words and realized they were meant for you. “Oh,” you coughed, shrugging and pausing your lazy ramen mixing to look up at the four girls, “it’s okay, I’m just tired.”

“Tell me about it,” said Hayley, the pretty brunette with lively hazel eyes you became especially fond of. “Have you met any more people?”

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you mumbled nonchalantly, “Jaemin’s, his name.”

All four suddenly looked at you with wide eyes and you shrunk back in your seat. “Jaemin?” They whispered in unison.

“Uh, yeah?”

They suddenly catapulted questions at you all at once, asking for a slew of details you, sadly, didn’t have. Once they calmed down, you told them of your brief encounter with the boy before asking, “Why’re you acting like it’s the end of the world?”

“He’s the cutest guy in our class.”

“In the school, you mean.”

“That’s a lie, Donghyuck is the cutest.”

“It doesn't matter! They’re all cute!”

“Jaemin is like, the cutest guy ever. And he’s such a sweetheart.”

“No way, he’s a total bad boy like the rest of them. Have you seen him at parties?”

A sigh of disinterest slipped past your lips and you went back to plopping kimchi into the steaming cup. “So, I’m assuming he’s a pretty big heartthrob around here?” You asked, slurping at the noodles and glancing back up at the girls.

“Oh, yeah. I don't know if he does it purposely, but he’s such a flirt. Everyone has been obsessed with Jaemin at one point,” the stout blonde, Daisy, said, “it’s kind of hard not to.”

You grunted in response. It’s not that you were disappointed—there was no reason to be—but hearing that the redhead’s overall beauty was already established throughout the school and that he wasn’t some shy, mysterious boy no one paid any mind to was more or less, well, disappointing.

Your second major interaction with Jaemin was puzzling in its own way. And the more you mulled over it, the more your brain became a spinning top. While you had seen him more than once during and in between classes offering quiet small talk, this was different, personal, special—no matter how long and hard you tried forgetting about it, something about the way he talked and acted was absolutely unforgettable and you couldn't stop thinking about him and that you may have stumbled upon a side of Jaemin no one else knew.

It was a Saturday night, you were home alone, glaring at the remaining boxes left in your room and discerning whether you wanted to unpack its contents. You had put it off for over a week, but the thought of having to do anything of that sort was incredibly unappealing.

Instead, you struggled into a pair of jeans and slipped on sneakers before making your way down to the garage, hopping on your bike, and speeding away with no specific destination in mind.

The bustling part of town was only ten minutes away and it didn’t take long to stumble into a shop that was still open and seemed somewhat interesting. The bookstore was small, wedged between two taller brick buildings, but warm and cozy in its own simple way. Leaving your bike locked outside, you pushed open the door and a bell jingled, notifying whoever was inside of your presence. Not surprisingly, it was empty from what you could see, and the few lights within the rosy-colored space showered the shelves with a pleasant glow that in some way made it feel like home.

It was almost eight-thirty, and you expected that the quaint store would be closing soon so you made a beeline for what you wanted. That is if they had it.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long, and you were incredibly excited that you may have, in fact, found your favorite place in this so far shitty town.

“A Separate Peace?”

You jumped, cold shivers racing down your spine at the inquiry and you spun in the direction. It was a sequel to your locker predicament, apparently, because the only redhead you had met so far was standing only a few feet away, hands deep in his pockets and looking gorgeous as always.

“You’ve read it?” You asked, ignoring the bugging curiosity within you to know whether he worked here or not and swallowing the lump of nervousness lodged in your throat.

“Have you?”

“Yeah, a few times,” you said, completely entranced with the way the warm glow of the lights made Jaemin look so incredibly unreal. “It’s a good one,” he commented, reaching for the novel in your hands and you reluctantly let him take it, “not my favorite, though.”

“What is?”

“I don’t know, honestly. I have too many,” Jaemin shrugged with a gentle smile, handing the book back to you, “how ‘bout you?”

“No, but I find myself going back to it,” you admitted, finally taking notice of the round, copper glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose, “it has a really deep meaning that I like, I guess.”

“Have you ever read Lord of the Flies?” He asked suddenly.

“Of course. It’s a little depressing, don’t you think?”

Jaemin shrugged, “It’s realistic though. Our species is pretty shitty.” You pondered his statement and shrugged as well. “I think it was just because it was all boys,” you teased, grinning back at him when he rolled his eyes with a snicker. Without replying, Jaemin wrapped his hand around your wrist and led you to the back of the shop, the sudden act finally reminding you of just who you were talking to and an immediate blush burned its way up your cheeks.

Jaemin stopped at the back corner of the store, where an incredibly small wooden coffee table and two leather sofas, each embellished with small patches absent of leather and old pillows that reminded you of something you’d find at a yard sale, sat surrounded by more towering bookshelves. “Do you want hot chocolate?”

You finally glanced back to him, heart swelling in your chest at his kindness before nodding at his question. “What else have you read?” He asked, fidgeting with the Keurig machine hidden on the bottom shelf of the coffee table. “I don’t know, there’s a lot. Have you ever heard of the Mara Dyer trilogy?”

“I have not. Is that your favorite?”

“Yeah, that’s my favorite,” you replied, settling onto the couch and immediately moving your hand to pick at one of the tears in the leather, studying Jaemin with a certain curiosity as he searched through novels on the closest oak bookcase.

“What about this?” He asked suddenly, tossing the novel to you and luckily you were quick enough to catch it. Your mouth went slack once you realized it was the first book of Fifty Shades of Grey. “No. Have you ever read the Bible?” You fired back, blushing furiously but still glaring at him playfully.

This became a regular occurrence. At first you went in once a week just to buy a new book once you had, in fact, learned that he worked at the quiet store, but by the increasing number of visits every week it soon became clear that visiting the tiny store had more to do with the gorgeous boy working inside rather than the endless supply of novels. He’d wait to close the shop until you arrived late in the evening, hot chocolate already made and mind buzzing with thoughts about the newest book you had recommended.

The same went for you—it was an unspoken agreement to suggest new books to one another each week and return days later with thoughts about them. It had started when you caught him slipping The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer into his locker and flashed a knowing smile, which he rolled his eyes in return. A few days later, he noticed the covers of both The Great Gatsby and Wuthering Heights in your book bag and teased you nonstop.

You knew Jaemin for four months when he came into school one day with his hair dark brown, the color of espresso and chocolate and amounting to make him look much older and maturer than he had with the diluted strawberry brown. It was a surprise on that Monday morning—you hadn’t seen him at all that weekend, too preoccupied with a slew of homework to find any time to head downtown.

However, you had made it a point to call him and vent to him about your thoughts on Paper Towns, but he never mentioned the change of hair color during your hour call. And so, to see him so... so hot, even dressed in the preppy school uniform, made your skin crawl because Jaemin wasn't hot. Jaemin was cute and innocent and precious like a puppy. This.

This was different.

You were waiting at your locker, as usual, green tea in hand for him because Jaemin hated sociology first period, scrolling through Instagram with your free hand. It was the quiet hush of whispers followed by the obnoxious hoot from who you assumed are Jaemin’s friends that made you glance up, taking a slow sip of the tea just to annoy him. Lord knows, he did not like sharing his green tea or chocolate milk.

However, when he finally rounded the corner and came into full view, your heart literally, one hundred percent stopped and you suddenly forgot how to breathe. How was it that he always had to shock you? For a while, you had more or less became desensitized, say, to Jaemin’s perfection by becoming such good friends. Of course, it was impossible to not be attracted to him, but you had drilled it into your head that he was unarguably untouchable and settled that friends were better than nothing.

He sauntered his way over, running slender fingers through the new dark locks, completely oblivious to the stares he was getting before snatching the tea from your grip before you could steal another sip. “You dyed your hair,” was all you said.

“You bashed Paper Towns,” he fired back, inching closer but you barely noticed, too preoccupied fiddling with a strand of his hair in admiration. “I did not, I told you I liked it, I just wished Margo was included m—”

He kissed you.

It completely caught you off guard, you certainly weren't expecting it, having to swallow the rest of your sentence and drop your hands to grip at his fleece sweater because holy shit, he was kissing you.

Your brain short-circuited for a moment before kickstarting once more and you finally kissed him back, it was chaste and achingly raw and he pulled away before you could even process what you were doing.

You were embarrassed that your lips followed his, eager for his gentle touch and the softness of his velvet lips on yours again, but a bright grin from him settled your nerves and you were suddenly hit with the weight of your actions.

“You just kissed me,” you accused, jabbing a finger into his chest but snaking your other hand up to lay across his shoulders. “You were staring really hard, I thought it was a good opportunity,” he replied, a lackadaisical smile softening his pretty features.

“Okay,” you whispered, reaching up once more to touch his hair, “people are staring, you know.”

“Let them,” he grinned fully this time, dipping down again and pressing yet another quick kiss to your lips and you swore you never wanted to taste or feel anything else again.

The first bell rang obnoxiously and you winced, cursing the school for ruining the moment and having to keep yourself from frowning when Jaemin pulled away, even though his fingers were intertwined with yours. When did that happen?

“I’ll see you?” He asked, smiling in such a fond way you couldn’t help but smile back.

“Yeah, I’ll see you.”

The slew of questions hurled at you from both friends and strangers after that was expected, but what was more disappointing was that you didn't know.

Were the two of you dating? Talking? You didn’t know.

Since when was there something between the two of you? You didn’t know.

Was that kiss just a spur of the moment kind of thing? You didn’t know.

Or was it the beginning of something more? You didn’t know and it was starting to drive you insane. After a full week of school and no mention from either of you about whatever happened on that Monday morning, you found yourself lying in bed, wondering what the fuck was going on?

Jaemin acted as if nothing had ever happened and you hesitantly went on with it, hoping it would come up again but it never did. You didn’t go to the bookstore that week either, replying to his texts that you didn’t have time and he luckily didn't question it.

However, fate always had a way.

Saturday night, Hayley managed to get you to leave the house for some party you truly had no interest in. She claimed that you could use some drinks to get your mind off the entire situation no matter how hard you expressed to her that napping would have just the same effect.

The social event in itself reminded you of a dingy middle school basement party, fun for those who made the effort and impeccably boring for those who just watched and did not want to be there in the first place. The music was so loud it made your skin tingle and brain turn to mush, you could barely hear what Hayley whispered in your ear before she disappeared into the crowd jumping like Tic-Tacs being shaken in its container.

You sighed sadly, leaning into the counter and gazing over the multitude of drink options before loud laughter stole your attention and you glanced up. You were more than awestruck to see Jaemin decked out in white joggers and a white tee shirt, but what really shocked you was to witness his friends cheer him on as he chugged whatever liquor was in the glass bottle held to his lips.

I guess the rumors are true, you wondered, recalling all the times you heard of how hard Jaemin and his circle partied.

Jaemin suddenly pulled the bottle away with a grimace and shoved it into Jeno’s arms. Before he could walk away, Chenle grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him in close, and seconds later, Jaemin spun around and found you across the room, smiling brightly but it quickly fell because wow, since when did you wear tube tops? He was sauntering over in a blink of an eye, and it happened all too fast before you until Jaemin was standing just inches away.

“I didn’t realize you were such a skilled drinker,” you commented, raising a brow at his clouded expression. “I didn’t know you wore such revealing clothes,” he retorted, voice surprisingly clear and you presumed that was his first drink. “Shut up, Jaemin.”

“I never said I didn’t like it,” he grumbled, quieting for moment to fight an internal battle before finally caving in and reaching out to wrap his arms gently around your waist.

Needless-to-say, you were uncomfortable around Jaemin for the first time since you had met him.

The urge to kiss him was borderline unbearable, but the voices deep within you reminded you of just who it was and how he never once brought up your first kiss. And yet, here he was, the alcohol not fully in effect, pulling you into him and resting his forehead against yours.

“We should talk. About things,” you stammered out, heart beating sporadically and brain not fully functioning when he looked at you with all the wonder in the world within his big brown eyes. “Not tonight, but soon,” he sighed, lifting his head and instead tugging you into a hug, “I love you.”

Your heart stopped beating. The music stopped roaring. The students stopped dancing. The world stopped rotating. The universe and everything in it completely stopped.

He what?

“What?” You laughed shakily, leaning backward to look at his pretty face once more and finding not a trace of laughter. “You heard me. I love you,” he smiled softly.

“Jaemin, don’t say that. High school relationships are dumb, it’s all bullshit. Love is a very dangerous thing, you can't just throw that out there,” you stammered, not realizing you were holding onto his arms with an iron grip until he took your hands in his.

“Good thing we’ll be graduating and won’t be in high school much longer then, because I’m absolutely in love with you,” Jaemin whispered, you could feel the genuineness laced in his words and nearly toppled over. He loved you?

You stared at him silently, his confession seeping slowly into the confines of your brain and heart like molasses. It felt somewhat like a dream, like none of him was real and you were only imagining his sincerity and his beauty and his lips. It was soft and sweet like honey the way you kissed him, shutting out the rest of the world and focusing only on him because holy shit, “I love you,” you muttered, pulling him close again and he finally relaxed in your arms.

You loved him. More than you knew you had. Maybe it was when he had kissed you Monday morning in front of everyone you realized you loved him. Or maybe you fell in love with him the first Saturday night at the bookstore, when you drank hot chocolate and talked about novels even though he was a stranger. Or maybe you loved him the first time you met him when he went out of his way to pop open your doomed locker.

Whenever it was, you knew you loved Jaemin and he loved you. And even though humanity was pretty messed up like it is in Lord of the Flies and there should have been more about Margo in Paper Towns, maybe you would have a Mara Dyer and Noah Shaw kind of love forever.

[septembersung]

So I was reading your "new year, new gripes" post, and I wish you would expand more! I struggle with the traditional feminine look - it's on every single post on insta, tumblr - the pastel skirts with the flowery shirts or blouse, softness, sundress, same look. I went to a Catholic feminist talk (it was FANTASTIC and talked about service) and the speaker brought this up, how these show that THIS woman is worthy of Christ, anyone else isn't. How do you think we can change that?

I apologize for the long delay in replying, this got lost in my drafts.

(The post referenced is here.)

In my experience and observation one of the biggest factors in the growth of this particular kind of femininity clique is reactionism, pure and simple. 

Not that every person who’s into it is a reactionary, but in terms of how this movement (for lack of a better word) is gaining social steam, it seems to me a visibly direct response to all the anti-feminine action and rhetoric in the world, including the stuff coming from some self-styled feminists of various brands. 

On the one hand, I think it’s a little bit necessary. Discourse exists at every level, right, and this image is a very strong, very easily seen, nonverbal alternative to much of the nonsense society spews at us. It’s doing some of the elbow-shoving in our image obsessed culture.

On the other hand, people like what’s “easy,” even Catholics, and so we tend to stop there. The problem with this image of femininity is when that’s all there is. Similarly, when all our culture argument is just part of the competing aesthetics elbow-pushing, we can’t transform the culture; we make ourselves one more option within it. 

I think we need more of what’s been gaining steam in the past ten years or so, to be more mainstreamed. As an approach it’s not without its own pitfalls, but if we acknowledge that no one thing is going to appeal to everybody, and take several complementary approaches in concert, then we have something... a little more catholic (small c.) So on the one hand we have the Very Very Feminine Aesthetic, which presents a certain image of how a woman is and dresses, with the skirts and flowers and pastels and long braids or curls and immaculate children and houses all styled in white. 

And on the other hand we have women, single or married, mothers and not mothers, who are just Regular People, being visible and vocal about their experiences. And a lot of these are mommy bloggers or podcasters. These are the women wear jeans and cut and color their hair. They may or may not be into homesteading or homeschooling. There’s a huge spectrum of interests, walks of life, approaches. And they’re all out there, visibly doing and regularly talking publicly, about their lives and how they go about being Catholic and raising their families. I think we need more of that, and to make what is there more visible, to be less pigeonholed (”mommy blog” is such a phrase, you know?)

And one particular subset of this - where we talk about the hardship and the difficulty - should be More Of A Thing. Which is a hard thing to say, because it requires people willing to be bravely vulnerable in a public forum, and there are real concerns about privacy, for the self and the family. For the most part this kind of sharing as it largely exists now is limited to certain special interests communities, like families living with big medical diagnoses or disabilities or infertility. The “real talk” discussions can and should expand in the various communities who don’t have those particular crosses. And, too, we can all strive to be a little more “real”, without getting too much into difficult questions about privacy, just by not whitewashing. Everybody’s tempted, one way or another, on the internet to put on the Perfect Face. And we don’t have to, not all the time. We can be “real” with each other, in different ways depending on the platform and the community. 

I guess I think a lot of this is out there, but it’s not as easily shared as an #aesthetic moodboard, or as findable if you don’t already have some kind of “in” to one of those communities. A tl;dr to your actual question might be: on the ground, we can change the lopsided representation of what “feminine” means by being open ourselves, keeping our eyes open, and not ever believing we’re alone. But we also need to bring more than a reactionary pop-level understanding of the Catholic anthropology of the sexes into the open. How do we do that? That’s a little more complicated.

[acabloe]

Soon Goodbye, Now Love: chapter six

new ppl who r just seeing this it’s a guardian angel A/U

find all the parts here ☟

Ao3   ff.net

tw’s: swearing, mentions of depression and anxiety, loss of memory

still based on this song lol

here is the moodboard for ambience purposes if you’re that kind of kid

a/n: its been very long yada yada please just tell me if you want the next chapter because im stuck in au land, if you would prefer a Jane Austin au literally ill drop everything 

once the lights go out

Higher City, Angel Habitat/Complex - 2:45 AM

Half an hour post-transportation and five hours after Chloe’s accident.

Beca stumbled on her footing as she grasped around the edge of the doorframe, looking for a switch or a pull to shed light into the pitch-black space that expanded beyond the doors of her residence for the next who-knew-how-long.

Her neck whined in an aggravating crick from sitting hunched over Chloe’s bedside for so long and her mind was mushed from the weight of stress, overtiredness, excessive adrenaline usage and above all else, of course--grief. The only thing keeping her from collapsing on the ground in the doorway of this small concrete hallway and weeping herself to sleep was the sentence she continued to recite to herself repetitively under her breath: “Chloe’s alive, everyone’s safe, you’ll be okay.”

She far from even entertained the possibility that the last part was rest assured, but the act of mouthing it repetitively had a numbing effect on her currently fragile mental stamina.

After fumbling for a few seconds, she huffed in exasperation and gave up trying to find a switch. Sleep was the only thing she had the brains to carry out. Deliberation over everything else that had transpired in the past four hours would be performed when her brain was a just little further away from falling apart.

The man at the front desk of the grey building had given her a small but heavy and lumpy grey drawstring rucksack before dropping her off alone in the dingy hall of her new quarters. She set it down by her feet now, using it to prop open the thick black door to let as much light into the room as possible.

Hands outstretched, she shuffled inside and waited until her eyes adapted to the murky black interior. It took a few seconds but eventually the slight outlines of shapes faded into view and she finally spotted what she assumed was a thin standing-lamp in the corner. She stepped blindly towards it and jumped backwards a little when it suddenly flickered on, sensing her hand in the air a few inches before it.

The space was little more than a closet. Beca had little mind to care, too exhausted to be grumpy. Besides, it was pretty comfortable considering her own size. The walls and ceiling were simply white-washed cement and there was a foot by foot square to serve as a window at the farthest wall from the door, though it had little to no effect at this time of the night. She wondered briefly about the concept of daylight here and if there even was sun or moonlight. The sparse furniture was a bed, an old wooden sea-trunk, and a tiny porcelain sink in the corner. Beca placed her rucksack in the trunk and sank onto the stiff but not wholly uncomfortable pallet, lacking any sufficient drive in her to take anything off, including her shoes, or even get under the soft linen sheets. Her eyes fell shut and the relief of deep sleep ebbed impending in her mind’s eye.

Yet her head pounded and her heart still fluttered at a sickening pace under her ribs. She found it increasingly difficult to keep her eyes closed; the image of Chloe, pale and fragile in such a battered state after the accident, had etched itself clearly behind her eyelids. Her breathing was difficult to regulate (she was unsure if this was due to her thinking so deeply on the act of regulating it, or an actual physical anxious reaction) and the room was uncomfortably cold.

She brought her knees to her chest and hugged them tightly. Everything was gone. Everything she and those she loved had worked so hard to build from so little was over and erased without trace. She had trudged heavily from wholly miserable to the happiest she had ever been without ease and certainly not in good time. All of that happiness. Up and gone like passing something eye-catching for its possible beauty in the sand on the beach, but upon running back to find it, its existence is nothing more than imagined.

A distinct memory faded into view. It was more of a moving image (a gif, so to speak) than a memory, but she could hear distant and muffled voices as if she were standing outside the door of a closed cinema to a movie she wasn’t familiar with.

The image was of her and Chloe in their late teens resting under a filter of broken apricot sunset through a canopy of birch leaves shimmering above their heads. Chloe’s head rested on Beca’s shoulder as she ripped up the grass beneath her, spreading it over Beca’s legs like dirty confetti.

She didn’t remember the scene as such. She only knew that it felt real. And that it ached her chest and throat and burned her eyes with the threat of tears.

Now she could no longer withhold the prickling tears and shuddering sobs and resolved that if tiring herself out would be the only route she would be able to take towards a somewhat restful night, she would charge down its’ course at a thousand miles per hour, foot stomped on the gas pedal.

She stretched and bided in the memory as deeply as she could.

Her sobs reverberated softly in the small stone room.

Underneath this, a soft irregular ticking noise sounded from above and outside her window. She ignored it. As it got louder she recognized it to be rain, heavy and sheeted. This prodded her curiosity just enough; still shaking, she stood from the bed and wobbled over to the hand-sized window. Sure enough, though it was dark outside, blue light from a nearby pathway lamp lit up tiny cascading waterfalls down the thick pane.

“How fucking ironic,” she whispered.

-

Chloe called in sick the next day to work. She wasn’t positive why, she simply knew that the exasperation of her most mundane course of existence would eventually wear whatever mere being she had left into the shell of a personality akin to that of a tired old cat.

The events of the past two days had stirred in her a sort of awakening for what it felt like to experience happenstances outside of her citadel of repetitive routine and emotional hibernation. Though it was not the most merry or enjoyable topics to mull over, she found herself wrapped in reflection often and began finding a need to force herself not to dwell on it so much as not to overthink to the point of obsession.

The urge to constantly check in on her odd rescue-project was difficult to quash but necessary. Chloe reminded herself that her relationship was barely visible with this human being--all she had done was let her stay the night and drive her into the city. They had barely even conversed. Still, the event had shaken her, and she had little else to think about. She convinced herself to only inquire into Beca’s situation in two days time when she was sure Beca had become a little more settled. She was confident that Flo was good hands and that she would care for her guest appropriately, especially since now she would be living above the cafe.

Except that Chloe found a bracelet resting on the coffee table by her couch that wasn’t hers. So she kind of had to go back to the cafe. Kind of.

-

It had taken the entire remainder of the day and most of the next to finally situate Beca into a somewhat habitable situation. After Chloe had left, Flo closed up early and she and her new employee spent several hours behind the counter and in the bakery as she showed her the ropes. Beca was happy to see how surprised and pleased Flo was at Beca’s natural agility and skill around the oven and the baked goods. Flo easily taught her to bake the four most popular pastries, specific to her family’s recipes, and how to make four of the simplest drinks on the menu to start out, as well as her way around the cash register. As the day came to a close, they left the cafe to rush their way through several more monotonous but still critical errands like setting up both a bank account and a small, temporary mobile phone. They stopped at Flo’s apartment a few doors down from the cafe before calling it a night and Flo piled Beca’s arms with enough food to last for a week or so. The following morning, Beca set out on her own to blunder her way through a T.J.Maxx and a shopping center to find some clothes that were--well, some clothes. Once she returned to the cafe they worked a little past 6:00 which came oddly fast (her orientation of time and its passing were still muddled and the work at Flo’s came naturally to her.)

Succeeding the whirlwind of toil they had conducted over the past two days, Flo expeditiously suggested that a trip downtown was in order and after twenty minutes of walking briskly through the chill of the celebratory evening, the pair dropped into two rotating stools in a colorfully-lit bar home to some very happy and boisterous company. It had been so long since Beca had had any alcohol, so she ordered the most obnoxious drink on the menu and four jello shots to split between them.

“So, first real day back! How are you feeling?”

Beca sipped her syrupy cocktail and grimaced at the unaccustomed flavor of alcohol.  

“I don’t know. Everything’s kinda’ blurry right now, but my brain is sort of slacking off a little in the staying-awake-during-the-regular-daytime department. The time difference is so much more insane than when you swap from different time zones on earth ‘cause there are an extra four hours of daytime and an extra two of night. There aren’t sunsets either, the sky just goes black for a while which is actually really depressing.”

“Wait, so, do you have, like, powers or anything? Can you fly? You don’t have a halo, right?” Beca again decided to refrain from divulging her distressing ordeal concerning her glowing appendages. She had blissfully forgotten about that situation until Flo had mentioned powers, which threw her in a temporary whirlpool of apprehensive unease.

“Not really, and no, I can’t fly. I mean, I can kinda’ tell when something is wrong with whoever I’m guarding, and I can slow down time by a couple of seconds, but that takes so much energy and I can only use it in emergencies. And you know about bringing the memories back, but that’s only if the memories have been taken away by heaven. They mostly spent time training us how to deal with any situation; so like, CPR, difficult-situation negotiation tactics, advanced martial arts and stuff.”

“Oh. That is boring.”

“Yeah, kind of.” Beca sipped her drink again which was less foul the second round, but still jarring.

“So how does this-” She gesticulated vaguely at Beca’s body which she understood as metaphorical- “work anyways?”

“Oh, well after you die, you can request to be a guardian and they put you through this huge crash course for protecting a human. After training you’re assigned one person to guard on earth for their whole life, starting whenever heaven thinks that person needs the most guidance. Sometimes that means bumping into them and becoming best friends with them or marrying and growing old with them. Sometimes you never even meet them in person, just help them from afar. You do what heaven dictates is best for them, so no complicated attachments. When they die, your memory is replaced in the mind of everyone you’ve ever met as someone else, so no one will recognize you when you go back to earth and you get sent back to heaven and reverted to the age you died to start with another assignment. You can never, um, retire or whatever, and apparently you can only stop once you’ve worn out your brain. And then they, you, know, cease you ‘cause you’re no good to them anymore.”

“Shit.” Flo had sat through staring at the dark brick wall behind the bar with a blank expression enunciating her contemplation of what Beca had revealed.

“‘Shit’ is right. I guess it sounds kind of cool when I describe it, but when I thought I was actually going to have to do it for, like, thousands of years, I was really fuckin’ bummed, dude.”

“Understandable. But you hacked the heaven system, how does that work?”

“Yeah, hacked, or something. I don’t even know if they’ll be able to tell. They’re supposed to be able to connect with their angels but I severed that attachment when I changed my assignment. I think they-” Flo brought Beca’s expatiations to an abrupt halt, holding up her palm to signify silence and raising her phone to her ear, an apologetic glance tossed in Beca’ direction.

“Chloe! Hi! What’s up?” Speak of the devil. Beca squirmed a little on her stool at the sound of Chloe’s voice on the other end. She couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, but she didn’t sound particularly troubled. Even so...

“Oh, okay. We’re at a bar downtown right now…uh huh. Yeah, she is all settled, we finished a few hours ago.”

Flo removed her phone from her ear and hid it under her chin to bring her attention to Beca. “She says she has a bracelet of yours?”

“Oh, um. I guess? I don’t really remember having one but-”

“She says it is not hers.”

“No, Flo, I said it might be.”

“Okay...it is hers. You can drop it off at the café. Anything else?”

Beca seized Flo’s phone from her grasp. “Will you give us a sec’ Chloe?” She placed it on mute.

“Hey! What?!” Flo scrambled and stretched, trying desperately to reclaim her confused friend on the other end of the line, but Beca held it out of her reach, exasperated.

“Flo, why are you being like this?!”

Flo sighed heavily off of an exaggerated voiced inhale and rested her hands on Beca’s arm. Beca grew uncomfortable with the sudden sincerity in her voice.

“Okay, listen. Beca, I know you did not come back for the Bellas. I know you just came back for Chloe. I think you really need some time to adjust on earth before you do anything rash. I don’t think you should be getting too close to her and I think that you are idealizing your situation. Por el amor de Dios, Chloe doesn’t even know who you are! You need to slow your ass down, girl! We have the Bella reunion soon. You can wait that long at least.”

Beca chewed on her lip thoughtfully. This was the first vocal confirmation of what she had been refraining from thinking over fully past the whispered voice of reason behind a closet door barely ajar in the very recesses of her mind. For the thousandth time that day she swallowed the reflection of how careless and hasty her actions had been.

Beca had never dwelled so long and hard over someone or something as she had over Chloe whilst in heaven. Only her mother’s death came as remotely close a subject to how ruthlessly Beca obsessed (Obsess - used very much in the dictionary sense; not lightly. See also; beset, consume, haunt, etc.) over Chloe and her accident. Considering this, a complete and detailed plan would definitely make sense in this context; however, obsession to this point considers little factual influence in a non-idealized, material world. Hence, Beca’s rash behavior and her reactions to Chloe in palpable physical situations.

“Okay... maybe you’re right. I guess I was really weighing everything on Chloe liking me for me, and not all the stuff we shared in the past, you know? Sorry about not saying anything about it, and I really am so happy to see you. I love you so much. All of you. Please don’t think I didn’t come back for you guys. You mean everything to me, we’re family. I just, you know... Please schedule the reunion soon?”

“Yes. Fine, I will.” Beca slowly retracted her arm and placed the phone in Flo’s expectant (but now softened and more sympathetic) outstretched palm. She unmuted the call.

“Hi, Chloe, sorry about that, drunk asshole was bothering us. You can bring the bracelet to the reunion. By the way, do we have some dates for that yet? Aubrey should be here this month, right? Yes. No, uh-huh. Okay great, perfect, text the group-chat about it? Okay, bye!” She hung up and grinned at Beca. “Two weeks, as long as everyone is free!”

“Ugh, dude what am I gonna’ do in the meantime?”

“Well, I know that you only came back for-,” Beca threw her a glare and Flo surrendered, hands in the air. “Sorry, right, a couple reasons, and it is all you have got your heart set on, but you need to take a few steps back. I have to say Beca, you really didn’t plan this very well. You need to establish a solid base here because this is your life now. You may be an angel, but if you think about it, I am, like, definitely a saint for doing all this for you.”

Beca flipped her off and returned to wincing down the copious amounts of fluid she had spent an annoying amount of cash on.

“For real though, you’re right. And I really... appreciate everything you’re doing for me Flo, it means a lot.” Flo smiled and nodded.

-

Perhaps if Chloe hadn’t felt so out of place, she would have asked Flo to let her join the girls at the bar. But for some reason, something about the phone call and the whole situation whispered a sense of exclusion -- well intentioned or not, she couldn’t tell. She hadn’t felt this socially anxious in a while. Her mental health was not even anything she had thought about in depth for a few years and she had long ago passively accepted the concept that with age came dampened emotions, and that such was a perfectly natural sequence. If nothing would ever give her real pleasure again, so be it.

Another walk. Another achingly familiar song. Another foot in front of the other. Another fifteen minutes later and she stood in front of a deep, deep dark pond, rocky banks powdered with grey-blue frost. The water reflected with the perfection of a mirror the nothingness of the ashy sky.

Chloe now stared into this nothingness -- the sort of staring where everything at once is what those who are staring can see, but they aren’t looking, just seeing and thinking. She stood, leaning slightly in a gentle trance as she remembered the time she had dived into this same water. She had choked and snorted through her nose as she had come up for air and swallowed some accidentally. A friend on the bank had been slumped over in hysterics at her fruitless efforts to cease wheezing and laughing and coughing and yelling at her friend to stop. In her mind she imagined that it was Beca who sat beside the water giggling at her. Stupid and weird that you’d think of her, she thought, but she couldn’t properly remember who it had really been, and the image of Beca fit comfortably well in the situation.

She closed her eyes and settled deeper into the memory, in place but outside of time. In vein, she tried to remember who had actually been there to witness the moment. She couldn’t even remember when it had happened. This was not a memory she had thought about in...well, truthfully, she had completely forgotten about it since it had happened. The age of the memory prevented her from remembering details. Only present, was the sweet feeling of the moment, a honey-like residue, resting delicately in her conscious.

She was now fully trying to convince herself, however, that Beca had not been there. She finally shook her head as if to dislodge the memory and sharply inhaled cold air, opening her eyes to see, hunched over on the side of the banks with chin rested on knees, none other than the subject of her specious nostalgia. Chloe blinked several times and recognized the figure to be but a log, dark and rubbed to clump from weather and wear. Now freaking herself out she rose swiftly and promptly speed walked for her home, holding herself firmly from looking around for fear of misreading another inanimate object.

She wasn’t there, obviously she wasn’t there. Just someone who reminds me of her, or looks like her. Obviously.

[spamzineglasgow]

(HOT TAKE) Notes on a Conditional Form by The 1975, part 1

In the first instalment of a two part dialogic HOT TAKE of The 1975′s latest album, Notes on a Conditional Form (Dirty Hit, 2020), Maria Sledmere writes to musician and critic Scott Morrison with meditations on the controversial motormouth and prince of sincerity that is Matty Healy, the poetics of wrongness, millennial digression and what it means to play and compose from the middle.

Dear Scott,

> So we have agreed to write something on The 1975’s fourth studio album, Notes on a Conditional Form (Dirty Hit/Polydor). I have been traipsing around the various necropoli of Glasgow on my state-sanctioned walks this week, listening to the long meandering 80-minute world of it, disentangling my headphones from the overgrown ferns, caught between the living and dead. Can you have a long world, a sprawling fantasia, when ‘the world’ feels increasingly shortened, small, boiled down to its ‘essentials’? Let’s go around the world in 80 minutes, the band seem to say, take this short-circuit to the infinite with me. I like that; I don’t even need a boat, just a half-arsed WiFi connection and a will to download. I’m really excited to be talking with you, writing you both about this; it’s an honour to connect our thoughts. I want writing right now to feel a bit like listening, so I write this listening. When my friend Katy slid into my DMs on a Monday morning with ‘omg the 1975 album starts with greta?????????’ and then ‘what on earth is the genre of this album ?!’ I just knew it had to happen, this writing-listening, because I was equally alarmed and charmed by the cognitive dissonance of that fall from Greta’s soft, yet urgent call to rebel (‘The 1975’), into ‘People’ with its parodic refrain of post-punk hedonism that would eat Fat White Family on a Dadaesque meal-deal platter ‘WELL, GIRLS, FOOD, GEAR [...] Yeah, woo, yeah, that’s right’. Scott, you and I went to see The 1975 play at the Hydro on the 1st of March, my last gig before lockdown. I’d been up all night drinking straight gin and doing cartwheels and crying on my friend’s carpet, and the sleeplessness made everything all the more lush and intense. Those slogans, the theatrical backdrops, the dancers, the lights, the travellator! Everything so EXTRA, what a JOURNEY. And well, it would be rude of me not to invite you to contribute to this conversation, as a thank you for the ticket but also because of your fortunate (and probably unusual) positioning as both a classically trained musician (with a fine-tuned listening ear) and fervent fan of the band (readers, Scott messaged me with pictures of pre-ordered vinyl to prove it).

> It seems impossible to begin this dialogue without first addressing the FRAUGHT and oft~problematic question of Matty Healy, the band’s frontman, variously described as ‘the enfant terrible of pop-rock’ and ‘outspoken avatar’ (Sam Sodomsky, Pitchfork), ‘enigmatic deity’ (Douglas Greenwood for i-D), ‘a charismatic thirty-one-year-old’ and ‘scrawny’, rock star ‘archetype’, not to mention ‘avatar of modern authenticity, wit, and flamboyance’ (Carrie Battan, The New Yorker). ‘Divisive motormouth or voice of a generation?’ asks Dorian Lynskey with (fair enough) somewhat tired provocation in The Guardian, as if you could have one without the other, these days. ‘There are’, writes Dan Stubbs for The NME, ‘as many Matty Healys here as there are musical styles’. So far, so postmodern, so elliptical, so everything/yeah/woo/whatever/that’s right. Come to think of it, it makes sense for The 1975 to draft in Greta Thunberg to read her climate speech over the opening eponymous track. Both Matty and Greta, for divergent yet somehow intersecting reasons, suffer the troublesome, universalising label of voice of a generation. Why not join forces to exploit this label, to put out a message? I’ve always thought of pop music as a kind of potential broadcast, a hypnotic, smooth space for desire’s traversal and recalibration. More on that later, maybe. What do you think?

> You can imagine Matty leaping out of a cryptic, post-internet Cocteau novelette (if not then straight onto James Cordon’s studio desk), emoji streaming from his fingertips like the lightning that Justine wields in Lars von Trier’s film Melancholia (2011); but the terrifying candour of the enfant terrible is also his propensity to wax lyrical on another (bear with my clickhole) YouTube interview about his thoughts on Situationism and the Snapchat generation. It feels relevant to mention cinema right now, if only in passing, because this album is full of cinematic moments: strings and swells worthy of Weyes Blood’s latest paean to the movies, but also a Disneyfication of sentiment clotted and packed between house tracks, ballads and rarefied indie hits. Nobody does the interlude quite like The 1975. Maybe more on that later, also.

> Where do I start though, how to really write about this, how to attain something like necessary distance in the space of a writing-listening? Matty Healy, I suppose, like SPAM’s celebrated authorial mascot, Tom McCarthy, poses the same problem of response: how to write about an artist whose own critical commentary is like an eloquent, overzealous and self-devouring, carnivorous vine of opinion?  

> Now, let’s not turn this into a discussion about who wears pinstripes better (we can leave that to readers - these are total Notes from the Watercooler levels of quiche). There seems to be this obsession with pinning (excuse the pun) Matty down to a flat surface of multiples: a moodboard, avatar, placeholder for automatic cancellation. He’s the soft cork you wanna prod your anxieties through and call it identity, you wanna provoke into saying something bizarrely, painfully true about life ‘as it is now’. Healy himself quips self-referentially, ‘a millennial that babyboomers like’. I don’t really know where to start really, not even on Matty; my brain is all over the place and I can’t find a critical place to settle. I’m lost in the fog and the stripes, some stars also; I haven’t even washed my hair for a week. Funnily enough, in 2018 for SPAM’s #7 Prom Date issue I wrote a poem called ‘Just Messing Around’ where the speaker mentions ‘pinning my eye to the right side / of matt healy’s hair all shaved / & serene’ and you don’t really know if it’s the eye that’s shaved or the hair, but both I guess offer different kinds of vision. Every time I google the man, IRL Matty I mean, I am offered a candied proliferation of alluring headlines: ‘The 1975’s Matty Healy opens up on his beef with Imagine Dragons’, ‘The 1975’s Matty Healy savagely destroys Maroon 5 over plagiarism claims’. Perhaps the whole point is to define (or slay?) by negation. Hey, I’ll write another poem. The opening sentence comes from Matty’s recent Guardian interview.

Superstar

I’m not an avocado, not everyone thinks I’m amazing. That’s why they call me the avocado, baby was a song released by Los Campesinos! in 2013, same year as the 1975’s debut. In the am I have been wanting to listen and Andy puts up a meme like ‘The 1975 names their albums stuff like “A Treatise on Epistemological Suffering” and then spends 2 hours singing about how hard it is to be 26’ and I reply being 26 IS epistemological suffering (isn’t that the affirmative dismissal contained in the title, ‘Yeah I Know’) I mean only yesterday I had to ask myself if it’s true you can wish on 11:11 or take zinc to improve your immune system or use an expired provisional license to buy alcohol like why are they even still asking I thought indie had died after that excruciating Hadouken! song called ‘Superstar’ which was all like You don’t like my scene / You don’t like my song / Well, if you Somewhere I’ve done something wrong it seems a delirious, 3-minute scold of the retro infinitude of scarf-wearing cunts with haircuts, and yeah sure kids dressed as emos rapping to rave is not the end of the world, per se, similarly I had to ask myself is there a life in academia is there a wage here or there, like the Talking Heads song And you may ask yourself, well How did I get here? Good thing I turn 27 next month Timothy Morton often uses the refrain, this is not my beautiful house this is not my beautiful wife to refer to those moments you find yourself caught in the irony loop and that’s dark ecology the closer you are the stranger it feels like slice me in half I’ll fall out with more questions you can plant in the soil like a stone or stoner, just one more drag of does it offend you, yeah? will I live and die in a band Matty sings the sweet green meat of my much-too-old -and-such-youthful experience of adding healthy fat to conference dialogue, like ‘Avocado, Baby’ was released on a record called No Blues I believe a large automobile is hurtling towards me now in negative space and the driver is crooning Elvis and reciting my funding conditions and everything feels like there aren’t not still people who believe the new culture of content is a space ‘over there’ and you can still have earnest power ballads about love if you want them =/ to cancel (too many tabs don’t make a tableau but in the future facebook has a paywall) and fame is a drag the pressure we put on the atmosphere, like somewhere you’re alive and still amazing asking wtf I’m reading this novel by Roberto Bolaño set partly in 1975 before we had internet it seems poets got laid a lot that year in Mexico City before I was born to pick up video calls with a spliff in one hand in the splendid, essential heat like a difficult knife in my side you can put me on toast, grind the pepper over me gently and say fucking hell this has taken forever.

> I guess I want or wanted to begin with this question of difficulty that rises when responding to Notes on a Conditional Form. How do you approach an album whose delayed release places it in a position of considerable hype, an album whose world tour and promotion is again delayed by global pandemic, an album shrouded in the ever-shifting controversy of Matty’s persona, an album whose length and sonic variety risks collapse into litanies of zany superlative and necrophilic attempts to revive musical category as vaguely relevant here? As beautiful as it is to catalogue the offbeat Pinegrove vibes of ‘Roadkill’, the shoegaze croons of ‘Then Because She Goes’ and the pop-punk, chord-bright euphoria of ‘Me & You Together Song’, I could keep going and going with this. I could just list and just list this. The album is a generous offering: a tribute to the album as form in an age where attention tapers away on high-streaming playlists set to conditioned, circadian moods curated by the likes of Spotify or Apple Music. The album is a Borgesian plenitude of multiple pathways, multiple timelines, infinite feed, choose your own adventure; a hypertext of cultural reference almost worthy of Manic Street Preachers at their Richey Edwards era of paranoid, intellectual peak; a metamodernist feat of oscillation between irony and sincerity, an extended tract, a drunk millennial ramble, a journey that loops from house party to club basement to the streams of sexuality repressed and expressed encounter...and yet. It is both more and less than these things. In trying to capture Notes on a Conditional Form with some pithy, journalist’s statement, I’m doing it all wrong.

> Sidenote: I recently listened to Rachel Zucker give a 2016 lecture on ‘The Poetics of Wrongness’ as part of the Bagley Wright Lecture Series. She makes a case for wrongness in poetry and critique, rejects the poem of pithy essence, the short, pretty and to the point lyric whose meaning is easily digested in a greetings card, or A Level exam paper, say. ‘Instead of the Fabergé egg of the short lyric, I prefer the aesthetics of intractability and exhausted exhaustedness’, the mistakes, lags or aporia made along the way in one of these long and winding poems. Notes on a Conditional Form is full of what some might deem mistakes, digression, exhaustion; but it is also peppered with the gloss of almost perfect pop ‘hits’ such as ‘Me & You Together Song’ and ‘If You’re Too Shy (Let Me Know)’. A wrong poem should be, ‘ashamed and irreverent’, which feels like a decent description of The 1975’s general orientation towards artistic conception. There is cringe and incongruity, there is by all intents and purposes ‘too much of it’, whatever we mean by ‘it’. And yet, that is its beautiful poetics of wrongness, the sound of wrongness, which ‘prefers the stairs’ to the easy elevator pitch (as Zucker puts it), that ‘prefers a half-finishing crumbling stairwell to nowhere’. I like to think about this 1975 album as a kind of exhausting Escherian scene of shifting, crumbling stairwells, shuffling and reassembling against the glistering backdrop of the internet’s inverse void, where everything, literally everything is translated to a starry excess of 1s and 0s, our collective binary data, the white hot, unreadable howl of our noise. What do you think Scott, would Matty find this image agreeable? Does that matter?

> Pushing dear Matty aside, say what you like, let’s start (again) with the title: Notes on a Conditional Form. Following 2018’s A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships, it’s fair to position these records as gestures towards philosophical statements ‘of the times’. Important to recognise the resistance to total or dominating knowledge built into the titles: these are not complete tracts or theses, but rather ‘a brief inquiry’ and ‘notes’. It’s obviously the ancient yet *hip* thing to do in capital-P Philosophy, to put out your statement on aesthetics and ethics, and I think The 1975 are playing with that tradition and its failure. You can imagine if his attention span were different, Matty Healy would’ve already written a PhD thesis on this stuff and published it as drunken bulletins on LiveJournal in 2007. As it stands, we have the smorgasbord sprawl of this eclectic record to get through in this cursèd year of 2020 — it’s not like we have much of anything better to do right now, when everything feels so futile, beyond reason and even the greatest human endeavour. Haha, woo, Yeah :’(((.

> Let’s stay in that conditional space between crying and laughter. Conditional form is interesting as a term, often used in grammar to refer to the ‘unreal past’ because it uses a past tense but does not actually refer to something that literally happened in the past: If I had texted him back, we would probably have gone to the gig that night. There’s something about the conditional as the ur-condition of the internet, the proliferating possibilities it offers and the hauntological strains of what could have been had we chosen x option over y, z, a, b, c, infinity...As millennials, we often make decisions by hedging, always caught in the conditional state of what it is to be. Hovering in the emotional shortcuts provided by dumb yellow icons, the poetics of abstraction. A verb form’s dalliance with uncertain reverb; and so we live our conditional lives.

> To push this further, we can say the internet is, as ever, Matty Healy’s natural habitat. In a recent podcast interview with Conor Oberst for The Face, Healy tells his favourite emo-country hero that ‘my natural environment by the time I started The 1975 was the fucking internet’. So how does that ecosystem play into the music? In a damning review for The Line of Best Fit, Claire Biddles concludes:

The 1975’s first three albums are ideal and distinct worlds to inhabit, each individually cohesive but situated in specific contexts — the anticipation of the small town, profundity in the face of vacuous fame, and the horror and isolation of late capitalism. Perhaps because of its broken genesis, Notes has no such common context, and ends up feeling flat, directionless and inessential, where its forebears felt vital, worthy of devoting a life to. For a band with proven dexterity in deftly capturing the nuances and quick changes of contemporary conversation, it is disheartening to witness them with nearly nothing of note to say.

That description — ‘flat, directionless and inessential’ — is kind of how I experience the internet right now, in the paradox of Web 2.0 becoming utterly essential, somehow, to how I live my life, how I love, how I am with friends. The internet as my ecosystem, my utility, my complete environment, my Imaginary — beyond the mere utility of a WiFi connection. Broken genesis might well describe the childhoods of those of us who grew up online, whose platforms collapsed around them, whose adolescent data was lost in the great ~accidental annihilation of the MySpace servers, whose identities were always already fractured, performed, anonymised or exquisitely personalised, deferred into only the (im)possible keystroke of utterance and trace, the fort-da play of MSN sign-ins. ‘My life is defined by a desire to be outward followed by a fear of being seen’, Matty says in a new short film for Apple Music, released in tandem with the album. The internet requires this chiaroscuro destiny: not to burn always with Baudelaire’s hard and gem-like flame (O to be an IRL flaneur beyond times of lockdown) but to endlessly flicker between the bright green light of presence and the shade of what once was called afk, away from keyboard. To live and burn in the gap between extroversion and introversion, to live in this conditional state of tendency. To express with emoji, send pics, is to both reveal and withhold something else, essential.

> I like albums to feel like worlds; I appreciate Biddles’ evocation of the cohesion experienced in the first three 1975 records. But perhaps it is a kind of violence to assume a world must have cohesion to exist. What is even meant by ‘common context’? What pressure are we putting on a singer, a band, a cultural moment to produce something familiar and harmonious, and to whom, at what scale? What does it mean to be the biggest band in the world...for a bit? How does that work when everything is dissonance, transience, noise, interference; both this and not-this; when life itself is lived as the flat traversal of a millioning existential terrains that seem to collapse into this nowness in which I feel myself sliding forever? Can anyone weigh-in on what it means to make music, art or writing that’s ‘worthy of devoting a life to’, because the gravity and force of that condition for good art, good pop, seduces me so.

> Maybe the point is to always be in the middle, to never quite start to write about The 1975, to find yourself always already writing about this album because this album was always already writing about your life. I have said nobody does the interlude quite like The 1975, but I was being coy, because the hottest twentieth-century philosophical double act, Deleuze and Guattari (haters gonna hate), do the interlude rather nicely. The point of a rhizome being ‘no beginning or end [...] always in the middle, between things, interbeing, intermezzo’ as they write in A Thousand Plateaus (1980). I see the musical interlude of a pop record, the instrumental moment without lyric, as a kind of middling gesture that places the listener in that conditional state of presence and absence, a hinge between songs, times and narrative moments. Maybe my favourite moment in A Thousand Plateaus is the statement: ‘RHIZOMATICS = POP ANALYSIS, even if the people have other things to do besides read it, even if the blocks of academic culture or pseudoscien-tificity in it are still too painful or ponderous’. Painful or ponderous might be a fair critique levelled at the enfant terrible vibes of Matty’s lyrics and generic pick’n’mix, but isn’t this tactic a kind of swerving punch at the categorical violence that keeps people out of academia, that keeps academic discourse so often stale in the first place? Unlike most journal articles, let’s face it, pop reaches ‘“the people”’. Perhaps Notes on a Conditional Form is the rhizomatic sprawl of the myriad we need as an alternative to institutional hierarchy, ring-fencing and the language games of academia. Surely the title is a reference to the very ‘pseudoscient-tificity’ D&G mention? I’m gonna quote Richard Scott’s blurb to Colin Herd’s 2019 poetry collection, You Name It here (not least because the indie publishers, Dostoyevsky Wannabe, come straight out of Manchester, home to The 1975, and because Herd’s poetic spirit is pure pop generosity with a platter of theory on the side), because I want to say similar things of this album: ‘Colin Herd’s poems are masterpieces of variousness. They are talismans against Macho demons. They are snatches of theory operating under lavish spills of language’. The good thing about Herd’s poetry and Matty Healy’s lyrics is that the impulse towards romantic or florid expression is always tapered by an interest in the mundane and everyday. Healy is always singing about pissing or buying clothes online or, as on ‘The Birthday Party’, singing about ‘a place I’ve been going’ that seems to consist of the lonely, infinite regress of conversations about seeing friends and watching someone drink kombucha while buying, in the convenient life of rhyme, Ed Ruscha prints.

Ed Ruscher, Cold Beer, Beautiful Girls (2009)

> So what kind of listening does this rhizomatic sprawl demand — does it expand beyond the banal or find a holding space there, a heaven of affect chilled to late-modernity’s crisp perfection? ‘The End (Music For Cars)’ is a luxurious, Hollywood ‘soaring’ moment, all strings and swells, fucking woodwind, and comes as the third track on the album, where normally you’d place it as some kind of penultimate climax, the album’s landscape pan-out or big swelling screen kiss in three-dimensional rotation. The band’s ‘Music For Cars’ era comprises their two most recent records, and you have to take it as a nod to Brian Eno’s 1978 ambient classic Ambient 1: Music for Airports (Matty recently interviewed Eno again for The Face, cool). The thing about cars is you drive around in them, you follow rules but also whims and desires, convictions; you choose to join others or you pursue the selfish acceleration (‘People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles’ goes the laconic teenage refrain in Bret Easton Ellis’ 1985 debut novel Less Than Zero). You only listen to music half-attentively; you don’t listen close enough to trade in souls. Are we being invited to experience this album as an ambient disruption of figure and ground, presence and absence, here and there, space and place, intimacy and despondency? Driving feels increasingly ‘directionless and inessential’ when the scale effects and obscenities of the anthropocene, of covid and other late-capitalist crises loom in our vision, when the sign systems we used to navigate our lives by seem to shimmer out of focus, or pixelate and deteriorate through endless memetic replication... You can’t help feel like Biddles review kind of misses the point.

Sylvano Bussoti, Five Pieces for Piano for David Tudor (1959)

> What point would that be though, in a world of rhizomatic overlap and intersecting, middling lines, a direction without seeming end? I love the approximation at work when Biddles writes, ‘with nearly nothing of note to say’, because that seems to be a possibility condition for writing in the age of the internet. To write in a way that is almost less than zero and loop back upon some kind of infinity, yet keep it in 2-step. I think back to Rachel Zucker’s image of the half-finished crumbling stairwell, and feel an amiable sense of approval towards this band who always work between the registers of diary, confession, advertising, provocative sloganeering and faux-didactics, never quite settling in to specifically tell you this particular story. It’s all mess, and it’s awful and delicious, I’m sorry. ‘Nothing Revealed / Everything Denied’ is the title of track 13 on the album: that movement between nothing and everything feels like the absolutist, absurdist conditions of ‘truth’ possibility in the Trumpocene/age of so-called ‘post-truth’. ‘Life feels like a lie, I need something to be true’, Healy sings with strained conviction in the song’s opening. But what is at stake in this truth? ‘I never fucked in a car, I was lying’, goes the line, referring back to the dramatic in medias res opening to ‘Love It If We Made It’, notable banger from A Brief Inquiry…: ‘We’re fucking in a car, shooting heroin / Saying controversial things just for the hell of it’. If lying is a pun on telling a mistruth or laying back, practically sexless in a passive state, there’s a deliberate play on apathy, agency and distortion here. It’s something Matty seems snagged on. On ‘I Like America & America Likes Me’ he collapses aesthetic superficiality, capital’s lyric abstraction (‘Oh, what’s a fiver?’) and generalised crisis into this (un)conscious desire for shutdown, expressed in fragmentary bullets of needing-to-know-and-not-know: ‘Is that designer? Is that on fire? Am I a liar? Oh, will this help me lay down?’ And then that impassioned refrain, processed through vocal distortion as if to enact the difficulty in clarity as overcome somehow by the sheer making of noise: ‘Belief and saying something / And saying something / And saying something’. It’s the endless, driving recursion of our lives online, online.

> Back to ‘The End (Music for Cars)’ which really is the middle of the beginning. It’s weird to listen to songs about driving and lying down in the middle of lockdown, drowning in the bloat of social media, on top of our ongoing climate emergency (yeah, remember that, it’s still happening), where high-carbon travel feels like an exhausted, almost impossible concept. A musician complaining about travelling is an age-old subject for a song, but this feels just as much about living in the in-between times of the internet (remember the sweet naivety of the information superhighway) as much as the great Road, for which Kerouac longed as much as Springsteen, Dylan, or Lana Del Rey. Is Matty Healy homesick though? ‘Get somewhere, change my mind, eh / Get somewhere but don’t find it / I don’t find what I’m looking for’. It’s all ‘(out there)’ as the parenthetical refrain goes, but maybe ‘out there’, outside, is the maddening supplement, as Derrida would say, to our lives online, thus revealing their mutual, entwined dependency. Imagine the M6 but tangled up crazily, zanily, like one of those Sylvano Bussoti scores. It’s not like you’re trying to get home, get back, exactly. It’s not like you can just click back on your browser and erase that trace of the touch that enacts it. That’s the weird-ass sensation of being an ecological being: ‘Wherever you go, there you are’, writes Tim Morton in Being Ecological (2018). We’re all pretty alien, even to ourselves.

> If life feels like a lie, as Matty sings, does it matter anymore whether it is or not? Or, to pose the question differently, how do we feel into, attune to something like ‘truth’, a shared reality or feeling? ‘Out there’ is only a state of ellipsis [...] a vine extended, something for the listener, user, consumer and/or human to cling to — or be strangled by. In the aforementioned Apple Music video, Matty takes away the canvas and presents the frame beneath, in a gesture that is comically overwrought with Duchampian pretention around the state and context of the artwork itself. ‘Sometimes I think what is the point of...it’s not my atheism coming out, it’s just my being human coming out’, he muses. The phrase ‘coming out’, with its connotations of closeting, shame and cocoon-like emergence is intriguing here. In a dehumanising, post-internet world of neoliberalism and its attendant microfascisms, its commodification of all kinds of art, its easythink translation of poetry-to-advertising, what would it mean to come out as human after, or better still, in the middle of all this? It’s significant that he trails off after ‘the point of…’, for surely the point itself (of the art?) would be to find yourself here, there, right in the middle of it all. And then in ‘Nothing Revealed / Everything Denied’, it’s like Matty is calling us back from that epistemological and ontological boiling point of knowing and being, like in singing we could go along, we could feel present and ‘true’ again, even with friction and difference. We gotta take hold, cool ourselves down from the rhetoric and into warm emotion, the smell of paint, erotic vibration of bass, in a manner of speaking.

> What if the mode of inquiry were not to investigate but rather to follow the lines of flight, to riff on this world where narrative arcs and chains are replaced by the multiple possibilities of hallucinatory experience, what Deleuze and Guattari call ‘a continuous, self-vibrating region of intensities whose development avoids any orientation toward a culmination point or external end’? To just desire and trace it. This, Scott, is where you come in (and I finally shut up to listen). There is so much more to write about this album, echo for echo, and I feel like I’ve only begun the tracing which was already beginning: I want to know your thoughts on The 1975 and America, on gender and genre, on bodies and football and friendship, on political engagement, those house beats, on the beautiful, sultry appearance of Phoebe (fucking) Bridgers, on sincerity, on the question of ‘What Should I Say’...It’s been playing on my mind that I will never say what I want to, or should, or would say of this album, but this perhaps is what I would otherwise have said. I give you my notes in conditional form.

Read part 2 of our review in Scott Morrison’s response here.

Notes on a Conditional Form is out now and available to order. 

~

Text: Maria Sledmere

Published: 23/6/20

[honeyedmilks]

me? me! 🌻

i was tagged by @minseokkks (thank you angel ily) for this really fun tag :’) 

rules: answer the questions and tag [20] (or as many as you want) followers you’d like to get to know better.

name: sofia

nickname: a billion. i’m the cream puff baby cat friend, sof, sofar, brian, sofie… 

zodiac sign: uM aquarius :’)

hogwarts house: i have been sorted in both ravenclaw and slytherin, so that’s thrilling !! 

height: dn’oufshickjlascdhfskh like over 5′9?? or like at that mark?? im Tall 

sexual orientation: i am straight for the most part, But !! do we really know ? 

favourite fruit: i love a good pomegranate, also passion fruit? she is very fabulous. but again i am the most indecisive egg in the world 

favourite season: spring !! summer !! the sun makes me so happy, so full, i live for it 

favourite book series: hoo boy! i do like the harry potter series, it’s been so long since i’ve read or actively loved a book series and can’t say i have an absolute favourite but i shall name the ones i remember being Obsessed with !!

there was the roman mysteries series by caroline lawrence !! damn i was a hoe for those books. there’s the iron fey series by julie kagawa, very good very fun i cried at the end ngl. there’s the casson family by hilary mckay that was everything !!! ooh and the heist society series by ally carter, very good and i very much recommend these books if you like something smart enough and fun enough for rainy days. and this is one series called prophecy of the sisters that i remember reading by michelle zink, that i really need to re read because i remember being very inspired by it but i honestly can’t remember how much i enjoyed it, so i shall be picking those up from the library again at some point !!

favourite fictional character: damn… lemme think… my depressed ass is refusing to help here so i shall rack my brains about… everyone in parks and recreation…. they are all treasures. 

ooh i also really like elanor grey from a book called drain me, one i re read recently, written by lana sky and you should all read it !! (though its a bit nsfw so !!!! please ask me anything if you are thinking of picking it up regarding that hd’ofsan- also i’m waiting for the sequel and would 100% put it up as a favourite series) 

ummm anyone else ?! oh how could i forget the gem that was lee hwa shin from jealousy incarnate?? he is ridiculous and sad i love him :( 

favourite flower: damn i literally Love flowers but i don’t think i have a favourite kind in mind ?? D: but i do really Love flowers So Much ?? 

favourite scent: its 2 am and i’m really struggling here DO I EVEN LIKE THINGS ??? i hate mental illness iod’hfsknbf’uh i guess i like the smell of cinnamon, vanilla… lemon!!! as well as the smell of tea and sometimes coffee :’) 

favourite colour: i really like creamy colours? beige, cream, browns and whites and soft yellows. also pink !! black is very nice and chic also.

favourite animal: god i love cats. doggos are also very cool and very good. also i have become very fond of my friend the otter. but in all honesty all animals are good majestic friends whomst i love. 

favourite band: i am a big hoe for 5hinee, shinee five, those five Boys, my mans and the Squad. and also coldplay d’oufe’dhiscf’qeuo

coffee, tea or hot chocolate: i’m not really supposed to have things with lots of caffeine rip but i do like green tea, breakfast tea, and iced coffee !! the rest are not for moi

average hours of sleep: hmmm it really depends d’fuisah hmm six? more? 

number of blankets: one very good duvet.

dream trip: god i want to go somewhere with sunshine and calm, with a clean beach and just… sit. go in the sea. i also want to go ato places in italy and spain. that’s my mood. i’m crying just at the thought. also the caribbean or like bora bora. greece?

last thing i googled: it was “hilary mckay books” dafwefidsjl

how many blogs i follow: TOO MANY (like over 1k)  yet my dash is so unexciting these days rip 

number of followers: over 800 !

what i usually post about: i post just random…. text posts, on my life, about dramas i’m watching, i do the occasional drama review, i like making stuff~ though my depressed ass is like ://// but !! yes i make drama related graphics etc and kpop stuff and i’ve done some purely aes moodboards. i reblog like…. all that i’ve mentioned above loool. food, pretty places, JJONG, other various random things. 

do i get asks regularly: not like every day but i do get some and :’)))) i love them all. they are pure and good. 

ima tag some cute people !!!!!! - @nue5t, @taehungies, @jj2eun, @kbopships, @smallbeast, @justonehappyvictory

💛👀💫✨🌼

[dimsummandu]

GOT7 Hogwarts Moodboard AU Introductory Post

Mark Tuan : Ravenclaw

Sixth Year | 10 ½" Vine, Thunderbird Tail Feather, Unbending | Quidditch Captain | Lynx (Patronus) | Pureblood | Non-Verbal Magic (special ability) | Potions, Arithmancy, Astrology (best subjects) | Jackson Wang (boyfriend) | Park Jinyoung and Choi Youngjae (best friends) | Leader of the Silver Spears

- Literally the most nontraditional Ravenclaw you will ever meet

- While the rest of his house is sipping tea and cozying up to a large window to read a bit fat book, Mark is chugging coffee and is in a permanent state of ‘controlled chaos’.

- Will fight you if you give him tea.

- His best subjects are potions, arithmancy, and astrology. He is a Ravenclaw, however weird he might be.

- Speaking of Ravenclaw, this kid was a hatstall. The Sorting Hat took almost thirty minutes to decide what house to put him in.

- “Oh, now this is an interesting one. Not often I come across a mind that is so well suited to all four houses. Hmm...so where to put you?”

- Mark is pureblood and gives literally zero shits about it. Don’t even try to come up to him and spout that nonsense because all you’ll get is a facial expression that is the embodiment of sass and he’ll shush you with his wand without ever opening his mouth.

- Which reminds me, Mark is scary good at non verbal magic. Upon being a first year he realized he was naturally good at this talent and decided to focus on it. Now that he’s in sixth year....yeah, don’t mess with Mark. He’ll hit you with a stupefy and you’ll have no defense because you’ll have no idea that’s what he’s casting.

- Likes a little mischief. He picks locks and breaks curfew for the hell of it.

- If he needs to be alone, you can probably find him in the astronomy tower but I urge caution because...he wants to be alone.

- He’s not ‘anti-social’ or ‘shy’, he’s just quiet. Though he may come off that way sometimes. He just has a habit of not really speaking unless it’s actually relevant for him to say something.

- This kid is a mess, though.

- Like a hot mess. Most of your Ravenclaws are in pristine condition (AKA JINYOUNG). They look like they live in a library and don’t have a single hair out of place. Mark looks like he is perpetually hung over and just rolled out of bed.

- He doesn’t bother with a vest or the robes. He literally has no time for that nonsense. As for the white shirt? It’s tucked in...sort of...kind of? It’s kind of in and kind of not. Just kind of there. Sleeves are always rolled up to the elbow because otherwise they get in the way. And yes, his tie IS a little off centered and crooked. Telling him this will earn you more sass than you were prepared for.

- And let’s not get started on the hair. It’s just a mess. He runs his fingers through it and by the 8AM it looks like he hasn’t brushed it in a week or he had a rough night with a certain somebody.

- Speaking of rough sex, Mark is dating Jackson. The entire school is confused by the quiet and slightly awkward Ravenclaw dating the loudest and rambunctious Jackson Wang. But their dynamic works, ok? Yin and Yang, people. Yin and Yang.

- On that note, do not TELL Mark that you think his boyfriend is obnoxious and rowdy and annoying. He’ll kick your ass. Not with magic, no. He will PHYSICALLY beat your ass. Mark is protective and possessive and he adores Jackson. Even when he’s being annoying.

- His best friends are Jinyoung and Youngjae. Jinyoung looking all picture perfect next to Mark who looks like he stumbled out of drunken Abercrombie magazine. It makes Youngjae laugh. They’re cute.

- Mark is the kid that you COULD ask for help on your homework and he would know all the answers, but actually going up to him and asking him for help is just out of the questions. Not in the stars. Can’t do it. Not today.

- Come exam time, it’s just best to stay out of his way. He practically lives in the library and he might as well have an IV of straight up caffeine to keep him up. His work space is...chaotic. There’s papers and quills and ink just....everywhere. Good lord, EVERYWHERE.

- Even Jackson knows better than to mess with him during exam time.

- He pops into the Great Hall for breakfast, downs a cup of coffee, kisses Jackson somewhere on the face (he’s good at getting the nostril but, hey, the nose is still ON the face so its a win for Mark), shoves a bagel in his mouth and sprints to the library with papers flying out behind him. This kid as shit to do.

- Mark also plays Quidditch. He’s actually the captain of their team, as well as one of their best chasers. Mark is obsessed with Quidditch and is determined as all hell to win the cup. Jackson thinks his team is gonna win, which only fuels Mark’s competitiveness.

- Mark is also the leader of the Silver Spears. The Silver Spears was a notorious and secretive dueling club in the 18th century that ‘allegedly’ only allowed students who had wands made of aspen to join. However, considering this club died out some time ago and Mark is now the new president, he gets to determine the entry rules and wand wood ain’t got nothing to do with it. Him and Jinyoung run the club together for funsies, though it’s turning into a much bigger thing than Mark originally thought it would, he’s happy with it.

- Speaking of wands, Mark’s has probably the neatest wand ever. It’s made of vine so one would think it has a decent flexibility, but Mark’s wand is a little funny. It is actually very stubborn. It does not like anybody who is not Mark. The last person who tried to use Mark’s wand, the wand became extremely temperamental and attacked them.

- Mark is basically the cutest Ravenclaw, ever. Yes he is insanely smart, fitting for his house. He is also courageous like a Gryffindor, loyal like a Hufflepuff, and cutthroat like a Slytherin. He’s very careful of the friends he chooses but he has had no problem making those friends in any house.

- Barriers? What barriers.

- But seriously, don’t give him tea. Istg. You’ll die.

*pictures and gifs aren’t mine. i made the moodboard but the pictures i got off of tumblr and google. credit to their respective owners.