#the quality and realism appears the same

[plushie-lovey]

I just saw the post where you were curious about my Lassie! She’s a Douglas whispy collie that I got on eBay! I actually decided to get her after seeing griffinkid’s Ali!

Tysm for sharing info on her! Lassie is a very pretty dog. I saw Ali from griffinkid recently and she's also very pretty!! I want to buy one of the same stuffed animal to give to my mother-in-law for Christmas. I think she'd really appreciate it especially because the plush looks like her current collie. Plus it'll go great with all the other collie memorabilia my datemate and I have managed to find for her over the past year!

Gosh I love to add plushies as part of the gifts I give to the people I care about. That way when we're not around each other but they're thinking of me/missing me they can hug the plush! I like getting them as gifts in return for that very reason x3 what do you think, is it a good idea?

[cavillscurls]

daddy next door | j. miller (two)

❝ summer lovin’ ❞

You run into some trouble at the summer fair. Joel is there to help.

chapter warnings/tags: MDNI. no-outbreak!joel. neighbor!joel. foul language. food consumption. age gap (reader is in her 20s, joel is in his 50s). harassment and attempted coercion (not joel). depictions of anxiety & a brief anxiety attack. reader is a sensitive gal!! readers dad is a cop, other side characters are as well. major daddy issues. absent mother(s). reader is a bit prudish to the idea of smoking, but it’s justified. flirting. mutual pining. sexual tension. fluff. angst. no depictions of race or body type, other than reader being shorter than joel. some outfit descriptions. word count: 9.6k

a/n: don’t even look at me i know this took so fucking long. but here it is. thank you for waiting. i know, no smut, cry about it (i joke) but i am in my world building era. thank you to @kiwisbell for beta reading and being my cheerleader. truly one of the best highlights of my days these last few months, that gal. enjoy. 🤍

one. | series masterlist. | three.

You spend most of your days thinking about Joel Miller. 

You convince yourself it’s harmless. What possible threat could your imagination pose? You had otherwise kept your distance from him since the day you greeted him at his doorstep two weeks prior. Friendly exchanges of hello when he would pull in his truck from work and you were riding your bike back home. A nod over the white fence while you would read on the hammock and he would tend to something in his yard. He would chat with your father occasionally down by the mailboxes, normally only when the predicament of being there at the same time forced them to. From the pieces of conversation you had picked up, it was usually in regards to sports or the heat. Regardless, you still couldn’t help but feel on edge seeing your father standing next to him. 

You have no stake in Joel, no claim. But the idea of him becoming another tainted piece in your father's puzzle makes you nauseous. 

He’s not like him, you tell yourself. He couldn’t be. 

And in your mind, he’s not. Your rampant imagination paints him as the picture of perfection. A good person. An idea you have long forgotten as a viable quality in a man. 

You could spend hours fantasizing about what he’s like. You do.

How he might take his coffee, or what late-night talk show he prefers. Boxers or briefs? You take him for the former, though you certainly don’t mind entertaining the idea of the latter. You presume he’s not the type of person to talk through a film. Prefers the mountains to the beach. Dogs over cats. And if you had the opportunity, you would spend hours discovering every minute detail that made him the type of man worth mulling over. 

The type of man worth dreaming about. 

But fantasies don’t last forever. And amidst the approaching weekend, you are quickly snapped back into the realism of your world. More so, your father's world, and the predicament it poses for you:

The county fair. 

The event of the summer, and how lucky your town is to host it. The fairgrounds are never as crowded as they are this weekend of the year, and ‘everyone who is anyone’ in town makes an appearance. Something that, despite your revulsion to the line of thinking, your father takes very seriously. 

He expects you to be in attendance, you know this. To keep a pretty bow wrapped around the family name. The dutiful Chief and his poor, sweet daughter whose mama left her far too young. 

It’s a much more entertaining show than reality.

“Meet ya back here at ten o’clock,” your father beckons as he parks the cruiser in the field already packed with cars. 

You nod at him, the distant sound of children laughing and the scent of sugar inundating you. He would make his rounds, as he always did. Butter up the locals with his practiced charm and make connections with out-of-towners. It doesn’t matter how useless they are—it’s all part of the façade. And you will trudge along, find a quiet spot to read the script you snuck into your purse, or treat yourself to a funnel cake. You will smile and wave at those who greet you, even those you despise. And you’ll do so without any quips or complaints, kind and compliant as ever, as not to disturb the fragile balance. 

It simply isn’t worth the disruption. 

The pink cardigan you had wrapped around your waist seems useless now; even in just a tank top and floral skirt, you can feel the unforgiving heat dripping sweat down your skin. You should’ve found some excuse; pretending to be sick never worked for you as a child, and you doubt it would be any different now. Cramps? Your father is hardly inclined to speak with you, let alone about feminine problems. Too late anyway, you think to yourself as you make your way towards the bustling fairgrounds. It takes all of five minutes before you’re left alone, your father already caught up in the likes of Mrs. Wilkins and the rest of her school board posse. 

Once upon a time, this used to be your favorite place to come. Distant memories of a woman with a smile much like your own, holding hands and darting towards the ferris wheel with freshly squeezed lemonade and some obscene stuffed animal you had won at one of the various carnival games in hand. There’s laughter and the sweet disposition of summer. There’s joy. There’s peace. 

Now, there are only painful reminders. 

You find a decently secluded spot just beyond the various game vendors on the outer perimeter of the grounds, the setting sun shielded by thicker patches of trees. There are no picnic tables, but the concrete ledge around some of the landscaping is suitable enough for you to dwell. Your thighs welcome the coolness of the stone when you sit with a huff, taking a moment to catch your breath. 

It’s too hot. Too crowded. And you haven’t even had to talk to a single person to already feel properly overstimulated. 

You rummage through your bag for the distraction you brought along. A heavily annotated copy of Much Ado About Nothing. Something a bit more lighthearted for such a somber affair, but still, the statements of its profound leading lady speak to you. You run your fingers over the highlighted line on your current page:

I cannot be a man with wishing, she says. Therefore I will die a woman with grieving. 

How you envy Beatrice and her cunning. Merry wit and a thrill for independence, using her words to spar with men and women alike. A moment in the Bard’s work that feels ahead of its time, and yet, still couldn’t be any more relevant. Perhaps it’s less envy and more disappointment with yourself for the lack of choices, initiative in your own life. 

Fiction and fantasies often have a funny way of reminding you of reality, despite how escapist they are. 

You are able to spend a good twenty minutes undisturbed in your thoughts. But just when you think there is a semblance of peace to be found, your name is being shouted across the yard. Once, then twice. Heading jerking up, you have to squint before a sharp shiver shoots down your spine at the realization of who the voice belongs to. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, slamming the pages shut and shoving them quickly back into your bag. 

Blonde curls and devilishly deceiving dimples. He’s got a beer in his hand. Great. He’s waving and heading in your direction, no escape plan in sight. 

Trevor Conrad. The star baseball player of your graduating class, the town's all-American pride and joy who of course went on to be the police academy's top cadet. You suspect he’s absolutely buzzing for your father to mentor him, one reason you assume he wants to be in your favor. 

The other may have to do with the handful of dates you regrettably went on with him a couple of years prior. You didn’t consider them anything remarkably serious, never escalating any further than a few stolen kisses and an admittedly uncomfortable make-out session one afternoon when you watched a film at his house. Some boring action thriller. You had been under the impression his parents would be home, a lie for the first hour and a half that, looking back, you realize was a calculated tactic. 

He’s with a group of familiar faces who all linger behind. Those you were only worthy enough to be to be seen with when you were seen with him. Superficial friendships, if that. A matter of status and convenience. 

You recognize Ashley Becker, former cheerleader, who extends a miffed roll of her eyes, stomping away with the rest of the group when Trevor waves them off. You figure, even after years of less than subtle flirtation, he hasn’t picked up on her interest. Or maybe he doesn’t care, still putting his energy into you. The type of man who thinks because he staked his claim once, he’s entitled to it again. 

You rise to your feet in a bit of a scramble when you hear him tell the group he’ll catch up, only a few yards ahead of you now, and put some distance between yourself and the ledge. The last thing you need is him sitting down and trapping you in conversation. You sling your bag over your shoulder, holding the strap taut, and prepare to exit whenever the easiest opportunity presents itself. 

“Was wondering if I’d catch you here tonight!” He’s all smiles and pride as he approaches you, his voice just as irritating as you recall. Something about its pitch, you think. Too high for a guy of his stature. For the type of guy who carries himself like a god. 

“Well, here I am,” you say with a shrug, forcing a breathy chuckle. Trevor stops just a foot or two in front of you, eyes wide and slightly bloodshot. You wonder what number beer he’s on, the lofty scent detectable and off-putting. 

“What’re you doin’ out here all by yourself?” he asks, and you can only presume the curiosity is linked to some ulterior motive. 

Keep it casual, you remind yourself. Don’t make a scene. 

“Oh, just—just killing time while dad makes his rounds,” you tell him with another shrug, displaying a polite smile. 

“Hardly seen you out at all this summer.” He gives you a bit of a once-over. It makes your skin crawl. “Should come by one of the games. We play every Saturday.” 

Recreational league. Because the high school glory in this town wasn’t enough to satiate him. It takes every ounce of strength inside of you not to roll your eyes. 

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. I’ll try to catch one if I can,” you lie straight through your teeth. “Weekends can be a little busy around the house, though. So…” 

Blame it on your father. Blame it on anything else other than the complete disregard you have for engaging with him and the rest of his group. 

You can’t quite pinpoint his fascination with you, but you do note the sun disappearing, and how secluded your choice of dwelling is from the rest of the crowds. You’re not isolated, but certainly far enough that the attention is off of you, as people have begun to move away from the games and food and towards the rides and live music. You can’t shake the gnawing feeling of panic that settles in your belly. 

He gives you another look over, pursing his lips before taking the finishing swig of his beer. “Should come join us,” he suggests, licking the residue of liquid off his bottom lip. “We’re thinkin’ about heading over to the fields for a bit, you know—” 

He lifts his thumb and pointer finger to his lips to mimic smoking, raising his eyebrows at you. 

What a gloriously law-abiding citizen, you think sneeringly.

It wouldn’t even matter if he did get caught, and you know that. The amount of ludicrous stories you have heard your father talk about sweeping under the rug often a cause for concern. 

Your arms wrap around yourself instinctively, as if to make yourself smaller. “Oh… oh, I don’t know. Don’t really know if it's my thing.” 

“Come on, princess,” he purrs, and you swear you feel the bile rise in your throat when he takes a step closer, towering over you. “Can’t stay locked up in your tower forever.” 

What the fuck do you want from me? You want to scream it, shout it for him and everyone to hear, but you don’t. You don’t move, you hardly even breathe. The feeling of being zeroed in on familiar and frightening. 

“I think—think I’m, uh, probably just better off waiting here for—”

“You know, if I didn’t know any better,” he continues. Like you don’t even exist. Like your words are meaningless to him, and maybe they are. Maybe he’s already deemed his thoughts the right ones. “I would think you were trying to avoid me or something.” 

You try to string something coherent along, anything to settle him. “No! No. Look, Trevor, it’s just that I—”

“I’ve been nothing but good to ya since we met,” he continues. “Now I know it didn’t work out back in the high school days but, come on. Give a guy another chance.” He tilts his head at you as if to plead with you. But there is a falsehood to his innocent expression, one you do not realize until the next words continue to slip past your lips. 

Why this, why now, you can’t decipher.

“I just don’t think it’s such a good idea,” you try to reason, keeping your voice as patient and temperate as possible. 

The less information, the better. But he’s relentless. 

“And why’s that?” he presses, arching a brow up at you, mask beginning to falter. 

“I don’t… I don’t think we’d be a very good match.” 

Wrong answer. You’re certain of that by the way his face falls entirely. 

“Why not?” 

Because you don’t know the first thing about me! 

You really want to scream it now. 

Because you don’t care about a word that I have to say. Because you only seek me out when it’s convenient for you. Because I don’t enjoy your company. In fact, I don’t even find you all that particularly attractive. Because I’d be miserable with you, and I’m already miserable as is! 

You say none of it, of course. 

“We, I mean… we hardly have anything in common, you know?” you stammer, scavenging for an answer acceptable enough to cease him but not to cross him. You have searched for similar words more times than you’d care to admit. “I don’t… I don’t think we’d make good company for each other. I would hate to waste your time.” You’re chewing on your bottom lip as you await his reaction, unprepared. 

Something changes in him. A thread snaps. You think you may register the shift even before he does, nostrils flaring and pupils dilating. That’s when you feel it, cold and rough, his fingers wrapping around your forearm with the hand not occupied around the bottle. Your nervous system is shot, entering a battle for fight or flight, but your body remains frozen, rigid. Your breath catches in your throat, and your wide eyes watch his bitter countenance carefully. 

“Listen, princess,” he spits, leaning down towards you, voice low and dripping with acid. It’s all condescension now. You feel his breath on your face, the stench of alcohol hitting your nose. “I’m not sure where this superiority you seem to have comes from, but let me tell you something since no one else will. This town? They ain’t interested in you. They’re interested in your father, and that’s about it. You had your chance to do something worth noticing, and you fucking lost it. So, I’d suggest you finally take me up on this opportunity I’m giving you.”

Tears burn at your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. They emerge from a chasm of places; the inevitable truth, while harsh, his words hold. The current predicament that you feel less and less in control of as the minutes pass. The cowardice in you, searching and screaming for the strength to deny him, but fearing an aftermath so grand, you wonder if compliance would be an easier option. 

He’s more than annoyed at your silence. “I really don’t wanna have to ask you again,” he all but threatens, and you feel a yank on your forearm sending you into his chest. “Now, don’t embarrass me by keeping friends waiting.” He tugs on you again, this time, trying to drag you along with him. 

“Trevor, please,” you croak, using every ounce of viable effort to try and pull your arm from his grasp. It’s starting to hurt, but you know it’s useless. “Maybe another time, I–” 

“What did I just tell you?” he snarls, the sudden lilt in volume making you flinch. “Very least you could do after ignoring me all this time is come by to say hi, now let's go-–”

“M’pretty sure she already said no.” 

It comes from behind you, unexpected. Deep and honey-coated unlike the voice in front of you. It resounds your senses, preventing them from coiling in on themselves. A warm, bright light at the end of a dark tunnel guiding you back to safety. You see Trevor’s heated eyes flicker over your shoulder, brows pulling in dissatisfied confusion. The unyielding pressure on your forearm loosens—slight, but enough for you to regain a sense of the throbbing flesh below his touch. 

“Can we help you?” he seethes. You’re afraid to move despite the screaming void inside of you begging to turn around, follow the voice. Confirm your desperate suspicions of who it belongs to. 

It couldn’t be, could it? 

“You can help me by lettin’ go of her.” It could be. It has to be. You wouldn’t forget the sound of that voice even if your life depended on it. 

“Listen, old man. I don’t know who you think you are, but this is a private conversation—”

“Doesn’t seem all that damn private when you’re makin’ a scene for anyone who walks by to see.” He cuts Trevor off, just as he did to you. A complete disregard for any sort of explanation or excuse. Though, when it happens this time, you’re overcome with a sick sense of satisfaction; watching as Trevor’s face falls further, twisting into disbelief. “Think you oughta let the lady be.” 

Trevor stands up straighter now, releasing you swiftly in the process as if you’re an afterthought in the face of his challenged ego. You feel the air enter back into your lungs, using the opportunity to take a small, cautionary step back. 

“Don’t think you speak for her,” Trevor quips, and you eye the way his hands tighten into fists, one still firm around the neck of his beer bottle. You take another step back. 

“No more than you do, boy.” It’s a sharp, calculated choice of words, combating the way Trevor attempted to demean him. The emphasis on the final syllable sends a shiver up your arms. 

You think you may be reaching the precipice of composure with how your body trembles in anxiety, dizzied, and overwhelmed. But suddenly, the shadow behind you is no longer figmented. It’s tangible and real. You can’t recall if your body continued to carry you backward on its own accord, or if he stepped forward, seeking you. Nonetheless, ever faint, your back is met with the steadying warmth of a solid chest. Trevor hardly notices, too lost in his silent, heated battle of eyes exchanged with the man behind you. Doesn’t notice the distance that separates you, nor the subtle trail of knuckles that brush along the small of your back. An anchor, grounding you back to earth. Blooming you back to life. 

Trevor doesn’t like to be challenged, you know that much. The mere realization that his current opponent is not as malleable as others throwing a wrench in the usual, uncivilized manner he enjoyed handling things. He would cause a commotion with you, sure. But not with another man. What would that say about his own masculinity? His strength?

It’s frightening and cynical how quickly he changes. He looks behind you, up and down, and then to you in the same fashion. His eyes still unsettle you regardless of the way his lips begin to upturn into a lax grin, as if he hadn’t just bared his teeth and threatened to eat you alive. 

“Listen, man. I think you got the wrong idea,” Trevor coaxes, charm returning to the forefront of his demeanor, and you think you may be sick to your stomach. “Total misunderstanding, we were just… catching up.” You know he’s looking at you, eyes of daggers waiting for their next slice, but you refuse to meet them. Eyes firmly planted on the grass below you, you can make out the tips of black boots at your rear. Despite your defiance, you don’t miss his final remarks before he walks away, knowing the underlying poison embedded in them is only for you: “We can finish catching up some other time.” 

You’ve forgotten how to breathe. Ice-cold liquid runs through your veins, yet does nothing to stop your skin from burning in the heat. The familiar sensation of panic burrows into your limbs, and you worry you won’t be able to stop it from ruining you entirely. 

But when you finally muster the strength to turn around, long after Trevor’s shadow has disappeared into the vast field, buried back in the crowds, he’s there. 

The very masterpiece of your mind, an image your imagination has conjured endless times. 

Joel. 

He looks different, more relaxed. Lost are the pressed slacks and sleek button-ups; they’re replaced with a pair of dark wash jeans and an olive flannel atop a black t-shirt. His hair is slicked over, damp as if he’s just washed it. His glasses are gone, too. The roundness of his eyes is a bit more prominent without them, lined with age and a furrowed brow as they search you with blatant concern. 

“You okay?” 

His voice is so soft, so gentle, that you don’t think twice before lurching forward, body acting before brain. You wrap your arms around his torso and bury your face into his sturdy chest. You hear a quiet sound of surprise followed by a beat of hesitation. But then, a strong arm wraps around your waist pulling you flush against him. The other snakes up to the nape of your neck, fingers weaving in between locks of hair to delicately cradle your head into his chest. 

“Hey,” he breathes, and you do your very best to only let the first stream of tears stain his shirt. Body beginning to tremble as you try to keep the others at bay. “Hey, s’alright, darlin’. You’re alright. He’s gone.” 

Darlin’. Darlin’. Darlin’. 

He smells so fucking good. Like rich mahogany and dark coffee; a hint of something fresh from his soap or shampoo. You fill your lungs with it, allowing it to linger and permeate into your bloodstream.

Comfort. Safety. 

He beckons your name. Once. Hushed. Not in a manner of rushing you, but checking to see if you’re still with him. Like he knows you need this. And you do. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” you mumble into his shirt. 

You’re not sure what you’re apologizing for. For crying, maybe. For inconveniencing him, taking up his time with a situation you should have been able to handle yourself. 

He lets you cling to him a while longer before the hand in your hair descends for your jaw, pulling your face out of the comfort of his chest and forcing you to look up at him. The churning in your stomach settles. The pass of his thumb across your cheek sends a new type of coolness over your skin, satiating the heat. 

“There you go again, apologizin’ when you don’t needa be,” he mumbles, low and rich, you feel it vibrate through his chest into yours. Only for you to hear, and you’re blinking up at him in awe, disbelief that the image before you is even real.  “Are you okay?” he repeats, and you swallow hard, fearful your throat has gone too dry just at the sight of him. 

He’s here. He is real. He’s right in front of you. Touching you. 

“Yeah… yeah, I’ll be okay.” You nod your head, clearing your throat, embarrassed at the hoarseness. You don’t know which one of you you’re trying to convince. 

You realize that you’re still clinging to him, fingers bunched at the back of his flannel, neck beginning to cramp at how far back you’ve tilted it to accommodate his height. Another wave of embarrassment, and slowly, you release him, slinking your arms from around him and hugging them across your chest instead. His hand falls from your face in tandem, and there’s an unmistakable wave of disappointment. Something gone missing. 

“Thank you,” you add, remembering your manners. As if there are any right words to convey the relief you feel at his presence, which, you realize, in and of itself surprises you. You furrow your brows at him. “What… what are you doing here?” you ask. Curiosity. An attempt to move the subject off of your undesirable encounter. 

Joel huffs a breath, not quite a laugh, but you note the way the corners of his mouth twitch. 

“Good to see you, too,” he says, a hint of amusement.

You open your mouth to speak, rebuttal. Tell him he has no idea how good it is to see him. Especially here, especially now. But you figure he can sense that now is not the time to joke, rattled emotions still clear in your countenance.

“Thought it’d be good to make an appearance. Don’t needa be known as the town hermit,” he explains matter-of-fact, and then his eyes are looking after the direction Trevor disappeared in, brows lowering. “Who was that?” 

You stare at him, uncertain. 

Who was that? You’re confident that if he had asked anyone else in this town that question, they would have entirely different answers. Perhaps far kinder and polished representations. 

“Guy I used to go to school with,” you settle on, unable to conjure anything else of substance. “We went on a couple of dates senior year, but… nothing special.” Nothing at all. 

“Hm.” He appears to mull over your answer, eyeing you in the way that makes your chest flourish with heat, the spot between his brows twitches as he comes to his own astute conclusion. “He been botherin’ you?” 

“That was the first time in a while,” you tell him honestly. “I knew I’d run into him eventually. One of many reasons I don’t like coming here anymore.” The last bit is a careless slip of the tongue. 

Again, he takes you in. Processing. There is an intensity behind the way he thinks, gears seemingly turning in his head right before your eyes, both frightening and exhilarating. You can’t anticipate what he’ll say next, something that—on any other occasion, would have your stomach bubbling over with anxiety, but like most things involving Joel Miller, doesn’t—excites you. 

“I reckon you came with your pops?” 

“Yup.” You pop the p, less than enthused. 

“Hm.” Think, think, think. You want to peer inside his brain, know everything about him. The fear of your previous encounter dissipates into nothingness under the presence of Joel. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I think the time would fly by a little faster with some company.” 

And there it is, served up right under your nose on a silver platter. Opportunity. To know him, ask him how he takes his coffee, or what late-night talk show he prefers, or if he would choose the mountains over the sea, or if he knew how difficult it was to not think about him every waking moment—

You’re gawking again. You know it by the way his lips move, the indent of teeth in his cheeks while he tries to bite back the amusement. So silly, he must think you are so unbearably silly for the way you behave around him. If only he knew. 

“Oh, I—I don't know. I really don’t want to take up any more of your time, I—” 

“Got all the time in the world, darlin’,” he shrugs, hands shoved in his pockets. You envy his nonchalance. “Besides,” he steps forward, leans in, a secret, and you hold your breath. “I’ve got quite the sweet tooth, and that ice cream stand’s been callin’ my name. You even know how quickly I finished off those muffins you gave me?” 

It’s your turn to laugh, soft and bashful, the rest of the feeling your run with Trevor had sucked out of you returning with vigor. He’s teasing you, he wants to make you feel better, and the realization coats your muscles in honey and light and something so sweet, you simply have to taste it. He’s smiling down at you when you tilt your head at him, this time, flashing his pearly teeth, divulging you in a gut-wrenching glimpse of his dimple. 

“You wouldn’t let me go eat it all by my lonesome now, would ya?” Cheeky, unrelenting man. He doesn’t even recognize that the decision has already been made. Giving into him a task that takes very little coaxing. 

You do, for a brief moment, feel a sense of worry. It doesn’t stem from him but from those around you; would it be proper to be seen alone with him? The vast nature of the occasion would make it a rare sighting from those you know, but feasible nonetheless. Even worse, what if your father saw? Innocent as it is, you cannot shake the looming fear of a reprimanding. He would find something wrong with it, something to scold you for, tell you you’re selfish or bothersome. 

But Joel’s here. He saved you once already. And beneath the worry, you discover something stronger, something uncharacteristic, something you convinced yourself didn’t exist. 

You don’t care. 

Not what anyone else thinks. Not what your father may say about the matter. You don’t care. Not when there is the bright reassurance of the man looking down at you, and the warmth in your chest, and the need to know, to know him. 

You take a deep breath. “We can’t have that, can we?” You give him the same, open-mouthed smile, and he is so clearly pleased, you can hardly handle the warmth now. It’s spread from your chest to your cheeks, your stomach, between your thighs. And you think, if this is what being selfish feels like, you never want it to end. 

“Well c’mon then,” he beckons, cocking his head for you to follow as he turns towards the crowds. 

You don’t hesitate.

You learn all about Joel Miller on your walk through the fairgrounds. 

He tells you about the move from Austin, deciding it was time once he realized he was one man in a house built for two. He has a daughter, Sarah, who moved to New York after college to pursue a career in fashion. You note the instantaneous shift when he begins to talk about her, a perpetual smile plastered on his face. City life was proving to move too fast for him, and with no one around to take care of anymore, he decided to start taking care of himself. He makes it a point to tell you he’s not married, that Sarah’s mother isn’t in the picture. Something about the mentioning of it makes your stomach flip, that he considers it important you know. He doesn’t go into the details, and you don’t ask. 

He owns his own company. A contracting firm that he shares the load of with his younger brother, Tommy. He tells you that neither of them finished school, he being a young, single father, and Tommy being quite the “delinquent.” That they got lucky with the hand they were dealt, and nowadays on his end, it’s mostly paperwork and phone calls. 

You like the way he talks. Calm, collective, perhaps even a bit serious at times, but you don’t take offense to it. And when it comes to your turn to share, he is an attentive listener. He asks questions only without interruption, keeping the smooth flow of the conversation rolling. You tell him, although rather dreadfully, about community college, and how you have been taking a couple of general courses the last few semesters while you figure out what you want to do. It’s a partial truth. 

You wonder if he notices your unease surrounding the topic, as most of his questions end up steering in the direction of your hobbies. You tell him of your love of theatre, particularly classical works, film, music. You share the last one in common, as he admits to playing a bit of guitar himself. 

“Well, I don’t know a ton ‘bout that Shakespeare fella, but I think Sarah was in one of his plays once,” he says. 

“Oh, yeah?” You eye him through your peripheral, raising a brow in inquisition. “You remember which one?”

He blows a stream of air through his lips like you’ve caught him thoroughly off guard, and you try not to laugh because fuck, is he so handsome. Every peek from the corner of your eye is a perfect little gift, and yet, you’re still selfish for more. 

“Twelve somethin’? All I know is she played a boy, and I had no idea what she was sayin’.” 

Now, you really do laugh. “Twelfth Night,” you correct gently. “It’s a good one.” 

He shoots you a knowing look. “Woulda been better if I could understand half of it.” 

“It’s not all that bad once you find the rhythm of the language,” you explain. “It seems a lot scarier at first glance. Or first listen.” 

He’s quiet for a moment, pondering over your words. Think, think, think. Taking strides a bit slower. “Well, maybe you’ll just hafta teach me more about it sometime.” 

You nearly stop in your tracks, looking over and tilting your head up at him. He’s smiling down at you, closed lip, but prominent enough that the godforsaken dimple pops out at you again. He seems genuine. You realize very quickly it’s something you’re not used to. 

“I would love to,” you tell him honestly, voice failing you in a whisper. 

But before your emotions can take any more reign over you, you’re both coming to a stop before the brightly lit ice cream stand. The crowds are thicker at the center of the fair, elated screams of children and laughter, music that rattles your ear drums from every direction. But now, you find it all easier to tune out. No longer do you feel the all-encompassing thread of anxiety weaving through you, and perhaps it’s because most of your focus is on Joel; in all his glory, standing with his hands on his hips as he peers up at the menu, different hues of pink and yellow and blue flashing over his face in sync with the lights around him. 

“Well, shouldn’t be too hard of a decision,” he’s saying, but you’re hardly listening. Your eyes are trained on his neck, the tan skin that peeks out of the collar of his flannel, a thick vein running down its length. There’s a film of sweat glistening over his jugular, and you wonder just how delightful it would feel, taste, to run your tongue across it. Silly, silly girl. 

Now, he’s looking down at you, one arm leaning against the stand’s counter, and you try with great difficulty to blink the haze out of your lust-blown eyes. “Chocolate or vanilla?” he asks. 

You have a taste for something you believe is far sweeter. “Chocolate,” you say, despite yourself. 

He hums in approval. “The correct choice,” and then, he’s fishing into his back pocket for his wallet, and you’re snapping out of your fantasies and back to attention. 

“Oh, I can cover mine,” you tell him, fumbling with the zipper of your purse as the worker approaches the windowsill, asking Joel what he can get for him. 

You look up after retrieving the wrinkled five-dollar bill to meet Joel’s unamused gaze, shaking his head. He’s already handing his card over. “Two cups of chocolate, please,” he says to the man at the counter, but his scolding eyes are still on you. 

You frown. “Joel—”

“Would ya knock it off? I’m buyin’ you the damn ice cream.” He’s stern, serious with his words. But the smirk that lingers at the corner of his lips keeps everything in earnest jest. He wants to buy it for you, and that’s that—final decision. You’re almost embarrassed at how eagerly the small gesture makes your heart swell. How easy it is to give in to him without fear as a playable factor. 

You can’t remember the last time someone bought something for you just because they wanted to, because they felt like it.  

“Thank you,” you mutter, arguing no further. 

Once you retrieve your cups, you find a vacant picnic table nearby to dwell on while you eat. Joel chooses to sit beside you, both of you facing away from the tabletop and towards the bustling crowds, the limited space of the bench forcing the firm flesh of his outer thigh to press up, ever slight, against yours. You try to focus your energy on the sweet, soothing cold taste of your treat, taking tiny spoonfuls as slowly as possible, a subconscious tactic to keep him here, next to you, longer. Even if just to watch the nameless bodies pass by, the pleasure of mere company a rarity. 

“Can I ask you somethin’?” Joel’s the one to break the silence, and you’re grateful. You nod at him, and he eyes his spoon as he fiddles it mindlessly around his cup, brows pulled in focus. 

“Earlier… you said seein’ that boy was one of the many reasons you didn’t like comin’ to the fair anymore.” He places his emphasis right where you had. Attentive. Thinking and listening. “Why else don’t ya like it?” 

Oh. 

It’s not what you were expecting. You stop eating altogether, cradling the cup delicately in your lap and losing your eyes to the passing patrons. You wonder if he can sense your trepidation because he doesn’t repeat the question even after your silence has long extended its warranted amount. Memories bombard you, and there’s that momentary feeling of fight or flight again; you don’t fear him as much as do yourself, and what may become of you, and him, if you are to spill the thoughts that now swirl ceaselessly in your brain, replacing pleasant fantasies with their stain. 

You had never recounted the story yourself; it has always been told for you. More opportunity. The chance to reshape tragedy into the tale of your choosing. But no matter how long you sit there, silent, thinking, anything but truth seems like a waste. An opportunity to be honest, brave. 

“Um...” You try to form the words, but they’re stuck. Be brave, be brave. You clear your throat, swallowing hard. “Well, my uh… my mother used to bring me here every summer.” Bile rises in your esophagus, the acidic taste a punishment after such a treat. “She left us when I was six,” you explain plainly. “No idea where she is.” 

A waiting game. For pity, or sorrow, or some overly dramatized display of grief as a means to be sympathetic. You wait for it, brace yourself for it and the robotic actions that you once trained yourself to follow in response. 

But it never comes. 

Silence, and then, you find it in yourself to peer shyly at him and discover he’s already looking at you. No pity, or sorrow, or grief. Tenderness. Understanding, even. He turns himself a quarter, setting his half-eaten cup down and leaning his elbow against the table, facing you. You watch his jaw roll side to side, contemplation, before: 

“Sarah’s mom… she left, too. Couple weeks before her first birthday.” 

Yes, understanding. You feel it all, a tsunami, washing you away from your lonesome shore and back into the vast waters. Anger, sadness, resentment, and understanding. Your heart aches in your chest. For Joel, for his daughter, for yourself, a version then and now. Being brave pays off. 

You set your cup down, turning to face him similarly. “I’m so sorry, Joel,” you whisper, sincerity. 

He nods slowly. “Yeah, me too.” And he means it. You know he does. “Listen, m’not… pretendin’ to understand your situation, but if there’s anythin’ I took from mine s’that… who we are? It ain’t based on other people’s poor decisions. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean there’s somethin’ wrong with us.” 

Words you have waited a lifetime for, and he gifts them to you effortlessly. 

The sting of tears is second nature, though you hardly notice them at first with the way he’s looking at you—so much understanding. Only when a drop of liquid slips off your lashes, tainting your cheek, do you attempt to compose yourself. 

You blink rapidly. “I’m sorry, I—”

He’s touching you, and suddenly, the weight of the world seems less daunting. Two careful palms cradling your cheeks, a sea of copper boring into you.

“Hey, no. No. Don’t be.” He’s shaking his head, eyes pained, but honest. “Not about this. Never about this, okay?” A rogue thumb swipes away the proof of your despair, and you want to loosen the floodgates, sob into his arms, and relinquish yourself to him with the budding trust that he would take care of you. 

But you also want to be strong, be strong for him. Harness the strength he’s giving you. So you nod, a promise that you hear what he’s saying and accept it at face value. You let him wipe the few following tears that slip, let him hand you back your ice cream cup and tell you to eat it, it’s good for the soul, which makes you blow out a shaky laugh. You let the silence wash over you again, less fearful of its presence, while you eat and watch the crowds. You let yourself be brave again, scooting an inch over, and laying your head on the curve of his shoulder. You let him rest his cheek against the crown of your head in return, a subtle intimacy, necessary and calm. You can’t remember the last time you felt so calm. 

You stay like this for some time—you could stay like this forever—until he tells you, rather dismally, that he has a work conference call tomorrow morning that he’s dreading. 

“On a Saturday?” you question, lifting your head and flashing him a twisted expression. 

He smiles tiredly. “Bein’ the boss doesn’t always allow alotta down time.” 

You purse your lips, attempting to hide your disappointment. It’s his much too kind way of telling you it’s time to call it a night. 

“Well, then we oughta get you home,” you say, forcing yourself to your feet, empty cup in hand. 

Joel studies your face for a moment—you still can’t decipher what he’s thinking, a mystery you’re growing impatient to crack—before following suit. He takes the cup out of your hands, stacking it atop his, and nodding his head for you to follow towards the garbage bins. 

It’s on your short stroll across the yard that you take a moment to dig into your purse, finding your phone to check the time, only to discover something far worse: two missed calls and three texts from your father. 

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, coming to a stop. You’d left it on silent. With shaky fingers, you open messages. 

9:57 pm—

Heading towards car. 

10:04 pm—

Where are you? Let’s go!!! 

10:11 pm—

Leaving. Call a cab. 

The last one was fifteen minutes ago. 

Joel slows his steps once he realizes you’re no longer beside him. “Everythin’ okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Yes. I just—my dad had to um…  he had to leave, and I’ve gotta find another way home.”

Because of course, he couldn’t possibly give you some grace. Couldn’t make the effort to at least look for you before taking off. The bare minimum had never been an expectation from him before. You’re rapidly tapping away at your phone, hoping your nearby option isn’t outrageously expensive, when Joel’s frame steps in front of you. 

“Well, here. Let me give ya a ride back.” You hear him say it, but only for a moment do your eyes flicker up to acknowledge him. 

It’s a nice offer. Generous. Too generous. If you weren’t so accustomed to self-sabotage, and less panicked, you may have even taken him up on it. 

You shake your head. “Oh, no. It’s okay, I don’t wanna—” 

He’s touching you again. A swift hand loosely coming up to take one of your wrists between his fingers, any ability to focus on the task at hand lost to his allure. You look up at him properly, the sight of a sympathetic smile and sincere eyes causing your breath to hitch. 

“What, put me out of my way?” he muses. His thumb draws a pattern over your pulse point, your ride awaiting confirmation suddenly a tedious afterthought. He has your full attention with a single touch. 

You open your mouth to rebuttal but nothing comes. It’s nothing if not sensible. Your neighbor offering you a ride home, inevitably heading in the same direction. Although it isn’t just your neighbor, it’s Joel, and for some reason, the two haven’t solidified in your head as equals yet. Just how attainable he really is. 

You realize you would be a fool to turn him down. 

You lower your phone, nibbling at your bottom lip. “Are you sure?” you ask quietly, but your stomach churns with excitement at the prospect of your perfect evening not quite having to reach its end. 

Joel smiles. 

“Positive.” 

He’s witty. It’s something you didn’t expect.

You laugh more on the drive home in Joel’s truck than you think you’ve laughed all year. Granted, most of his jabs stem from the ridiculous interactions he’s had with those in town—those you know, have known, their mind-boggling antics less surprising to you now—but you find solace in how honest he is with you. How he confides in you. 

He looks good. Meaty thighs spread open in the driver's seat, one hand occupying the wheel while the other arm leans casually against the center console. He takes up the whole seat, a vision, the kind of man who can occupy space without consuming all of it, the inside of the vehicle appearing crammed with his broad body. The front windows are rolled down, a steady breeze whistling through his curls, and you’re grateful for the cardigan now as it’s wrapped around your shoulders, shielding you from the goosebumps growing on your arms. Whether they’re from the wind, or him, you don’t know.

You attempt not to stare too long or too often, regardless of how your eyes hunger to follow the veins across his thick forearm or the strong build of his jaw. Try to maintain some semblance of composure, despite the proximity of him, his scent, his being, intoxicating. And no matter how many times you clench your thighs together below your skirt, you cannot ignore the growing ache that lingers there just upon the sight of him. 

You think, however naive, how easy it would be for him to become the end of you. In every fantastic way imaginable. 

Still, in those moments of silence, there’s comfort. You find solace in how mindless his presence feels; no worries, no regrets. You can just be. A pleasantry long forgotten, perhaps never fully discovered. 

You’re looking wistfully out the window, elbow propped up on the sill, resting your cheek against your palm and admiring the clarity of the stars, when a familiar percussive intro coming from his stereo perks your attention. 

“Oh, I love this song,” you tell him, eagerly reaching for the volume knob on the dash and dialing it up a couple notches. 

I've been roamin' around, always lookin' down at all I see.

“Whole album’s a good one,” Joel remarks, and you tilt your head at him with faint surprise. 

“You know it?” 

Painted faces fill the places I can't reach.

You catch him rolling his eyes. “M’not that old.” 

“Yeah? Well, you never told me just how old,” you tease. 

You don’t expect it to land so unsteady, but there’s a pause, a shift in the air palpable enough that it frightens you briefly. “Fifty-two,” he tells you, less conviction in his tone. 

You know that I could use somebody.

Only three years younger than your father. 

It should make you uneasy, yet somehow, it only causes your sick fascination with him to blossom. 

You only hum in response, nodding. Scared to display your interest too eagerly, but you catch the way he eyes you out of his peripheral at the revelation. Seeming to search for your reaction, he waits until the truck is pulled still at the approaching red light, cocking his head fully over his shoulder to take you in. You return the glance, eyes timid—timid, but not unsure, nor displeased, nor appalled, nor any other reaction you assume he anticipates—and you’re studying one another, seeking common ground in the heavy silence, and you think he must find his reassurance in your eyes for his own soften if only a bit, and you note the way the corner of his lips threaten to upturn, your own mirroring. 

Someone like you and all you know and how you speak; countless lovers under cover of the street.

And then there’s the summer night breeze, mischievous and unruly, wafting through the open windows and taking the hem of your skirt carelessly in its path. The fabric flounders mere inches, revealing the tops of your thighs, and his eyes, just as untamed now, falter to catch a glimpse. 

You know that I could use somebody.

You suck in a breath, fingers twitching in your lap with the instinct to reach for the fabric, pull it back down to your knees, and allow yourself some semblance of decency. You fight a war with the warmth in your belly, and it wins, too enamored at the way he unabashedly takes in your body. As if he had been holding back before, and only now does he allow himself the indulgence. Fantasy and reality become one. And when he trails his wandering eyes back to your face, your lips part; not for words, nor air, nor sounds, but some hope that he’ll give you a taste of everything you have ever wanted. 

Someone like you.

Green flashes across his face. He clears his throat, and then, his eyes abandon you for the road as the engine roars back to life. The loss is agonizing. 

No more than five minutes later, he’s pulling into the driveway adjacent to yours. You see your father's cruiser parked in the driveway and your stomach sinks, every muscle in your body returned to its usual tension-coated stasis. Joel cuts the engine, and with it, the music, the breeze, the serenity, all disappear. You’re both silent, still, eyes plastered forward for a while. Lost in thought. Wonder what he’s thinking, 

Joel gets out first, wordless, but stalks around the front hood to the passenger side to open the door for you. You flash him your wide eyes, his own as chasmic as the sky in the low light, muttering a soft thank you as you scoot off the high bed of his truck. 

He walks you over to your side of the yard. You’re aware it's essentially useless, but neither of you complains. When you reach your side of the fence, you stop before the gate, turning on your heels to face him. He comes to a halt a few feet ahead of you, hands in his pockets, the glow of the moon casting shadows across his face. You take a deep breath, clutching the strap of your purse taut, and finding the courage to speak first. 

“I had a really good time tonight,” you tell him, sheepish, peering up with caution. “Thank you.” 

He’s looking down at you, expression neutrally unreadable. “No need to thank me, darlin’,” he speaks lowly, as if not to jar the night sky, quiet and intimate around you. “It was real good for me, too.” And you know again that he means it, and you’re certain you won’t be able to sleep tonight with such rampant thoughts. 

Don’t just stand here like a freak, the moment’s over. 

You clear your throat, eyes falling to your feet. “Well, I should… I should get inside.” Let me stay out here forever, please. “Goodnight.” 

“Yeah, me too.” When you look up again, he’s nodding to himself. His expression has changed, brows back to their perpetual knot and stiffness in his jaw. “G’night.” 

And it’s so hard to look away, even harder to move. Something that lingers between your exchange of glances is heavy, palpable, real.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, once more for good measure. 

And with great difficulty, you peel your eyes off of him and turn toward the gate. Your feet feel like weights trying to depart from him, but you only make it about three paces before— 

“Wait.” 

Calloused skin grazes you, careful fingers wrapping around your wrist, a bit more firm than before, and halting you in your tracks. The touch is unlike Trevor’s. Considerate, soft. Awaiting permission to go any further. And when you finally muster the courage to turn and face him, you find a dire look in his eyes. 

Pained, desperate. Restraining himself from something unspoken. 

The gap between you feels vast, only his outstretched arm occupying the space. It’s vibrating, begging to be explored. Uncharted terrain. And maybe it’s the rescue, or the conversation, or the sweet treat, or the ride home, or just Joel and your unyielding fantasies. But you cannot deny what feels like a culmination of every blip in time leading up to this moment, and you’re striding forward, a split second of doubt before trembling fingers reach for the collar of his flannel. 

You think he descends towards you in unison, for when you touch lips, there’s urgency. Clambering hands and uneven breath, there is no space to find where you end and he begins. His hands steady themselves at your waist, pulling you flush against his warm body, and if it weren’t for the taste of him enticing you—coffee, mint, and chocolate so sweet—you may have collapsed. But he would catch you. You know this by the way his fingertips dig into you, bits of skin meeting skin where the hem of your cardigan and tank top rise, and you’re on fire. A light you did not even know existed inside of your flourishing, whirling, wild flames. 

Your fingers find the skin of his neck, thick and warm, before your arms wrap snug around it. Close, you need to keep him close. His hands, steady and seasoned, explore the slopes and panes of your back, bunching up the fabric of your cardigan between your shoulder blades, a means of restraint.  

Don’t, you want to beg him. Don’t hold back. 

That’s when you feel it—wet and sweltering and fucking delicious, his tongue prodding at your lower lip, and you waste no time in granting him his desires. Your lips part in a gasp, a deep groan rumbling through Joel’s chest that leaves you lightheaded, as he licks eagerly into your mouth; tongues dancing, lips sheen with saliva and growing swollen from the sheer intensity of it, and your throat releases a faint, uninhibited moan between breaths. He loses a bit of himself then; you hear that same, low sound, this time sending a wave of warmth to your thighs, before he wraps you in his wingspan, pulling you to your toes, as close as he can have you. 

And this is it, you think. Everything you’ve ever wanted. Even when he’s pulling away from you to catch his breath, forehead to forehead, breathing each other in. Even when you find the courage to open your eyes and look into his, instantly lost in the allure. More, more, you want more. You would take anything he gave you. Peaceful. Perfect. And nothing could take it away from you. It’s yours now. Nothing, nothing, nothing—something. 

You almost miss it. Just out of the corner of your eye, distant and flickering, the light turns on in your father's window from behind the curtains. The bubble pops. 

“Oh my god!” you gasp, planting your hands on his chest and pushing firmly, creating distance. You hardly notice the sudden concern on his face, vision gone white, hands sweating, breathing no longer labored by desire, but panic. “I—I can’t—I’m—” You’re unable to find the words, and maybe they don’t exist. 

He’s saying something, but you don’t register it. His cheeks are flushed, brows lowered in despair, disappointment, but he doesn't know. He doesn’t know why you can’t be here, why you can’t do this, why you have to break away. And that version inside of you, the one that had always pleaded and cried to be let out, crawls her way up your throat. She pushes tears into your eyes, and like always, just before you can let her out, a greater force shoves her back down, wires your lips shut, and forces you to remain as you are. 

You hardly even notice that you’re moving, running. Stumbling your way through the gate and dashing across the backyard. You don’t dare look back, and the sound of Joel calling your name is the last thing you hear before you unlatch the back door, slipping out of fantasy, and drowning back into the den of harsh reality. 

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Ao3 | KOFI

[yinwaryuri]

Jack and Joker: The Bank Scene

Happy Monday my friends, we finally are getting our gay heist show! YinWar truly have outdone themselves with the level of quality they've put into it and I couldn't be more excited or more grateful.

I wanted to break down the scene where Joke robs the bank because, given my experience in banking, it's was scripted very purposefully in favor of suspending our belief. Admittedly, my experience is in the US, and not all financial institutions operate the same, but for safety and security measures they're pretty standard across the board.

I was really appreciative of the disclaimer given ahead of time. It speaks to the research that was done for the sake of how much they could accurately portray the events, and when that seemed impossible and they couldn't let go of the scene, they said fuck it - gay story over realism it is. This break down is certainly not to dig at the writing; it's more to buff my knowledge than anything.

We love you YinWar, thanks for having respect for bank employees. Now let's get to the employees I don't respect, and the non-employee that I do.

For the most part, security officers don't need to do more than greet customers, and if there is any suspicion he shouldn't immediately interrogate someone. He's there for when things get escalated, or if there are any faces he should be looking out for (anyone banned from a branch for any reason), then he can confront them. If Joke had made an attempt at another location and that one tipped off others, then he would have a reason to suspect him.

Joke's mistake here: Being seen. He is so identifiable throughout. The show didn't bother checking any CCTVs, but he makes no attempt to hide from them. Instant jail. Sorry my guy. He also chooses a very unusual method and time of day to strike.

Since the officer did confront him, Joke gives an excuse.

This was a good call. If someone from another location or office, or a third party contracted service is coming, the employees would be notified beforehand of whom they should be and during which times. And even if the person is easily recognizable physically, they will have company identification on them, and if the security measures are extra strict, a form of government ID would also need to be shown.

LOUD WRONG ANSWER BUZZER

So what Joke is going to look for is someone who appears less competent. He looks at the older woman who likely has years under her belt and knows he has no chances there. But the girl to her left....

TARGET ACQUIRED

And she's already in trouble.

Oh hon.

That's never a situation I'd want to be in. Calling customers to inform them that there's been a mistake made on their account is never fun and it often is hard to reach them. There are ways of simply correcting the error and informing the person after it's been done just so they know what to expect when they look at the activity on their statement. Whatever the case, she's new, inexperienced, and having a bad day.

The balls he has to say this. Bestie. Have you ever touched banking software.

He's just getting her out of the way. If she had received any proper training and meant to apply it at all, this would've been a red flag. She is trusting the judgement of the security officer. Joke hasn't introduced himself by name and if he meant to help fix the mistake he wouldn't make her leave. It would be her responsibility and a good training opportunity. Instead, this happens....

She's risking so many things! Security within the immediate premises, security of the bank's information, confidentiality of the customers' information (which is literally their government ID, home address, other contact info, ALL of their accounts and activity). Absolutely a bad move.

GIRRRLLLL. That is on you. I saw her hesitate, but in the end just knew it was bad. At least where I've been, that possibly means fines and/or jail time for her as well, depending on the severity (most likely fines though). This poor girl is gonna have the worst confidence about her ability on the job after learning she helped a guy embezzle money. Where's her story?

Joke sends the security guard away, gets behind the desk with Carbon's ID and is likely planning to simply empty his account and leave. Then who should show up but Jack! (Next time please direct him to wait in a queue, your "manager" is supposedly still fixing your little check blunder, remember?)

And even Joke is nervous for a moment because he definitely didn't want to get the cute bartender involved.

Nevertheless, he humors Jack and listens to the bittersweet story of his childhood and his dream of opening a school. I love Jack, I really hope that he is able to open that school someday too.

So this part of the loan process is called the interview. It's where the employee will get an idea of the customer's needs and see if the bank's service is what they're looking for or if there is any particular offers they can make at this time. It's an important process when dealing in person because it will hopefully help the customer know which steps they can take depending upon approval. It's also where documentation is asked to verify what can be approved.

For the most part, Joke's charisma would be fantastic for a banking career because he seems natural at facilitating a conversation that requires someone to open up about their financial needs. He loses marks for not checking actual information, not filing any copies of the information he has been given, not explaining any details about paying the loan down or how having an account works, not starting the account opening process, and the numbers they talk about are vague so we don't even know how much money is in question here (which is probably a writing choice and I'm fine with it).

Instead Joke pulls a Picard and decides to make it so. And flirts at the same time. There's no signage around the branch to speak of this program and he doesn't go into any details, he simply grabs the stamp and seals their fates together.

I do think it's a sweet little change of mind he has. He was simply going to inconvenience Carbon, but what better way to do it (in his mind) than to give the money to the guy who got snubbed because of him?

The office being truly empty does crack me up. Who is supposed to be there and why are they gone? Also, for a bank, that vault is incredibly small. That is a home safe, that is not for securing the assets of the public. Also, most places have updated their protocol to use two people when opening the vault because having two people present also ensures less opportunity for employee theft.

His ass is not wearing gloves!

And, in a final un-bankerly move, he does not count out even the bundles.

FLIRT

I also love that he goes by Joker, but is constantly pulling a Batman exit on Jack.

I feel bad for knowing that I would have absolutely apprehended this man by asking the simplest questions. But I no longer work in that capacity and couldn't give a fuck! Let him do what he wants!

[saguette]

What do you think Johnny's art looked like before he was stripped of his powers? This is something that bugs me a lot, and I'm curious about what you think.

ok i needed to draw a few shitty pictures to demonstrate cuz i wanted to talk about more than just his previous art but his art journey in general IDC if there's some canon tweet that proves something i said wrong or out of timeline these are my headcanons and projections so you either like it or not.. anyways I think his style pre-pre-JTHM (lets say 15-18) depicted many things, He was good at realism and fluctuated just fine between stylized art and big hefty works with a lot of detail. His stylized works looking similar to Jhonens and the whole 2000's artstyle cuz its fitting.

Of course he's like, a late teenager around this time so its GOOD but not perfect. If you pulled up a few of his drawings from this time he would probably be embarrassed by all the disproportionate limbs and goth girls he sketched and thought were badass. He probably has old sketches of friends in his style regardless if they asked to be drawn or not since his art was something he was proud of and people around him made him feel proud of. His old art also feels like it'd have anime elements unintentionally to add to that amateur artist swag. Johnny doesn't like anime copies but stuff he rips inspo from was anime inspired so it rubbed off on his work too. Moving onto PRE-JTHM (18-20) Is when his art started to get more serious and complex. In his happy era he took to drawing lovecraftian horror sometimes but it was always the secondary focus of any drawing.

Moving out and growing up was around the time his mental state started to worsen and he started using art to cope with emotions rather than just use it for fun, drawing complex monsters was a subconscious way to depict underlying mental illness that's out of his hands. He cant depict what he doesn't know he has, he can only scribble things that feel someone close to him because there is no physical appearance to emotions. He never liked his art around this time because it always felt unfinished or wrong or like it just didn't interpret what he wanted right. Overtime his art lost coherent appearance, quality, and meaning which made it feel worthless. It wouldn't be all that bad but it reached a point not even he knew what it was trying to be and it was frustrating. How can your own art not make sense to you? Its weird to let your hands go and do their own and you not recognize what they're trying to say. Which leads to SHORTLY BEFORE JTHM-and later.. Johnnys NEW preferred method for art currently is a little abstract, it became two extremes of the same thing; nothing. his art lost alot of what it used to be so he says he cant draw anymore.

Johnnys lovecraftian horror art slowly engulfed itself over time and always becomes an abstract mess. Its purposely made to be incomprehensible by having too much, regardless if its creation is poetic, an outside view not being able to tell what it is or how much work went into it is on purpose. its metaphorical or whatever.. Johnnys fucked up or something.. Whereas Noodleboy i imagine was made by him drawing a stickfigure one day to see if he can still "draw" and overtime gave him his features like angry eyes and that big hair, creating his own sort of vent sona to replace the sketchy abstract art he used before. Noodleboys chaoticness is too sporadic to rip any meaning off of, he also purposely represents nothing. His existence uses up paper the same way, just without all the extra effort. SORRRYYYY long tangent thats probably super messy i just winged it. but i cant help myself ive thought about this for a while ik i didnt strictly answer the question but i had so much more to say

[veronicaphoenix]

zutto — chapter eleven | wc: 5.9k | series masterpost | prev. chapter

Chapter summary: Noah and Lia get answers from Noah's Grandma to all the questions they've had since Koi No Yokan.

Reading time: 25mins aprox.

Tags and trigger warnings: established relationship, slight angst, japanese folklore*, chinese folklore*, magical realism, fluff, a few tears, therapy, mentions/allusions to everything that has happened until now, including lia and noah's troubled childhood, lia's abusive relationship with mitch, and the time noah and lia slept together when they were drunk. Answers to all the mysteries that happened in Koi No Yokan.

General trigger warnings: this work addresses and depicts issues related to addiction, abuse, & violence, contains explicit sexual content, and explores themes of childhood trauma. Reader discretion is advised. +18

The house welcomed them with the earthy, lingering fragrance of incense. It was a scent neither Lia nor Noah could identify yet, for it was unfamiliar—perhaps it was woven from cedarwood. Perhaps sandalwood. Nevertheless, the scent and warmth of the house wrapped them in a sense of home despite knowing they were far from their own. It was an odd mix of comfort and respectful distance; they knew they were guests in a house where every detail was arranged with thoughtful care by someone else, and yet, it felt like being home in a way. But it wasn’t the place which gave them that feeling, no. 

It was Grandma. 

They slipped off their shoes at the entrance, following tradition, and as Lia wiped her eyes, Noah leaned into a hug to envelop his grandmother, a gentle but steady wrapping of arms that worked as a reminder of everything she had quietly done for him. As a boy, he had been unaware of it all, but now, as a grown man, he was aware and full of gratitude and admiration. 

“Why don’t you let Emi take your things upstairs?” Hana suggested, a familiar sparkle in her eye that meant she felt very joyful at having them home, finally. “I’ll prepare some tea, and we can sit in the tea room.”

At that, they both turned to see Emi, who had appeared with graceful timing at the entrance. She was a woman with short black hair in her late forties who had been assisting Hana for years. Noah and Lia knew her from their previous visits, and once again, as she stood with her hands neatly clasped and she nodded politely in their direction, her expression remained the same as always: serene and carrying a formality that made her seem both close and reserved at once. Though Hana managed the house alone, Emi’s help had become essential as of lately. The house was spacious and slightly too big for a woman alone. There were countless small details to tend to, and Hana, with her body aging with every passing day—that pain in her right leg, the backache—found herself struggling with certain tasks. Emi was there to lend her hands, as she had likely done for others throughout her life.

Emi’s presence had taken on a near-reverent quality since the moment she was hired, and that attitude applied not only to Hana but also to any guests arriving at the house. Her English was very poor, and that had led to some awkward exchanges between her and Noah and Lia in the past. Once, Lia had tried to bridge the gap and she’d asked Emi to sit with them at the tea table. But Emi, polite and respectful as ever, had simply smiled, bowed, and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Lia feeling guilty at the thought that, while they were indulging in pastries and warm teas, the woman was cleaning the kitchen. Perhaps it was a cultural legacy of deep-seated respect, rooted in the tradition of servitude where service was considered a quiet honor, but it still didn’t sit too well with neither Lia and Noah. Hana told them, after a few times, there was nothing they could do and they had to accept the way she was, and so they never really said much else, not even when they felt a tinge of guilt.  

Noah thanked Emi gently, shaking his head when she made to lift one of their heavy suitcases. There was no way he was going to let that woman carry those heavy bags upstairs. But as expected, Emi insisted, saying something in Japanese and bending down. Noah exchanged a look with Lia, as if asking for a help she couldn’t provide. Emi attempted again to lift one of the bags, her intent clear even without words and ignoring Noah’s hands. 

“Can you tell her I’ll take care of it?” Noah asked Hana. “They’re too heavy. She’ll hurt her back. I can manage.” 

Hana nodded, understanding, and with a sweet voice but reverence in her tone, indicated to Emi—in Japanese, of course—to leave the task to Noah. Emi listened to Hana with more will than she had listened to Noah, for she nodded in understanding immediately and retreated after offering Noah another nodding and a smile that he tried to weirdly reciprocate. 

Lia trailed behind Noah as he took both suitcases upstairs at once, her carrying their backpacks, and once they reached the top of the stairs, she paused in front of the guest room door where she had always stayed. 

Noah kept walking towards his room until he noticed Lia standing far from him.

“You don’t think we’re sleeping in separate beds, let alone in separate rooms, do you?”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head, but her voice softened as she glanced toward the stairs. “I just don’t want to be inconsiderate. Maybe we should talk to Grandma about it first.”

After a brief pause, Noah nodded.

“Yeah. Sure. We’ll talk to her.” He extended a hand to her, and he waited until Lia took it to lead her into his room, sliding the doors open. 

The room was bigger than the guest room, square in shape, with a big futon laying on a wooden tatami, clean soft bedding drapped over it and an array of pillows. There was a small desk next to the door, facing the bed, and two more sliding doors on one side that led to a cozy balcony overlooking the distant mountains. Noah had never really stopped to appreciate how cozy the room was, but now he imagined how much warmer it would feel, having Lia lying in his bed. 

Noah set the suitcases in one side and Lia placed their backpacks on the desk. 

After spending a few minutes sorting through her toiletries and hanging up some clothes in the wardrobe, Lia slipped away to the bathroom for a quick break. Just then, a knock on the door startled Noah, causing him to turn around. He found Emi by the threshold, carrying more pillows in her arms and two colorful blankets. A sigh escaped him; he couldn’t find a way to explain they didn’t need so many, and he didn’t want to discharge her and offend her, so he simply stowed the extras in the wardrobe, thanking her.

Lia came back from the bathroom with her hair gathered in a comfy bun, and both headed downstairs. 

Grandma was in the kitchen, a space that carried the comforting smell of teas being prepared and food being cooked. Hana was placing an iron kettle on a tray and arranging three delicate porcelain cups beside a plate of traditional sweets when both stepped into the room. 

As Hana looked up, her eyes softened, the faint creases at their edges deepening. She paused, noticing the way Noah and Lia lingered at the door as if feeling shy about something. 

Before she focused on that, a surge of disbelief spread through her. It was always a little surreal to see them grown up, these two who had shared so much, tethered by a bond she had always sensed. To her, they were still the children who’d once sought refuge in her kitchen after school, where she would braid Lia’s hair and smile at Noah’s pleas to grow his hair long like hers, that little girl with torn clothes and that boy who used to escape the struggles of his family by playing guitar.

“Is everything to your liking?” Hana asked, her gaze soft but searching.

“Yes,” Lia replied quickly. Noah nodded in agreement, but then Lia glanced at him before adding, a hint of hesitation in her voice, “We were wondering if… if Noah and I could… share a room?”

Hana’s attention drifted downward, catching the subtle movement between their bodies. Noah’s fingers reached for Lia’s, and she quietly laced hers with his. Hana’s eyes lingered on their joined hands for a moment, before her lips curved into an understanding smile.

With a quiet satisfaction that neither Noah nor Lia fully comprehended, Hana lifted the tea tray and moved gracefully around the kitchen island, gesturing for them to follow without saying a word. Despite her petite frame, there was an elegance and authority in her movements.

Noah and Lia exchanged a look, then followed her into the tea room.

Hana’s tea room was minimal yet spacious, containing a square wooden table in the center surrounded by floor cushions. A single cabinet along the wall held a modest assortment of teacups and plates and a bouquet of dry flowers that had been there since she moved into the house, crafted by Lia, of course. On the left, the panneled windows made of washi paper let in the soft, diffused light from the garden at the back of the house. The room had always felt like a sacred space. 

Noah and Lia sat side by side, waiting in a reverent silence as Hana kneeled down in front of them across the table and poured the tea, the steam unfurling in delicate wisps that mingled with the scent of sencha. Lia wrapped her hands around the warm mug only to be warned by Hana. 

“It’s hot, dear. Be careful.”

It was always the same warning, and yet, Lia never seemed to care about it. Hana would always say the same, and Lia would always keep her hands around the mug because instead of burning her hands, the heat brought a sense of grounding to her that spread from her hands to the rest of her body. 

Next to her, Noah, normally patient, was growing a bit restless. He was expecting an answer. Yes. No. It had been a simple question, right? Can we share a room? Can Lia sleep in my bed?  He just needed a simple “yes” or “no” —a “yes” better than the other option because truth was, he didn’t know what he would do if Hana said he wanted them to keep distance while in the house. But Hana had to be so cryptic. She had to draw things out and keep him on this toes. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Hana’s old but wise eyes met his just as she finished pouring herself tea. Her expression was one almost… mischievous. There was softness in it, but she had a knowing smile on her lips that hinted at secrets only she knew. 

Just as Noah opened his mouth to speak, she said, “There’s something I want to show you.”

She started to rise, and instinctively, Noah made a move to help, but she waved him off. 

“No need, my dear. Just give me a moment.”

She dissappeared down the hall, her footsteps a soft patter that didn’t quite fade entirely as she retrieved what she went looking for in a nearby room. She returned moments later. In her wrinkled hands, she held a small, dark wooden box. She settled back onto the cushions. 

“Is that where you’ve been keeping my old baby teeth?” Noah joked, gesturing to the box with a smirk. Beside him, Lia chuckled, but Hana’s silence—her smile still serene—quickly quieted them. 

“Not quite,” was her reply. 

Hana placed the box on the table, facing her. Her own cup of tea steamed right next to it. She slowly opened it, but the attached lid created a barrier that made it impossible for Lia and Noah to see what was inside. Lia shifted, hands on her knees, lifting herself slightly and stretching her neck to catch a glimpse of whatever that was. 

Hana grabbed whatever was inside with such care that Noah and Lia’s curiosity and confusion just increased. A moment later, she placed something in the palm of her other hand and extended it towards them, revealing a piece of red string. 

The string lay delicate and faded in Hana’s palm. It was fraying slightly at the edges where time had worn it thin. Once bright red, it had softened to a muted, dusty crimson. Unbeknownst to the young couple in the room, it had stubbornly survived, first wash after wash, and then travel after travel until it was kept safe in the box that now lay on the table. 

“What’s that?” Lia asked, her eyes jumping to Hana’s, for she couldn’t make sense of the mystery that a tiny worn string could hold. 

She hadn’t noticed Noah going stiff, his eyes frozen over the piece of red laying in Hana’s hand. 

“That’s…” Noah began. He blinked, frowning a little as if he was trying to put the pieces together. He extended an arm and as gently as Hana had done, he took the string in his palm. “That’s a lose string from one of Lia’s socks,” he responded, more to himself than to Lia or Hana. 

Lia’s confusion only deepened at Noah’s words and at his reaction. He kept staring at the string in his palm as if it was made of gold. 

“What?” she uttered before shaking her head. “How could that—? I don’t own red socks.”

“You did,” Noah corrected her as he snapped his head up to look her in the eye, “when you were six.”

Lia wasn’t following. Noah continued.

“It got stuck on the pedal of my bike the first day we met, when I let you ride it. I gave it to Grandma right after I went back home. I thought…” The memories hit him, one after another. He nearly chuckled at his innocence back then. “I thought it needed to be sewn back or something. I got worried you wouldn’t have any more socks or that those would fray.”

Lia’s gaze flickered between the delicate string and the grandmother’s wise, knowing expression. She understood why little Noah, with his big heart and innocent worries, would have been anxious over the lost string. But Grandma? Why had she kept it for so many years? Why had she held on to it so reverently?

Unsure of what to say or feel, Lia found herself at a loss for words. She glanced at Noah, who was just as silent, both of them looking to Grandma.

“Have you heard about the red string of fate?” Hana asked then. 

Noah’s brow furrowed, and he nodded slowly. “I think I might’ve heard something about it… Isn’t that Chinese folklore?”

Grandma gave a gentle nod with an understanding smile. “Yes, it is. But that doesn’t mean it applies only to that region.”

Lia held her tea cup close, her fingers tracing the warmth that seeped into her palms. She took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving Grandma’s face as she waited.

“According to the myth,” Grandma continued, “the string of fate is an invisible red thread tied around the fingers of those destined to meet, especially soulmates or true loves. The ones connected by this thread are bound to find each other, no matter the distance, time, or obstacles. Though the cord may stretch or become tangled, it is said to never break, symbolizing a bond that is unbreakable and meant to be.”

“Folklore,” Lia concluded, a tinge of dubiety in her tone.

“Folklore, indeed,” Grandma agreed with a tilt of her head. “Life is not that simple, or beautiful. Some people are meant to be, but they never find their way to each other. However, sometimes they do. Sometimes they find each other at the strangest of times; sometimes when they are old, carrying the weight of their lives with them, and sometimes… when they are merely kids, with everything still ahead of them.”

“This is a broken string, Grandma,” Noah pointed out, extending his open palm as if trying to prove a point.

“And I said the red thread is invisible,” she replied with a soft smile touching her lips. “When you came home with that string in your hand, I kept it in a drawer for days, just because you were so concerned about Lia’s socks. But weeks later, when I found it again, I remembered the old myth, the one that had traveled from family to family, village to village, weaving its way across countries. By then, you and Lia were already inseparable, and I couldn’t help but wonder…” She trailed off, tilting her head as she looked at the thread as though it might reveal a hidden truth, as if it held the memories of years gone by. “I wondered if there was something to it. So, I kept it, out of curiosity. And as I watched you both grow—the more time you spent with each other, the more obvious it became.”

“What was obvious?” Lia asked, quietly. 

Hana’s smile deepened.

“That you were soulmates.”

Noah and Lia didn’t say a thing as they absorbed her words in quiet wonder and daze.

“When you moved in with Noah on your eighteenth birthday, I remember Noah calling to let me know that you’d settled in. There was something different in his voice—a blend of joy, contentment, and peace I’d never heard from him before. And then, the day you graduated, the look on his face when you came down the stairs in that beautiful dress, with those shoes you didn’t want to wear… Do you remember that, Lia?”

“I remember,” she replied as the memories flooded back. 

She recalled dancing with a classmate whose name had long since slipped her mind. She recalled Jolly telling her he was suspicious that Noah liked a girl. She remembered sneaking vodka shots with her friends in the restroom, and later that night, Noah giving her a piggyback ride to her room. And yes, she remembered the way he looked at her before any of that—a look she had assumed was the fond gaze of a best friend to whom you mean the world. Nothing more.

She turned her head to look at Noah. He was focused on Grandma, though there was a faint blush coloring his cheeks.  

“There was something…” Grandma went on. “It was’t just the string. There was something else, a feeling around the two of you, as if the world itself was telling me your place was with each other. When I look back, I’m convinced it all started the moment Noah first saw you, Lia. The thread may have existed long before, but the day your sock got caught on the pedal of his bike… it might have been a sign—a signal from some higher power that didn’t want you straying away from each other. I never wanted to interfere, to disturb the natural flow of things… so I did the only thing I could. I held onto this little piece of rope, believing somehow it would help keep you two together. I was afraid the thread might snap or get lost—that something would come between you and your relationship would strain.” She looked intently at them for a while. “I’ve never seen anything as beautiful and intense as what you two have. I said some people are meant to be but they never find their way to each other,” she looked directly at Noah, “but you, my dear child, you never left her side.” Not even when the thread threatened to break, when there were circumstances that hinted at a separation such as when Lia moved on her own, or when other people came between them—every one night stand, every girlfriend and boyfriend, Mitch, the night they slept together when alcohol was running through their veins. 

Be that as it may, Noah had always remained close to her. She had, too, in her own way and despite trying to push him away.  

“So,” Noah ventured, “you’re saying that we’ve always been meant to be together?”

“Yes. Lia has always been meant for you, and you for her. That’s what I believe, even if it sounds unreasonable, fantastical—you have every right to feel that way,” her voice flattered as her gaze drifted to a spot on the floor, unfocused. Lost in thought, her expression softened, and tears welled in her eyes. “But you’re here now. You’ve come back to me, together,” she continued, a smile breaking through the weight of years past, “after everything you’ve been through, all the struggles my children have faced so far away from me… I can only imagine how difficult it’s been, and I’m so sorry I couldn’t do anything for you. But now, you’re finally here, as you were always meant to be.”

Seeing Grandma’s silent tears trail down her cheeks was almost too much for them to bear. Even with the joy in this moment, the pain she’d carried across the years was evident, stretching from L.A. to this quiet town in Japan. She had watched, powerless, from afar as Noah and Lia overcame struggle after struggle—every little and not so little thing that threated to keep them apart. She’d been alone, helpless against the silent ache that crossed oceans—the butterfly effect.  

Lia resisted the impulse to react to Hana’s tears, instead setting her cup of tea down quietly on the table. Without a word, she reached over and took the string from Noah’s hands, holding it with a calm resolve.

The moment the fabric touched her skin, she was pulled back to that morning, twenty-one years ago. 

She remembered waking up alone in a crumbling house, piecing together a small breakfast from what she could find in the kitchen. She’d dressed in clothes that had piled up at the foot of her bed, unsure of how to wash them or make the machine downstairs work. Hoping to give them a different smell, she’d played in the garden among the flowers until her clothes smelled of lavender and thyme. Inside, she’d lost herself in her sketching and coloring, hours slipping by in a quiet solitude she barely noticed anymore. When hunger crept in, she’d scavenged an apple from the fridge, slicing away the bruised parts and eating what was left. Eventually, she’d perched by the window, watching the world pass outside, dogs barking in the distance, occasional cars rumbling by. Finally, she climbed the stairs back to her room to put on some red socks and boots. She’d opened the house door, stepped outside, and settled herself on the concrete. A while later, Noah had appeared.

And in that moment, her life changed. 

Noah saved her. 

With the back of her hand, Lia wiped a stray tear as she blinked. She rubbed the string between her fingers, its fibers stiff but delicate, like a fragile relic of the past that carried the memory of those early days—painful and sweet at the same time. 

Both Hana and Noah waited for her to speak. It took a moment, but finally, she opened her mouth, her voice quivering as she looked at Hana, eyes glassy. 

“Can I keep it?”

Noah half-expected Hana to hesitate. After guarding this small piece of their past—of their beginning— for so many years, he thought she might be reluctant to let go, fearing that releasing it might somehow weaken the bond between them. But Hana’s response was instant. Her smile brightened as she nodded.

“You can keep it, darling.”

Maybe, Noah thought, seeing them together after all these years had finally soothed Hana’s fears, rather than fueling them. He was still taking it all in, not so much the fact that she’d kept this string for over two decades, but the meaning behind it. 

But it made sense.

Every little thing made sense. 

And if he was honest, it was exactly how he wanted it. 

He’d wanted Lia since that Saturday morning when she was six and he was seven, in one way or another. 

He watched her fingers play with the red string, as if she were trying to understand if it was just a scrap of her old sock or a sign of something greater. It might have been nothing more than a forgotten string. Or perhaps it was indeed the physical proof of a bond that had been with them since childhood.

His tea sat untouched, forgotten as he focused solely on Lia, watching the worry etched into her expression. He couldn’t look away. He whispered her name, hoping to see if she was all right or if all of this was becoming too much. Her big brown eyes met his, unguarded and glassy with emotion. She didn’t smile, didn’t speak, just looked at him, and then, her concern shifted toward him. Just as he was about to tell her he was fine, she turned to Hana.

“What happened to Noah?” Lia’s voice was steady but edged with urgency. “The coughing. The fever. All those flowers.”

Hana’s gaze softened, though her expression remained unreadable. 

“We can talk about it tomorrow,” she replied, sensing Lia’s growing distress.

But Lia shook her head. “No. Now. We need to know.”

Hana hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. 

“Lia, my darling,” she began gently, “you just got here. Maybe one story is enough for today.”

“We’re fine,” Noah interjected, his tone resolute. He rested a hand on Lia’s knee, squeezing it lightly. “We’ve been waiting months for this, Grandma. We need to know. Please.”

For a moment, Hana’s shoulders slumped as though she were carrying the weight of something long-buried. She took a slow breath, then nodded, her gaze drifting somewhere beyond the walls of the room, as if she were looking back into a distant memory.

“When you were little, Noah,” she began, “I used to tell you folklore stories… so many you probably couldn’t keep track of them all.” She offered a bittersweet smile, her voice tinged with nostalgia. “Do you remember any those?”

“Some. You even got me a compillation book one Christmas.”

Hana nodded. “Yes, I did. And you’d beg me to read them, even when you should’ve been fast asleep.” She paused, eyes unfocused as if seeing the past replay in her mind. “There was one story—the tale of a boy and a girl. This girl loved the boy, loved him so much that it seemed to consume her. But the boy…” Her voice trailed off. “He didn’t feel the same way. It was a one-sided love, and because of that… she fell ill.”

Lia’s brow furrowed. “Ill?”

“Yes. In our culture, we call it Hanahaki disease. It begins with a feeling, a weight in the chest, but then it grows. Flowers begin to bloom inside you, filling your lungs with every unreturned feeling. And the more the love festers, the worse it gets.”

Noah frowned, his mind racing. The name felt vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t recall ever hearing the full story. 

“That’s not exactly what happened to me,” Noah intervened, lowering his voice. “I got sick every time Lia was physically away. But got better when she was around. And then one day, all of a sudden, the entire thing disappeared. On top of that, it was never a non-reciprocal feeling, so it cannot be the reason why I was coughing up flowers.”

“Not everything happens as its written in the books, my dear. As for the cough stopping one day and never coming back, maybe Lia can tell you more about that.”

Noah turned to Lia, surprised to see something in her expression he hadn’t expected—a trace of guilt, a hint of something she’d held back. She had listened intently, but now it was as if Hana’s words had pulled a thread that led to a long-kept secret. Her gaze met his, a small crease forming between her brows, her face shadowed by a reluctant admission.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Hana said, her voice gentle but decisive.

Both Noah and Lia looked up, startled.

“But we just sat down,” Lia protested. “The tea…”

“Don’t worry about the tea,” Hana replied, already rising with her cup in hand. She smiled warmly at them both before turning, and with a gentle slide of the door, left them in the quiet intimacy of the tearoom.

Noah turned back to Lia with a deeper frown, a look of weariness in his eyes that said he was done with so much overwhelming. There were still questions in the air and he wanted answer for all of them. Now.

“What was that about?” he asked, his voice edged with frustration. 

Lia took a steadying breath, sipped her tea, and set the cup down beside the string as she searched for the right words. 

“I think she’s right,” she started. “I know I brushed off all those times you mentioned Grandma’s theories—that being close to you somehow made you feel better. But after hearing about this string, that story, how long she’s held onto it… maybe there really are things beyond what we can explain and understand. Maybe this strange flower-coughing disease is one of them.” 

“I’m with you on that,” Noah replied, his gaze holding hers. “But it wasn’t one-sided when I fell head over heels for you, Lia.” 

“No, it wasn’t,” she said, meeting his eyes. “But it took me months to realize it myself and then, accept it.”

Noah’s eyes—and mind—were clouded with confusion. Sensing his need for clarity, Lia took a deep breath and tried to lay it all out, piece by piece. 

She’d been in love with him for longer she could admit. Deep inside, her heart had always belonged to him, but over and over, she had refused to believe it, to accept such a thing. She couldn’t jeopardize this near-perfect friendship they shared—that meant everything to her. And they had made a promise. So, she buried those feelings, ignored her heart, told herself over and over that whatever she felt was just a passing infatuation and that it would go away in time. She lied to herself because she hadn’t been willing to admit to herself, let alone to Noah, that she was in love with him. 

In the end, it was her denial that made him sick. It wasn’t that his love for her wasn’t reciprocated; it was that she couldn’t bring herself to believe in her own love for him as more than just a friend. Yet, despite her efforts to bury it, her love always found a way to surface—whenever she made him laugh, whenever she comforted him, whenever she showed up at his door just to be with him. Somehow, Noah’s heart had always known that hers belonged to him, and that was why, whenever she pulled away or tried to distance herself, his sickness would worsen. 

Only after countless hours spent in therapy did Lia finally begin to admit the truth that her own heart, her own body, had been trying to show her all along. She remembered that session vividly: 

“No.”

“Lia—” Dr. Reynolds insisted. 

“That’s not how it is,” she assured nearly through gritted teeth. Her voice was tight with resistance.

“It is, and you know it. You’ve known it for a long time, but you refuse to accept it. For me to help you, you must acknowledge it. You have to say it out loud and accept it. I know you’re scared, but you have to admit what you feel.”

Lia felt the words crawling up her throat, her heart racing, her palms damp as she gripped the arms of the chair. Her breathing grew shallow, and she looked at the doctor with wide, glassy eyes, the truth trembling on her lips. 

“Lia,” Dr. Reynolds pressed, “you are in love with your best friend, Noah. Say it.”

Her heartbeat was rapid and erratic, each beat hammering against her ribcage. She was terrified—terrified of what admitting it would mean, what it would change. But perhaps the only way to stop the ache was to finally speak the words aloud.

“I’m…” Her voice wavered, barely above a whisper. She took a shaky breath, her nails digging into the armrests of the chair as she steadied herself. “I’m in love with Noah.”

Back in the tearoom, Lia took a deep breath, her gaze landing on the steaming cup of tea. Noah's hand was no longer on her knee, and she missed the warmth it’d provided.  

“The day after meeting her,” Lia continued, “Jesse called me. He said you were worried something had happened to me.”

“That was the day the coughing stopped,” Noah acknowledged. “The day before had been Hell. I’d been so fucking sick, and then… from night to morning, I woke up and felt fine.”

“It was because I admitted to myself what I’d been refusing for so long—that I loved you. You were sick all those times because of me.” 

Noah hesitated, his lips parting slightly as he processed the rising panic in Lia’s voice. He shifted to face her, still seated in a lotus position on the cushions 

“That’s—” After a moment’s deliberation, he shook his head and squared his shoulders, feeling the weight of the conversation pressing down on them. They could continue down this path, but it would only lead them to the painful memories of the past, and that was no longer what mattered. “It doesn’t matter now. That’s all in the past, Lia,” he concluded, his voice steady yet tender. They had endured so much together. Neither had been at their best; they had made mistakes and harbored regrets. How could they have paid heed to some whimsical folklore tale—much less the reality of it manifesting in their lives? Considering everything, there was no sense in revisiting those moments or blaming each other for every obstacle they had placed in one another’s way. “We got the answers we wanted, and what matters is that we’re here, and we’re real, right now.”

Lia blinked back tears, but a few slipped free despite her efforts. She brushed them away. When another tear fell, Noah reached over and caught it with his thumb. Before she could think, she climbed onto his lap, wrapping her arms around him, clutching him tightly. He quickly wrapped her in his arms and held her close, resting his cheek against her hair, and she felt his steady breath as he nuzzled into her neck. The weight of her in his lap felt so nice and natural, and the way his arms encircled her made her feel safe, almost fragile but in a good way, because she knew she was out of danger with him. Would always be. 

“I’m so scared of losing you one day,” she whispered, her words barely audible against his ear.

Noah pulled back just enough to look at her. Glancing at the small, coiled red string on the table beside them, he reached for it and held out his hand to Lia. 

“Give me your pinky finger,” he ordered. 

She looked at him questioningly but placed her hand in his. He laid his own pinky alongside hers and began to wind the red string around them. 

“Help me with this?” he asked, giving her a soft smile.

She did. When they finished the knot, their pinkies were tied together with the thin red thread. He tugged gently to make sure it held, then grinned. 

“Now we’re really tied together. See? Problem solved.”

Lia’s laugh came out, light and clear, the tension in her shoulders easing as she looked down at their fingers entwined by the string. The sound was so full of life, of relief, that Noah couldn’t stop the warmth spreading through his chest. He lifted his hand to her face, cupping her chin with two fingers, and leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to her lips, savoring the way her smile lingered against his own.

When he finally pulled back, he whispered, 

“I told you. You’ve always been mine, Lia.”

— prev. chapter | chapter twelve

Author's note: 100 points for those who guessed it was the red string 🤭 You can reread about that moment in Chapter 1 of Ikigai (literally the beginning of the story). It's no more than a couple of paragraphs, if I don't recall wrong, right at the end, but it was a very important detail for the future. Thank you once again for reading and being with me in this journey :)

*I've done some changes to the original folklore stories mentioned in this chapter to adapt it to Noah and Lia's romance story. I hope everything was more or less clear regarding all those weird things happening in Koi No Yokan. I never had this story planned in detail before I started writing, so it got tricky at some points, but I think I managed to make everything fit reasonably within its flow.

🔖 Taglist:

@somebodyels3 | @respectfulrebel | @thecoyotescry | @bluestdai | @lma1986

@sweetwombatpizza | @missduffsblog | @shilohrosechicken | @jilliemiw86 | @alwaysfightforwhoyouare

@chey-h | @ferduttini | @dominuslunae

[jetra4ivor]

I saw a video talking about why Minecraft seems to have stagnated a bit lately and doesn’t have the same appeal as it once did. It talked about the usual complaints, such as inventory bloat, new blocks, structures, quality of life advancements… but the one aspect I didn’t see them talking about was ABSTRACTION.

I think that as Minecraft has been pushed closer towards reality, we’ve lost the inherent FEAR that comes from the abstract in the old video games Minecraft was emulating its style from.

Maybe it’s because I grew up with Atari as my first console, but there was a level of unnerving fear that was created through the hardware limitations and graphics during that era. Because everything was so abstracted, you let your imagination fill in the blanks. This blocky room with goofy eyeballs became a darkly lit haunted house where monsters could appear around every corner.

And Minecraft is clearly going for this level of abstraction. The entire world is just low resolution pixelated blocks, but there’s JUST enough definition that if you squint your eyes the world seems to mimic our own. It produces an uncanny valley effect that, coupled with survival elements, makes the game absolutely TERRIFYING at times.

And a perfect example of this is the creeper. What a horrifying monster! But the details of what it actually is are obscured through abstraction and pixel limitations. What exactly IS the creeper made of? Some people have interpreted the green blotches to be leaves, others see a wrinkly leather-like texture, others see fur. How do you interpret that grimace? Is is a permanent scowl? A sad mourning? There’s JUST enough detail to make the creature recognizable, but not enough detail to make it perfectly clear to everyone what it’s made of. That’s terrifying!

That so many artists can have such wildly different interpretations of the creeper is a testament to its intentionally unnerving design.

But over the years those terrifying edges have been smoothed out. Textures have been refined to be less garish and harsh. New more recognizable animals have been added. A parrot, for example, looks like a parrot. And just with the colors alone you can tell what kind of parrot it’s meant to be. There no ambiguity. No unsettling interpretation.

And even the enviroment has been smoothed out and changed to reflect reality.

So I think that the reason Minecraft today doesn’t feel like Minecraft of 10 years ago is because too much emphasis has been placed on mimicking reality. Even in the more recent additions these things have real world equivalence which reduce the inherent terror and unease that abstracted environments would evoke. The Nether today is far less scary than the Nether of 10 years ago, even if it’s still as dangerous.

There’s just something really unsettling about a perfectly square house in high contrast mossy cobblestone that you won’t get from a village of friendly NPC’s bathed in soft ambient lighting, you know?

I genuinely believe that Minecraft has leaned too far into realism. If they want people to keep playing longer, it’s not to add MORE structures, it’s to add back in some of the abstracted nature of the original game. Don’t make things inherently clear what they are. Allow people to interpret things in different ways. Stop trying to emulate realistic environments when the trees you cut down don’t even fall over. This is Minecraft! Minecraft is meant to be WEIRD and CREEPY almost like an alien’s failed interpretation of our word.

[grizzlyofthesea]

As promised, Miku is next!

Hatsune Miku. First Sound of the Future. Sekai de ichiban ohime-sama. Who knows where Vocaloid--and heck, vocal synths in general--would be without her? With her, Crypton Future Media took a niche professional tool and made it an internet-wide sensation. She stood out from the other Vocaloids of the era. While the others were designed for human-like realism, Miku ran with the inherent artifice of the software as a voice-acted character. Her being fake was obvious from the start, and she was only more charming for it.

That, I think, is the beauty of vocal synths. Miku can be whatever you want her to be--cutesy or mature, powerful or gentle, expressive or monotone--but she'll always have her specific "Miku" qualities, too. I think this is why I also struggle to enjoy SynthV AI stuff. Like, yeah, it's super smooth and pretty...but without actual human tuning input, it's kind of too smooth and same-y, and makes all the voices blend together. Engine noise is derided as such a horrible thing by some people, and it can admittedly be grating when excessive. But it's also what gives certain voices (IA, vflower, Rin, etc.) the qualities that everyone loves so much.

Okay, rant over. Back to the main topic.

Miku V6 was announced alongside the release of the Crypton Super Pack. We don't have official artwork for her yet, but my gut feeling tells me that she'll have long, turquoise twintails.

Miku's appearance has been pretty consistent over time. There are some little differences here and there, though, giving each version its own flavor. With that in mind...

[shapelytimber]

Hiii! Obsessed with ur art style and ur character design skills

Do you have any tips or tricks for depicting different body types and also specifically drawing wrinkles bc it never turns out for me (sad) and I need to draw hot older women

Omg thank you sm ! <3 And if you want some tips, I can give you a lot jfifkd I went to art school for way to long and I'm not one for gatekeeping

For different body types, just practice figure drawing (and learn simplified anatomy) ! Here are some great resources to do it online (because finding real life models when your not in school is hard)

Figure drawing :

Timed figure poses (nude) on ytb / line of action / sketch daily

You can also look at the books "Morpho", tho it's not free

Artistic anatomy :

You can look at books from Paul Richier (tho he was a doctor not an artist so a lot of it is way too detailed, but you can find some very useful drawings) -> general stuff (p53 for a full man, the rest is more specific but you can find some zoom on specific muscles in movement) (also oops sorry all in french), specifically woman's anatomy p65 (tho it's practically the same thing but this ones more wordy so less fun to look at)

Anatomy for sculptors (great 3d models)

And now old people ! Wrinkles can happen in a lot of different circumstances : when showing emotion, depending on the angles of the face, on fatigue, on weight, if your skull is more or less visible...ect...

But if you want to learn how to draw specifically wrinkles that appear with age, there is multiple things to know :

(Very long talk about lines on faces below, I'm sparing you all not interested to have to scrolls through all that fjdkdk)

-wrinkles show in the areas of the face where there is repeated movement that create a fold that, with time, makes a permanent mark.

-when drawing, you should more or less mark them depending on their deepness. For the deeper ones draw with a black line, less deep a colored one and very subtle just using shading (at least that's how I do it in my style). Also ! They are certain lines that are normal to see on faces of every age, but tend to make them appear wayyy older in stylized drawing (especially with lines). For example, I have pretty defined lines going from my nose to the corner of my mouth because I have defined cheekbones. But if I where to draw them as marked as they look irl, I would appear way *way* older than I am. So unless you want to go for realism, go a bit lighter on the ones going from nose to mouth or the crow's feet (unless laughing) for someone under the age of ~50

- Not everyone get the same wrinkles, faces can tell a story ! For example if you choose to accentuate more the ones at the edge of the eyes and corner of the lips, that could mean your character spent a lot of his life smiling and laughing. In contrary, if you accentuate the ones between the eyebrows and around the nose, that means he sneered and scowled often.

And tips specially for senior citizens (after like 60)

- The quality of skin in older people is different ! The skin is thinner and drooping down (interesting detail, that you prob won't use in 2d art but, around 80yo the skin becomes once again a bit more taut and smooth (this is very subtle) before once again degrading further ! Source : my old sculpture teacher- he used to teach in med school, but I can't find a source online so take this with a grain of salt).

So learning the zones of the face where fat accumulates, then making them shift downwards can be a way to show age. They are some people who have very peculiar faces or don't have much fat there (ex Peter Cushing), but in *most* people it's the case, even if it's subtle.

- You can also make the skull more visible : sunken eyes, hollow cheeks... Even if your character isn't particularly thin, it will make them appear older. But obviously the more fat there is, the more subtle it is.

But really the best tips of all : look at old people :) in pictures or irl

Oops this is very long fjfknfk

[voylitscope]

Stucky Recs: Pride Edition

So, the original plan was to do dystopias and apocalypses as the next theme. I actually started that post. It's sitting in my drafts. But then between work, moving, and other real-life stuff, I sort of ran out of days in May. Now it's mid-June. And since it is mid-June -- and since part of the whole point of these rec lists is the theming -- I thought I'd go for Pride recs instead.

We'll do dystopias in July.

I could have done a lot of different rules/qualifiers with this theming, but, for this time/post I went with, "actively has sexuality themes as a decently large plot point." I ended up with 12 fics.

Note: As part of my personal campaign to combat the persistent idea that every great fic in this fandom was written in 2015, I'm now marking recs of fics written post-2016 and recs of fics written post-Endgame.

Canon

🏳️‍🌈 Tin Soldiers | idrilka | Teen | 19,743 words

You know what's great? Fake pop culture, fake academia, and fake social media. This fic makes such good use of all of those things and is so smart about it. I love that this fic narratively sandwiches CA:TWS. So a large part of the point here is the public perception of Steve, and of SteveandBucky right before, during, and then after the events of CA:TWS, in a world where all of that is real. The way it's done is brilliant and feels so true and accurate to life. There is live tweeting and live reactions. There are news headlines. There's fandom culture and blogging. There are social media arguments. It's just so well done. There are a lot of fics that look, at least briefly, at the public perception/use of Steve's legend in some way, and a lot of them are fantastic. I'm just so especially of fond of this fic. There's a hyper-realism to it. Plus, it includes a scene of people live reacting to Steve spontaneously and bluntly coming out on CNN. It's some beautiful stuff.

Quote:

As Michelle Mbatha argues in The Anatomy of a Sidekick, “Barnes’ transition from a partner to a sidekick marks the point at which the relationship between Barnes and Rogers becomes that of a mentor and pupil, thus effectively prohibiting any potentially »unsavoury« readings of their partnership” (121). In this sort of dynamic, one which emphasizes the much more prominent age difference, there is, indeed, no place for any assumptions of queerness or any sort of code similar to that which permeated cinematographic works of the time, signifying penalizable, “forbidden” practices falling under the censorship guidelines (see also: The Celluloid Closet, 1995). Bucky, then, in taking his place as Captain America’s teenage sidekick, becomes figuratively castrated in order to appear effectively sexless and thus avoid any possibility of coding their relationship as queer.

Moreover, the insistence upon heteronormative and ultimately exclusionary interpretations of Rogers’ relationships with Barnes and Carter respectively, both in the comics and in biographical writings, comes from the need to reaffirm the image created by the American propaganda, which constructed Captain America to reflect the intrinsically jingoistic policies of the United States, to propagate the myth of American machismo and uphold the wholesome image of the American everyman at the same time.

🏳️‍🌈Let me be buried under your name | tempestaurora | Teen | 50,669 words | **Post-Endgame Rec**

Oh no. This one. So, sometimes, my notes on fics in my rec database have sensible things like comments about tropes or moments I definitely want to point out. Other times, well -- The notes on this one say, "DOG TAGS," and also, "OH GOD." Which is very helpful of me. To myself. But I will say more coherent words about it to all of you. I imagine that fics that have both wartime and post-TWS scenes are emotionally trying for us all, and this very painful, and very beautiful fic is certainly a good example of why. There is a heartbreaking quality to the wartime Bucky POV, the during Hydra captivity POV, and the post-TWS Bucky POV that has really stayed with me. Bucky's thought processes, and his descriptions of Steve at various points, especially, are so observant and vulnerable all at once. It's also all just -- Guttingly but wonderfully romantic.

Quote:

Maybe he’d read before the light died entirely. Steve had bought him a pulp novel at the market and Bucky had been working through it slowly, dragging out the story and making it last, to make the most of the pages. He’d likely read it three times over before trading it for something else, and even then he’d tell the story to himself – mythical, magical things he’d never even thought of existing; time travel and other worlds, aliens and laser guns and space ships, exploring the stars. His eyes fluttered shut, and he just listened to Steve’s breathing, to him drawing, to the birds outside the window. He’d more than once thought that he could live in this moment forever; that he’d be more than happy to live out the rest of his days just like this one, with Steve and a crummy apartment and a warm summer day. Screw marriage, kids, and a house in the suburbs – this was where Bucky pictured when he thought of home. This was what he’d be imagining on the cold nights in Europe. This was what he’d fight to come home to.

🏳️‍🌈We wear red so they don't see us bleed | unicornpoe | Teen | 2,161 words | **Post-Endgame Rec**

This is the most beautifully tense little fic. A canon-divergent-before-canon-starts fic (I never know how to classify those. If it's AU, but Steve and Bucky still move in together by like, 1939-ish... is it fully AU? Like, yes because them as childhood friends is important, obviously, but also -- in the grand scheme of overall canon -- sort of no?) that has Steve and Bucky sitting in jail cell doing this dance of little cues about each other. This is all little words and gazes and touches; there is a conversation under a conversation in this fic. They're having this casual chat as strangers in jail, except they're also having this whole second secret dialogue underneath it where they're trying to make sure they speak each other's language. Also? I adore this characterization. I love it.

Quote:

Bucky stands up and crosses the cell in two long strides, draping himself in clean lines along the section of free bench next to Steve; he pulls one leg up beneath him and stretches the other out, so that their ankles almost touch. Turned toward Steve as Bucky is, he can watch fully the sharp, barely-there movement of Steve’s eyes flickering down to their legs, and then back up to the wall across from them. He doesn’t turn to Bucky. It’s mostly silent in here. There’s a faint murmur of voices somewhere down the hallway, the quiet, steady tick of a clock hidden from view, the various noises of the men locked up with them—but other than that, nothing. “Where’d a guy like you learn to throw a punch like that?” Bucky asks finally, when he’s spent too long staring at the delicate, fucked-up line of this man’s profile, spent too long raking his eyes over and over again down the line of his feather-soft lashes. The corner of Steve’s mouth ticks up, just slightly, just a little bit.

Shrunkyclunks

💗I just met you (and this is crazy) | littlesystems | Explicit | 41,784 words | *Post-2016 Rec*

This is one of those fics that surprised me with just how much I liked it. I certainly wasn't expecting to dislike it, but I was not expecting to love it so much, either. It's a joy, though, just a total feel-good joy. It's a fic that has Steve and Bucky pretty instantly head-over-heals for each other, something I never ever object to, and the instant attraction works so well here. I think, too, so much of what I love about this one, is that they make each other so happy in it -- like the two of them truly just get dumber and happier and more in love with every 100 or so words of this fic. So then I get happier and happier as I continue to read it. Seriously, this fic is a joy in part because Steve's POV is so damn giddy and joyful about Bucky. I love that. It's good stuff.

Quote:

“You’re a person, Steve. And if people hurt you or take advantage of you, that’s not your fault, either. You should be able to go to a bar. You should be able to hook up with some guy. There’s nothing wrong with any of that. The fact that someone took pictures is the photographer’s fault. And the fact that newspapers decided to print it is the editors’ fault. And the fact that some fuckwad decided to lie for a quick buck is his fault. You may regret it, and that’s fine. But I don’t want to hear you blame yourself again. Got that?” Steve nods. His throat feels tight enough that he’s not sure he can speak. Bucky tips their foreheads together and they sit in silence, until Steve has naturally matched his breathing to Bucky’s - slow, deliberate, relaxed, and not geared up for a fight. Bucky kisses him softly, then.

💗The Voyager | notlucy | Explicit | 76,740 words | *Post-2016 Rec*

I am a sucker for the Steve and Bucky road trip fic. A very recently arrived in 21st century Steve on a road trip with a modern Bucky? All that time alone? In those motels? That might or might not have the right number of beds? This is a good trope that we should very much use forever. This fic is such a classic sort of road trip fic. Honestly, I've never been on any sort of proper, real road trip, but I'd like to think this fic feels like a road trip -- what they must feel like, anyway. There's such freedom in the storytelling here. There's a suspended sense of time in this fic. There's a way this fic rolls along with a pace that makes sense here, in this story -- it's a pace that definitely wouldn't work in all stories, which is exactly why it does, in this one. It's lovely, it's a little bit surreal, and it stays with you long after you finish it.

Quote:

“Wow,” Bucky managed. Words were difficult when faced with something so spectacular, the canyon spread out before them lit with the slow, smoldering burn of that deep, ancient glow. “Awesome,” Steve murmured, the word incongruous in his mouth. Bucky nearly poked fun, until he realized Steve meant it literally - what they were seeing was awesome. Smiling, he leaned his head against Steve’s shoulder before entwining their fingers, not caring a whit who might see them. Who might care. At that moment, Bucky wanted to tell the entire world, because he was in love. Except it wasn’t love. Strong like, maybe. Effortlessly increasing affection, sure. But not love. You couldn’t fall in love that fast. He’d only known Steve since May, after all. It was at most infatuation. Appreciation. Fascination. Bucky was a very level-headed person. It wasn’t love. But it was something.

Modern

🌈On The Back of a Raindrop | musette22 @musette22 | Explicit | 52,215 words | **Post-Endgame Rec**

Something I love to read in kid fics is any time that thing happens where it's not just Steve and Bucky acting like a couple without being together yet, but a group of people starting to act like a family unit in every single way -- except that no one has talked about that, or acknowledged it, and technically, someone is actually still the neighbor, or the babysitter, or, in this case, the gardener. I love that, and I love this fic, specifically. Featuring this sweetest and loveliest and healthiest family forming in a backyard garden over the months of a beautiful summer. It's so domestic, so intimate, and it happens so naturally over the course of this story. It makes everything feel so perfectly meant to be, so romantic, and so satisfying. Also! One of my database notes on this one is, "SARAH," because this is a fic with a very alive Sarah Rogers, and I love, love, love, Steve and Sarah's relationship in this fic.

Quote:

Now that he’s gotten to know him, seen him with the twins, has gradually watched Bucky’s tan deepening and bringing out the grey-blue of his eyes, Steve is so wildly attracted to him sometimes that it knocks the breath right out of him. It’s how he ends up sketching Bucky again on Wednesday, from his usual spot in the shade. He makes sure to make it a PG rendition this time, including Gracie and Miles as well, so that when later, Bucky asks him ‘Hey, whatcha drawin’?’, Steve can actually show him the sketch. Bucky is silent for the longest time when Steve hands over his sketchbook. For a moment, Steve almost panics, wondering if he accidentally forgot to draw Bucky’s jeans or something, but then Bucky looks up, a look in his eyes that Steve can’t quite pinpoint. “This is amazing, Steve. Could I… Would you mind if I hold on to it, maybe?” Steve blinks in surprise. “Of course, yeah. I mean, it’s not my best work. I could do you something better if you like.” “It’s perfect,” Bucky frowns, seeming almost offended Steve would suggest otherwise. “I love it.”

🌈One for Fiction | thepinupchemist | Explicit | 6,713 words |*Post-2016 Rec*

I very much enjoy a shrinkyclinky-ish modern fic where Bucky is a disaster about the fact that Steve, like, exists. I am just so here for this, and this very adorable fic is a top-tier demonstration of that. Featuring a Veteran-turned-librarian Bucky and a barista Steve, and a lot of awkward flirting. At a library! Also featuring a lot of Bucky being a disaster about Steve, but also a lot of Steve being like, "...have you? seen? or? met? yourself? You are definitely the catch here." It's cute. They're cute. This fic is cute.

Quote:

“Fun fact about the library,” Bucky went on, “As long as no one can see your computer screen, you’re allowed to look at porn. That’s protected under intellectual freedom.” Steve raised a brow. “Interesting.” They meandered back to Bucky’s display. The night, as far as nights went, was a quiet one for the library, and the cafe was a ghost town, but for the group of teenagers with bags of McDonald’s scattered across the table and AP History books open on their laps. “Where’d everyone get their pronoun pins?” asked Steve, as Bucky pushed his stepladder upright, collected his tape dispenser, and climbed back up to finish hanging the flag garland. “They make ‘em at one of our sister libraries,” Bucky said, “Have a pin press over there and everything. I’m picking up a couple of shifts for one of the ladies over there next week; you want me to grab you some?” See, Bucky used to be this smooth. He used to be this smooth all the time. Apparently, trauma and PTSD aside, he could still be smooth every once in a while. A pleased little smile tilted beautiful Steve’s beautiful lips. He said, “That would be awesome. Do they have pride ones, too? Like your rainbow?” Does Steve like men? Steve might like men. Be cool, Barnes. Don’t be weird.

🌈Wholesale Change | biblionerd07 | Mature | 83,320 words | *Post-2016 Rec*

You know how sometimes you're the captain of an NHL team, and you're very talented, but over the years you've gained a bad reputation? And so your people all but force you to do a The Bachelor-esq dating show? And you've been having a terrible few years and feel like your life is falling apart? And also you're bisexual and closeted because of the whole NHL thing? And also the camera guy on that dating show is your long-lost very attractive best friend? Who also used to play hockey? Look, this fic has a ridiculous premise. In the best possible way. It's a delightfully ridiculous premise. It's so much fun. There's literally a dating show. Steve gets mad about dating show manipulations and lies! And, you know, Steve definitely ends up selecting one of the dating show contestants. Steve definitely does not fall for Bucky instead! Steve definitely does not purposefully out himself on live TV. Steve absolutely follows the rules and sees the dating show contract through! Because as we all know, Steve Rogers follows rules and does what people with authority tell him to do. Always and at all times. So much fun. So delightful.

Quote:

“I’m so tired of lying,” Steve says. He almost sags with the weight of it all, now that’s admitted it. He was trying so hard to outrun it all. Outskate it all, maybe. But he’s been losing for a long time now. “I know,” Bucky murmurs. “I’m sorry. But I don’t think letting him tell the world is going to make you feel any better. You need to tell the truth on your own terms.” Steve sighs and leans his shoulder against Bucky’s. “I’ll talk to whoever I pick,” he says. They deserve that, at least. He doesn’t want to pick someone under false pretenses. Falser, anyway. “You won’t get much alone time,” Bucky warns. “But I’m sure you can find a way.” “Nothing gets in Captain America’s way when his mind’s made up,” Steve says in his cheesy commercial voice. It was a line from some ad campaign he did for a sports drink he didn’t even like. Bucky snorts. “I was thinking more about Steve Rogers,” Bucky says. “That asshole’s unstoppable.” And after a line like that? All Steve can do is kiss him.

🌈Songbird | chicklette | Explicit | 70,843 words | **Post-Endgame Rec**

I am very fond of this fic. It's music industry closeting -- but then planned sexuality revealing. Through lies. This is a fic that starts off with what should have been a one-night stand -- a great one, as one-night stands go, but a one-night stand. Except, pictures are taken of them very early the next morning, hugging, in front of Steve's apartment. And Bucky is very famous and very not out. Bucky's already got a damaged reputation and a host of other problems, and so his team decides that, actually, Bucky pretending to date some non-famous, pretty-faced, nice boy for a couple months might do his reputation some good. So, then, as you can imagine, being Steve and Bucky, the two of them spend the fic doing a very excellent, really great, just super good job, at sticking to having a formal arrangement. A no sex, no feelings, totally-just-a-business-deal-smile-for-the-camera-thing. They're total pros at it, okay? It goes so well for them. They definitely succeed. Just because, whatever, they quickly become friends and get close, it's totally still fine. They're definitely still doing really amazing at this, alright? They've got it under control. They're not going to crack on any of this. No sex. No not-for-the-cameras-kissing. No feelings. No one will cry at any point. Nope. They're So Good at this. Like I said, I'm super fond of this one.

Quote:

Steve smiles, his face going all soft and sweet, and it’s like a knife to Bucky’s heart. Ten more weeks, and someone else gets all those smiles. It’s a Goddamned shame, is what it is. His thoughts are uncomfortable enough that Bucky gets up and goes to the railing, looking back out over Manhattan. All the people there, living their lives, day in and day out. How many broken hearts is he looking at right now? How many people starry-eyed with new love? How many people, he wonders, comfortable in an old love, one that’s solid and still growing, deeply rooted, secure enough to be safe, but fresh enough to still bloom? “Penny for your thoughts,” Steve says, and Bucky tilts his head to look at him. “There’s a million love songs happening right now, just waiting for someone to write them.” “That’s awful hopeful, coming from you.” Bucky chuckles. “Nah, I was just wondering how many people we’re looking at right now with broken hearts.”

🌈Strong Saftey | queenmab_scherzo | Mature | 23,043 words

As a first note here, I will point out that this fic is a sequel to Targeting, and it is probably most satisfying when read with full context. But I really do think it can absolutely be read on its own. I really, really appreciate and love the way this fic handles Bucky and trauma. (the Targeting 'verse mirrors canon very closely, re: bad things happening to Bucky. Except that it's about college football.) Bucky's headspace here, and the way that then translates to his actual dialogue/actions is so, so well done. Plus, Steve and Bucky are preestablished in this fic, and it's healthy and lovely and romantic and makes me emotional-- Bucky is so hard on himself about everything, all the time, but he's got Steve, who is wonderfully loving and supportive. Also! Bucky befriends a cat. Also! Bucky legitimately has Steve saved in his phone like this: "Punk ❤️."

Quote:

"Vanilla latte, no whip?" the barista calls. Steve goes to the counter for his drink, but keeps his ears open. "I just wanted to tell you—I came out to my high school team last week. And, um. It's gone really well actually." "Wow," Bucky croaks. "Yeah, it just, I've been scared about it for a long time, but then you told the whole NFL, so I thought—yeah. I just wanted to say … thanks." From the corner of his eye, Steve can see them shake hands. "Wow," Bucky says again. He clears his throat a little. "Thank you. I mean, thanks for telling me." "I'm headed out to visit Oregon now, actually." "Football?" "Yeah." "Holy shit," Bucky says, candid as ever. "That's legit, man. Good luck." "Thank you." The kid starts to turn away, then adds: "For everything." When Steve goes back to Bucky's side, Bucky is staring into the paper bag at his donut. He sniffs, audibly.

"Are you crying?" Steve asks quietly. "No." Steve can't see his eyes through the sunglasses, but his nose is really red. It makes Steve smile. He doesn't press the issue.

🌈Rough Edges | sparkagrace @sparkagrace | Mature | 33,278 words | **Post-Endgame Rec**

Showmances and Rivals-to-Lovers on the Stars on Ice Tour! There's a lot to be excited about here. This fic is such a delight, truly. I love it. You know that post that goes, "What is a rival other than a crush you're mad about having?" Steve spends the first chunk of this fic so disproportionately angry at Bucky for incredibly minor things. Like standing in rooms or... skating. It's amazing. But then there is bonding and heart-to-hearts. Often on skating benches! And, as it turns out, those two being around each other a lot is, as always, a very, very good thing, in the long run. One that helps them both. Also! Becca texts Bucky lots of pictures of Alpine -- pictures from Alpine. Also! Bucky and Nat have a somewhat frighteningly intense friendship/skating partnership and it's all just so, so great.

Quote:

Bucky continues on the corner edges while Steve sorts through one of the color groups. He thinks he has enough to make up branches of the tree that was displayed on the front of the box. He likes it when he finds the pieces that fit together, it’s like his brain fires little electrons of glee when they slot into place perfectly. He tries not to think about the fact it’s the same feeling he gets sometimes when he and Bucky execute their twizzles in perfect synchronicity. The same way he likes the sound of their prop swords clashing when they’re choreographing their throne number. Everything seems to feel matched when he’s around Bucky lately, like they’re synced partners as much as he is with Maria or Bucky is with Natasha. Puzzle pieces. Bucky seems to be enjoying it too. The quiet as they work together to put together this puzzle that neither of them would have looked twice at if they weren’t desperate for a distraction. A distraction from his heartache, from Bucky’s boredom… from the way that Bucky keeps looking over at him, from how he wishes they were doing this under different circumstances.

🌈Right where we are | steveandbucky | Teen | 10,395 words

This is actually the first fic in a whole 'verse, and they're all super sweet and super lovely. I really enjoy the way this Steve and Bucky build their relationship. I love seeing them get to have happier lives where they just get to be good for each other and good to each other, and this 'verse's Steve and Bucky, who do their best to communicate and who are so so cutely smitten from the gate, are great for that.

Quote:

“Hi,” Bucky smiles again, wider this time and the effect it has on Steve is embarrassing, since he can barely get out a greeting in response. Bucky looks ten times better in person. His now longer hair parted in the middle, and he has a two-day-old stubble, looking gorgeous in a navy blue shirt and dark form-fitting jeans. “Fancy running into you here,” he says as he leans closer to be heard above the music. Steve gets a waft of cologne, a sharp and somewhat sweet scent that draws him in as he briefly leans in to speak close to Bucky’s ear. “I’m just here with some friends, I swear I’m not stalking you.” Bucky laughs heartily, ducking his head and crinkling his nose as he does. It’s the cutest thing Steve’s ever seen, and fuck if he wouldn’t spend every minute of every day trying to get Bucky to laugh like that again. “Didn’t think you were stalking me. But what a coincidence, huh?” Bucky says, still grinning. “Nice to finally meet you, Steve Rogers.”

Bonus:

So, this is WIP, and I haven't started reading it yet. But! From everything I know about it, it absolutely fits what I'm going for on this rec list. Also, I've loved every other fic by @zenaidamacrouras1 that I've read. So while I can't actually rec something without reading it, I did feel like this should be in this post somewhere:

Unpredictable Synchronicity | Zenaidamacrouras1 | Mature | 106,788 words (WIP)

Second bonus:

These are fics that 100 percent should/would be on this list, except that I literally just rec'd them in my Brooklyn stories post. They are wonderful for all reasons described in the Brooklyn post:

Three White Horses | magdaliny | Mature | 16,601 words

Not In The Answer But The Question |  aimmyarrowshigh @aimmyarrowshigh | Teen | 27,382 Words

Ill With Want | thedoubteriswise | Mature | 26,999 words

This turned into a very long post, but that feels fitting. Happy Pride! 🌈

Like I said, next up will be dystopias, apocalypses, etc.

More Recs

[katy-133]

I know more popular interpretations of why the messed up stuff is happening in This House Has People In It are "AB is spying on suburban families unwittingly living in haunted houses" and "the family got contaminated by the clay that has the disease and now it's spreading," but I think it's also less... literal than that? There's a magical realism quality to everything that's not jumpscare-y and more slow-creeping, which is why I think THHPII stands out from other analogue horror.

I interpreted it as a story about the horror of neglect. Family neglect, neglecting upkeep of a house, neglect in general. The daughter is phasing through the floor, and the parents only notice after 2 hours, thinking she's being overdramatic beforehand. And that can be a metaphor for depression/mental health. The daughter is going through something that is beyond the understanding/experience of her parents, so all their attempts to solve the problem aren't helpful (using planks of wood, trying to pull her, the dad saying, "Everyone, tell her, 'I love you'!"), because they don't ask what's causing the problem. The parents are more concerned about keeping up appearances than asking the partygoers' parents for help.

The floor-sinking starts on the son's birthday, and no one is paying attention to him. When he's told the party has to be cancelled, he doesn't try to argue (despite being a young kid who hasn't been told that there's an emergency happening), and reacts like he was expecting this to happen, like he's used to this.

The grandmother is handed the baby, and she puts her down to watch tv and the baby just... crawls away... until she's out of the house and leaving the yard.

The whole 2+ hour story is happening while the house is being renovated, and corners are being cut. The builder says a lesser version of the drywall is being used. The house is literally and metaphorically growing more toxic. Dennis accidentally destroys one of the surveillance cameras because he (assumedly) tore a hole in the wrong section of the basement. We see notes on the fridge saying "BEDSHEETS" because the parents still haven't obtained sheets for their son's bed. Things the size of an adult human are getting into the house through holes in the foundations.

The mother leaves the stove on and forgets about it, creating more and more smoke that spreads into other rooms as the drama escalates in parallel. It never actually gets turned off by the end of the scene.

I think that's why the dad's argument with his wife near the end stands out so much. While everything he's saying is technically positive on paper, the context twists it into something uncomfortable ("We're a FAMILY! No matter what ANYONE says! That is our STRENGTH!").

This House Has People In It. As in, "This isn't a home anymore, this is a house. This isn't a family anymore, these are just people living in the same house."

[alltimefail-sims]

Hey! I was wondering if you could link some masc, toddler and children cc, if not thats ok i totally understand:D, i hope you have a great day/afternoon/night!

Hello! 💕 Of course, that's no problem at all! I'm just going to make a long list with some creator recommendations if that's alright with you! I will warn you... it's a long post lol. I went into my downloads folder and pulled creators that I noticed appeared frequently. Obviously there are probably some great creators I missed, but I did try to feature as many as I could think of!

Note that I'm a maxis-mix simblr, so some of these might lean alpha (with the exceptions of hairs, I exclusively use maxis match hair). But if you are against alpha all together, just ignore those suggestions obviously haha!

more info below ↓

@darte77: just scroll down their patreon posts, they are one of the holy grails of my masc sim cc.

@gorillax3-cc: so many good masc frame clothes on their website.

@qrqr19: hairs!

@johnnysimmer: hairs, lots of great hairs (has child versions of their hairs, too!)

@christopher067: a few simple but fashionable masc frame tops and bottoms along with a wide array of masc frame accessories (jewelry that usually works on both m-frame and f-frame).

@plushxsims: clothes, pants chains and belts, kind of edgy and I like that (leans alpha).

@sforzcc: even if I'm doing a "vanilla" playthrough, their cc usually stays in game lol. The pants and shirts variations are my favorite. Added bonus that the t-shirt variants are perfect because you can have a group where they all wear matching shirts but have the realism of reflecting personality (one person might wear a crop and one might not, someone might roll their sleeves someone might have holes in their shirt etc. but they can all have the same design and I like that personal touch of realism for like werewolf packs and such but I digress).

@softerhaze: specifically this pack they just put out. Great basics, very versatile, looks good on a wide range of masc frames.

@wistfulpoltergeist: lots of versatile male hairs and accessories.

@ceeproductions

@liliili-sims4: huge section of masc cc (even has a male cc pack). Love the unisex scarf accessories.

@amelylinaa*: does upload on simsfinds/simsdom, so warning for that, but lots of good clothes.

@aharris00britney: Obviously they make a lot of fem frame cc too, but I have every single male item they've ever created in my game because it is really well done.

@dyoreos

@gorillax3-cc

KK's Sims 4

@okruee: some of my favorite male hairs

@wyattssims: has two menswear fashion packs with a lot of content in each, just really good maxis match pieces.

@evellsims and @regina-raven both have some great goth maxis match cc that has fem frame and male frame variants, so it's versatile and not so "in the box" of atypical "average-joe" jeans and flannel, if you're into that!

@the-crypt-o-club: More punk/goth/edgy staple pieces for masc sims. Really unique cc with a ton of personality and versatility.

@clumsyalienn: they do a good mix of male and female cc. I have everything they've ever put out in my game tbh and their masc hair and clothes are versatile (they even have some great accessories for male sims as well).

@joliebean and @ice-creamforbreakfast: again, masc and fem cc. But their stuff is great quality and unique, they really hit formal wear for dudes, a category which I think is lacking in game imo.

@happylifesims: they have some great vintage pieces that also work for more intellectual or professional masc frame sims.

@pralinesims, @greenllamas: these two have a wide variety of cc but their beard packs for male sims are my go-tos because they have varying thickness and textures.

@simandy: all of their cc is great, but specifically this pack for male sims is a must have. The hairs in it are *chefs kiss*.

@igorstory: lots of facial hair

Gonna admit this section and the kids section might look short but that's because a lot of toddler creators also create child cc and likely fall in the "additional" category below!

@casteru: you literally can't have a cc rec list for toddlers and not include them, as they cover a wide array of basics. To me, they are the golden goose of toddler cc.

@rebekhanasims: cute clothes, great accessories (pacifiers, bonnets, hats, headbands).

@thecrybabystore

@georgiaglm: has some child pieces sprinkled in, but mainly toddlers.

@powluna

@ravensim: hairs, a few cute accessories like a crown, missing shoes, etc.

@madlensims: a lot of fem frame cc, but they have a ton of cute toddler and kids stuff, too (accessory backpacks and clothes).

@daisy-pixels: clothes cc. Super easy to navigate their patreon as you can just go to their "child" tag and download what you like.

@onyxsims: they do toddler cc, too! Huge variety.

Simiracle

C-Cerberus-sims: hair conversions folder HERE (their account doesn't exist on Tumblr any more). I pretty much exclusively use their hair conversions tbh.

@tommeraas-cc: has toddler cc, too!

@maytaiii: hair conversions and accessories (their crown and little face band-aid they just uploaded is so adorable).

ADDITIONALLY (specific things that fall in multiple categories):

@nucrests: child cc packs and loads of masc frame cc.

@simkoos: similar to nucrests, they have a good variety to child cc and masc cc (but they also have a few toddler items as well. The child items are my favorite though as they are unique and versatile).

@jius-sims have two children and toddler shoe collections that I recommend, and they also have two men's shoes collections!!

@lazyeyelids: they have a lot of great child cc and teen-elder masc frame cc.

Some of the old CC sets by @plumbobteasociety cover toddlers, children, and masc frame sims (I have cottage garden and rustic romance in my game). Obviously they have been inactive for a while, so hairs are missing the new swatches but the clothes and accessories are still very much worth it.

@rustys-cc: mentioning them because while they do make a lot of fem frame cc, they also have a sprinkling of hidden gem child and masc frame cc that is unique and well made (hairs/accessories/and outfits).

Vintagesimmer has some great cc for kids and toddlers that I enjoy, but it can lean alpha/maxis mix so if that's not your thing I'd stay away, but still thought they were worth mentioning!

@giuliettasims makes great accessories for fem sims, but for toddlers and children too.

Skin Details, overlays, presets blurb: I didn't really talk about these things because I consider them to be in their own category; I'd have to make an entirely different post on my genetic cc (I find everyone has their own method on this that works with their style). Additionally, a lot of skin overlays for masc sims aren't made specific to gender. This is usually true with age too, in the case of toddlers and children. However, I will note some general things I like that might fall under this category:

This hair overlay by @zombietrait changed my life because it helps unify the dark hair swatch more than anything or make the dark brown swatch true dark brown and etc. If two hairs in the same swatch don't match, this almost always fixes the problem.

THIS gray hair overlay by @sunnybelloria (works for fem sims, too) is necessary. Also THIS graying beard accessory for masc sims by @igorstory is my fave.

Paint/dirty hands and face makeup by @aroundthesims

Holy crap that was long lol but I hope this was helpful ❤️. I think I'm at max for links/tagging and I don't want Tumblr to have a crap attack, so I'll stop here. Anyone feel free to add on to this or reblog with your own additional suggestions!

Thank you for your ask!!

[everrainrp]

CHARACTER CREATION GUIDELINES

Characters that members nurture and bring in are necessary for the server and world of Ever Rain to develop and grow in unique ways, as characters interact with and shape the world that surrounds them. They create their own stories to be told and influence future legacies, and are the lifeblood that breathes life into the five Clans of the temperate rainforest. Ever Rain does not aim to stifle creative liberty, allowing for lenient character designs and a wide gamut of personalities. However, there are some basic guidelines to consider when creating your character!

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NAMING CONVENTIONS

1. Three cats may share the same prefix. Once that prefix has filled its limit, it will be marked down as a ‘Closed Prefix’ in a designated channel. This is to prevent confusion regarding many multiples of the same prefix and mixing up character names.

2. Names follow the standard canon format. You may use hyphens for if the letter between the prefix and suffix is doubled, but no apostrophes or spaces between the names.

2a. The exception to this may be the usage of titles in Clans like Thornrush. These are not given lightly and are reserved for cats who have accomplished something great or acted with extreme selflessness. Examples of a title might be ‘Steadfast’ Exampleclaw, or ‘Duty-Bound’ Healerherb.

3. Wildlife and herb names are typically of British Columbia and Alaska inspiration, but for cats who have traveled far and seen much (such as a traveling kittypet), the exception is made. The cats of the pacific northwest won’t know what a tarantula is, but if added to their vocabulary and knowledge, the name may be sifted into commonly used ones.

4. Prefixes such as Gem-, Jewel-, or some sort of precious gem or mineral are allowed, and more odd names such as Zephyr- or Zip- are allowed as well. You are encouraged to get creative with your characters' names!

4a. Meta and joke names will be allowed within reason. If you present a wonderfully fleshed out and beautifully written character named Garfield. Well. You’ve earned it at that point.

4b. This does NOT include names that joke about serious topics or act as inflammatory.

5. Tribal names will not be used, and ‘Savage-’ as a prefix is not permitted to be used. This is to avoid anti-native racism or appropriation from being brought into the server.

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STYLE vs. REALISM & APPEARANCE

1. Ever Rain accepts a wide range of designs and style choices. Allowances include subdued or ‘tints’ of unnatural colors, as seen below showcasing blue, green, and purple undertones, as well as realistic art all the way to the other end of the spectrum with highly stylized, also seen below.

2. Intense and highly saturated colors are to be avoided, as well as neon colors. Essentially, Ever Rain does not accept sparklecats.

3. Unnatural eye colors are allowed within reason, again, as long as they aren’t neon. Heterochromia of all kinds are not barred or locked behind a paywall.

4. Regardless of what color the art is, you still must describe them realistically. Such as a black cat being tinted purple, would simply be described as a black cat with cool undertones.

5. Hairstyles are allowed, such as braids and so on. The Clans have the capability to craft clothing, they would likely be able to craft braids!

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PERSONALITY & HISTORY

1. A wide gamut of personalities are allowed within Ever Rain; it is open world, and realistically not everyone is going to be a saint or entirely evil. People have a wide range of emotions and values, personality traits, likes and dislikes, and so on. You are not going to be policed on the type of character you want to create.

1a. This does not mean creating a villainous character who is evil just because. What are their goals? What happened in their life to create this version of them? How do they feel about their negative qualities, do they feel remorseful as this is a necessary evil, or do they relish in it?

1b. Give your characters flaws! Even the best among us have them, they are natural and normal. How does your character handle their flaws? How have these flaws affected your character growing up? How will they impact your character as they get older?

2. A character's history will affect how they develop. How did your character's history shape them as they are today? These are all things to consider when creating your character!

3. You may not utilize anything found in the blacklist in your character's history. This is a strictly followed rule. Mentions of SA, self-harm, any sort of NSFW, graphic depictions of abuse, incest, are NOT to be used.

3a. You are allowed to utilize somewhat sensitive content in your character’s history, though. This MUST be vague and properly trigger warning’ed as to prevent people from being upset with the content found in your character’s history. Topics such as vaguely mentioned abuse (mental, physical, or emotional only. NOT sexual), bigotry, dysfunctional families, identity struggles, and so on are allowed, again, as long as it is presented very vaguely and does not go into graphic detail and in depth information. This is to keep people comfortable within the server.

3b. These above topics may not be used as shock value. This rule is highly monitored, and if something is found in your character submission that falls into the realm of too descriptive or not allowed, you will be messaged and requested to change it. If you fail to do so, your submission will be denied permanently.

4. With the above said, please bear in mind this is a collaborative storytelling server. If you play a character who is wholly unpleasant and ‘lone wolf’ish, do not push other people away who want to collaborate with you because your character has these traits. Find ways to include these traits while still being able to collaborate with others!

5. For backstories, each Opening will feature a specific focus as to have minimal ‘spawning’ in of character’s into the world. The first Opening Ever Rain will feature Clan cat only characters. Future openings will feature cats traveling into the area and joining the clans or being an antagonistic force. More information on this will be given out in each Opening.

6. You may create characters who have familial links to notable figures from the past. Do ensure that if your character romances another character, that they are not related through a shared historical family member.

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MUTATIONS

1. No mutations are locked behind a paywall. You are not required to purchase a mutation from a server shop. These include:

a. Albinism

b. Heterochromia (Any Kind)

c. Gigantism and Dwarfism

d. Polydactyly (Extra Toes)

e. Four Ears

f. Curled Ears, Rounded Ears & Folded Ears

g. Ringtails, Bobails, & No Tails

h. Polycaudal (Extra Tail or Split Tail)

i. Eyeless

j. Short Legs

k. Hairless & Patchy Hair

l. Chimerism

m. Curly, Wavy & Wiry Fur

n. Vitiligo

2. Mutations commonly associated with health issues do not require you to have your character be affected by these said health issues, though it is encouraged to look into it!

2a. For Example: A cat with the folded ears gene (Fd, fd+) will realistically have problems with development of the ears, joints, and bones. This can cause arthritis, spinal issues, thick tails or short legs. If your character has folded ears, you are not required to have any of the above afflict your character if you so choose. If you do choose to, you are encouraged to get creative with how your character deals with it! Arthritis might be helped by compression wraps or sitting in some hot springs, and spinal issues might be aided by a rudimentary brace!

2b. This does not include mutations or syndromes that are 100% fatal to cats that have them, such as kitten feline distemper, homozygous folded ears or manx genes, and so on.

If there is a syndrome or mutation that you are unsure about, please reach out to Staff and we will do our best to help figure something out!

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CONDITIONS & DISABILITIES

1. Conditions and disabilities, both physical and mental, are not locked behind a paywall nor barred from being utilized in character creation.

2. However, you are REQUIRED to research said condition, and play the character in a respectful manner. This is non-negotiable. Common issues that arise often come from complete misunderstanding of conditions such as DID or schizophrenia, with both often being portrayed as violent and scary. Another issue commonly seen is the complete infantilization of those who are autistic. If you are not familiar with said condition, please do your research, and understand that anyone with the same condition is not a monolithic entity.

2a. If your character is played in a disrespectful or otherwise unsavory manner due to a condition they have, you will be requested only once to fix this. A subsequent violation of this rule will result in your removal from Ever Rain’s server.

3. In conjunction with above, you are not allowed to roleplay ableism or bigotry towards a character who has a disability or condition, or otherwise has a targetable trait such as being LGBT or trans. This can often be triggering to some, or downright uncomfortable with most. This is not included under the ‘inside RP views do not equal outside RP views’ rule in Community Guidelines, as that refers to more political stances and feelings between characters, not downright discrimination between characters.

4. No cat will be forced into any specific role due to a condition or disability that they may have. (Ex. Cinderpelt becoming a medic due to her leg injury).

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IDENTITY

1. Identity refers to the character’s self and who they are. You are allowed to play a LGBTQ+ character or Trans (umbrella term) character, but please do so respectfully if you do not have experience with this in your personal life, and please avoid stereotypes.

1a. Stereotypes of the above may include trans women being portrayed as violent and crass, while trans men are portrayed as waifish and vulnerable, or that all nonbinary people are ‘AFAB +’. This is not to say that you cannot have a transfem character who is abrasive, or a shy transmasc character, but there is a notable difference between this and this but coming from a place of bias. Please just be mindful of how you portray your characters.

2. Intersex characters are allowed, but as above, please be respectful and mindful of how you portray your character, and avoid stereotypes.

2a. Intersex does NOT equal transgender. You can be cis and intersex, or trans and intersex. The two do not equal one another.

3. You can decide whether your character may be able to carry kits or sire kits, or be infertile. That is up to you!

4. Male calicos and torties are allowed, it is up to you whether you would play them as trans or not. Realistically, most male torties are sterile, but that rule may be bypassed in Ever Rain.

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ADOPTABLES & SLOTS

1. Once accepted into the server, you start with an extra character slot in addition to your accepted starting character that you may do whatever you wish with. This limit is lifted after a month of roleplay has passed, from there on you may create as many characters as you want.

1a. The month-long two slot limit is to allow everyone to get settled into the server and become familiar with one another, staff, and the overall setup of the server and world.

1b. This is also to prevent members from joining and creating a character for each Clan and overwhelming themselves trying to keep up!

2. With the above said, please only make as many characters as you think you can handle! If you feel comfortable with just one, there is no shame in that, and if you can juggle six characters, then by all means go for it!

3. Adoptables may be made both by staff and by members alike. Most adoptables will only be featured in-server for other members to pick up, but you can approach staff if you’d like them to be featured in an upcoming Opening!

3a. Having adoptables be featured in an Opening is an excellent way of allowing new members to seamlessly join into current plotlines and families, so do not be afraid to ask if you want to do this!

3b. As an Opening draws near, we will put out a bulletin stating that if you want an adoptable to be featured, now is the perfect time to submit them!

4. All adoptables require basic information to work with, such as a base personality, history, and so on. You are free to allow an adopter to choose as much as they like!

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NATIVE APPROPRIATION & RACISM

1. As stated at the start of the guidelines, Ever Rain will not be utilizing tribes or the tribal naming convention for any openings or characters. This is due to the insensitive fashion in which they are portrayed in the canon storyline

2. Medicine cats have been renamed, with Apothecary taking the main role, and medics and seers under their wing. Apothecary is still a title that was used in medieval Europe as someone who utilized both medicine and spiritual guidance, without the connection to native medicine men.

3. Feathers behind the ear are not allowed to be utilized in designs. This is once again due to insensitivity and appropriation of Native cultures, and the ‘Native Silhouette’.

Here is an excellent link that covers the issues with feathers and the Native Silhouette very well!

4. Please avoid allegories that are meant to mirror real life issues such as racism or colonialism. These are delicate topics that are typically not handled in a respectful way.

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If you have any questions about the above, do not be afraid to reach out and ask! These guidelines are to ensure the comfort of server members, both regarding racial issues commonly present in WCRPs as well as disabilities being presented in a respectful way.

[bluegekk0]

For the dragon au, would everyone be a dragon? Or would there be exceptions like WL or other characters?

Yes, the same way "bug" is the term for all sapient beings in the main AU, "dragon" would be the name of essentially any sapient creature in that universe. This means that there is a big variety in body plans, number of limbs and other aspects between individual kinds of dragons. On top of that, similarly to the main AU which ignores realism in this aspect, they can cross-breed and produce hybridized offspring (within the realm of possibility; in some cases, this is simply not possible for... logistical reasons). That said, just like in the main AU, the general tendency for the dragons is to pair up with those of the same tribe, so there is still some distinction between groups which share traits.

The Vyrm family shares very mammalian traits, Vyrm himself resembles a hairless mammalian dragon, while Grimm is a very wolf-like dragon. I imagine outside of the household, the variety would be much more noticeable (Zote himself is a good example of the possible difference in body plans, with his more pterosaur-like appearance). As for WL, she would also be a dragon, yes. I don't have a design for her yet, but I imagine she would be a very regal-looking dragon with a long neck and body, similar to Holly's dragon design but more exaggerated. She would still be white in color, Holly's dark coloration in the dragon AU is a result of the void powers they gained (they're not an actual void being here, so aside from that and other qualities, they're a normal dragon).

To elaborate more on the body plans, I'm of the belief that anything can be a dragon as long as the author calls it one. So traditional quadrupedal dragons, wyvern-like dragons or dragons which resemble Eastern depictions would all be present. On top of that, pterosaur-like dragons, or even those which resemble other modern or extinct animals would also exist. Generally I'm planning to follow a similar design direction to the main AU, that is, taking inspiration from various groups of animals or other beings, instead of adhering to specific sets of traits associated with one species. And on top of that, I want them to resemble their main AU counterparts whenever possible.

[swappetf11]

Joey's passion for Halloween was legendary among his circle of friends, but this year he planned to elevate it to an unprecedented level. He had always loved not just dressing up but transforming entirely, becoming unrecognizable even to those closest to him. This year, he decided to share this transformative experience with his friends, promising them a group costume experience they would never forget.

Months Before Halloween

The journey began months earlier when Joey convinced his group of friends to agree to a mysterious group costume for Halloween. He covered all costs, asking them only for their trust and participation. Intrigued and a bit apprehensive, they agreed. Joey then introduced them to a team of professional prosthetic FX makeup artists he had hired directly from the film industry. These artists began the intricate process by taking detailed body and face molds of each friend. This was essential for crafting prosthetics that perfectly matched each individual's contours, ensuring not only the realism of the costumes but also their comfort.

The Day of Transformation

On the day of Halloween, Joey's friends arrived at his house early in the morning, excited and curious about what was in store. Joey had orchestrated everything to the smallest detail. All mirrors in the house were covered, ensuring that the first time they would see their transformed selves would be a collective experience.

As the makeup artists began their work, the air was filled with anticipation. Layers of silicone and latex transformed familiar faces into fantastical creations. Changes weren't limited to their faces; body suits altered their heights and shapes, making some taller, others broader. Custom-made dentures were fitted to change their teeth, while high-quality wigs and hairpieces altered their hair drastically. Even their voices were to be disguised, with voice modulators that matched their characters.

The Group Reveal

After hours of meticulous work, the transformation was complete. Joey gathered his friends in a large room where their costumes would finally be revealed. The energy was electric as they all stood in a circle, facing outwards. On Joey's cue, they turned inward and opened their eyes.

The reaction was a mix of shock and awe. No one could recognize anyone else; friends looked like strangers, characters out of a movie or a vivid dream. Their features were so altered—some had elongated ears or exaggerated facial features, others sported scales or furry textures—that the familiar was completely obliterated.

Embracing Their New Personas

As they each took in the other's appearance, laughter and exclamations filled the room. They marveled at the creativity and detail of their costumes, touching the textures and exploring the features. Joey then led them to the unveiling mirror, and the group, still in disbelief, finally saw themselves. The shock turned to excitement as they saw not themselves but entirely new beings.

Encouraged by their reflections, they began to adopt the personalities of their characters. Their movements changed, some becoming more graceful, others more menacing, depending on the character. Voices altered by the modulators, they began to interact, fully embodying the personas crafted for them. Joey watched, a proud orchestrator of this grand spectacle, as his friends lived out the fantasy worlds he so loved to create.

The party that evening was a culmination of their transformation, not just in appearance but in spirit. As they mingled with other guests, they remained in character, enjoying the anonymity and the freedom it brought. They were not just wearing costumes; they had become embodiments of Joey’s creative vision, and indeed, they were the sensation of the night.

The success of the night was palpable, not just in the awards they inevitably won, but in the shared experience of transformation that would become a cherished memory for each of them. Joey knew that Halloween would never be the same again for any of them. This was just the beginning.

Joey had orchestrated a complete transformation for his group of six friends into the bewitching characters from "Hocus Pocus," arranging a grand reveal that would solidify this Halloween as unforgettable.

The Moment of Reveal

In the designated room, Joey positioned his friends in a circle, all facing outwards. At his signal, they turned to face the center, their reactions a mix of shock, joy, and a bit of theatrical horror. Each had been transformed into a key character from the beloved film, their appearances so altered they were unrecognizable to one another.

Joey was Winifred Sanderson, with her distinctive buck-toothed smile and fiery red hair styled into Winifred's iconic heart-shaped updo. His face bore the exaggerated, dramatic makeup that made Winifred both fearsome and comical.

Clara embraced the role of Sarah Sanderson, her long blonde hair flowing in curls, her makeup giving her a hauntingly beautiful look, complemented by the mischievous glint perfectly captured in her eyes.

Tom transformed into Mary Sanderson, his makeup accentuating her unique, twisted smile and the signature mole. His costume puffed at the shoulders, mimicking Mary's robust silhouette.

Mia donned the costume of Billy Butcherson, the zombified ex-lover of Winifred. Prosthetics gave her a decomposed look, with stitched lips and a pallor that screamed 'undead.'

Evan took on the role of Thackery Binx in his human form, with period-appropriate attire and a wig that mimicked Binx’s youthful, colonial hairstyle.

Liz became Dani Dennison, complete with her Halloween witch costume, replete with a pointy hat and a cape, embodying the brave, spirited little sister from the film.

Exploring Their New Personas

As they circled around, examining each other's transformations, the group slipped naturally into their characters. Joey, as Winifred, led with a commanding air, quoting some of her most memorable lines, while Clara, as Sarah, twirled and hummed, embodying the siren's playful allure. Tom, hunched slightly, mimicked Mary’s peculiar way of moving and her constant alertness to her elder sister’s commands.

Mia, as Billy, staggered around with a perfect undead shuffle, managing to grunt and gesture in a way that was both eerie and comical. Evan, portraying Thackery, adopted a protective stance, especially around Liz’s Dani, who clutched her candy bag tightly and looked around with wide, adventurous eyes.

The transformations were so complete and the portrayals so spirited that Joey and his friends felt they had truly stepped out of their own lives and into the enchanting, spooky world of "Hocus Pocus." The experience was not just about wearing a costume but about living briefly as someone wildly different, a testament to the magic of Halloween and Joey’s dedication to an immersive celebration.

Joey's Halloween creation was a masterclass in transformation, each costume a masterpiece of detail that reshaped not only the appearance but also the physicality and presence of his friends. After the initial reveal and embrace of their new identities, Joey orchestrated the next step: the mirror reveal. Up to this point, none had seen themselves, guided by blindfolds as they were dressed, their anticipation building.

The Mirror Reveal

Joey led each friend, one by one, to a full-length mirror. The rest of the group watched, their excitement palpable, as each individual got their first look at their complete transformation.

Joey (Winifred Sanderson): Joey was first. As the blindfold was removed, he was struck by the sight of Winifred staring back at him. The prosthetics altered his face to match her distinctive features, and the body suit adjusted his shape to emulate her robust figure. The detail in the costume, from the texture of the fabric to the aging of the garments, was impeccable. Joey practiced Winifred's commanding gestures, reveling in the authority the costume lent him.

Clara (Sarah Sanderson): Clara gasped audibly when her blindfold was removed. The mirror reflected Sarah's ethereal beauty, with long, flowing blonde hair and captivating makeup that highlighted her alluring eyes. Clara moved gracefully, testing the sway of her costume and the fluidity it offered, perfectly suiting Sarah's seductive yet whimsical demeanor.

Tom (Mary Sanderson): Tom's transformation included a body suit that mimicked Mary's stout form, complete with her characteristic hunched posture. Seeing himself, Tom adjusted his stance, experimenting with Mary's peculiar waddle and her constantly scanning eyes, which added a comical element to his reflection.

Mia (Billy Butcherson): Mia’s reveal was dramatic. The stitches across her mouth rendered her mute, a challenge she embraced by only communicating through muffled grunts and exaggerated, silent-movie-style gestures. Her makeup gave her a haunting, decomposed look, and she staggered back and forth in front of the mirror, fully committing to the zombie's lumbering gait.

Evan (Thackery Binx): Evan, transformed into the heroic Thackery Binx, was dressed in period-appropriate attire. His reflection showed him a young, colonial figure, his posture straightening instinctively to match the noble demeanor of his character. He brushed his hands through the period wig, getting a feel for his character’s youthful energy.

Liz (Dani Dennison): Finally, Liz, dressed as the spirited Dani, smiled wide as she saw her Halloween witch costume come to life. The pointy hat, the cape, and her wide, excited eyes perfectly captured Dani’s adventurous spirit. Liz twirled and laughed, adjusting the cape and practicing her expressions of mock fear and delight.

As each person took in their reflection, the characters of "Hocus Pocus" seemed to come alive in Joey's living room. The transformations were not just physical but emotional and psychological, drawing each friend deeper into their roles. The detailed costumes and prosthetics allowed them to step fully into their characters, altering their movements, reactions, and interactions in a way that was both eerie and thrilling.

As Joey's friends absorbed the shock and wonder of their transformations, each detail of their costumes added layers to their new identities, challenging their usual perceptions of themselves.

Detailed Transformations

Joey and Tom were transformed into the Sanderson sisters, complete with anatomically accurate female prosthetics that reshaped their bodies. These included silicone breast forms and padding around the hips to create the voluptuous figures of Winifred and Mary Sanderson. The artists skillfully blended the prosthetics with their skin, making the additions look natural. This attention to detail extended to their garments, which were tailored to accentuate these new curves, giving Joey and Tom a genuine feel of their characters’ bodies. They moved differently, adjusting to the balance and sway of their new forms.

Mia, taking on the role of Billy Butcherson, underwent a different kind of transformation. Her costume involved compressive elements that flattened her chest, creating the illusion of a more masculine torso. Additional prosthetics provided the appearance of a penis, completing the transformation into the zombified ex-boyfriend of Winifred. The costume was designed to be unsettling yet accurate to the film’s portrayal, with Mia’s movements becoming more lumbering and less fluid, as if rediscovering how to use her limbs.

The Potion and Its Secret

After the mirror revelations, Joey gathered everyone in the kitchen, where he had set up a large cauldron, bubbling with dry ice for effect, to concoct a "potion." Playing into the theme, he handed out goblets as they added various non-alcoholic ingredients, each one chanting playful incantations from the movie as they stirred the brew.

With a theatrical flourish, Joey distributed the goblets, and they all drank together, laughing and continuing to quote lines. The drink was deliciously sweet, masking the real magic Joey had infused into the brew—a potion that would, unbeknownst to his friends, make their transformations last for an entire year.

Off to the Party

The group, now fully immersed in their characters, departed for the Halloween party. They were the center of attention, their costumes far beyond the ordinary, not just in look but in the uncanny way they embodied the characters. Little did they know, as the clock edged towards midnight, the playful fantasy of the evening was about to become a much longer reality.

Joey, the only one aware of the potion's true effect, watched the night unfold with a mix of excitement and apprehension. What had started as a Halloween adventure was set to become a year-long journey in their new skins. The revelation of this truth, when it would eventually come to light, would surely be as shocking as the transformations themselves.

As midnight approached, Joey's anticipation grew. How would his friends react to becoming the characters of "Hocus Pocus" not just for a night, but for an entire year? This Halloween was about to leave a mark on their lives in a way none of them could have anticipated.

As the Halloween party progressed, the effects of Joey's secret potion began to manifest more profoundly in his friends' behavior and physical experiences. Unbeknownst to them, the changes were no longer just external costumes but were becoming their new reality.

Exploring New Realities

Joey and Tom found themselves adapting to their newly acquired forms. Sitting together, they discussed the peculiar sensations of their transformed bodies. Joey, now embodying Winifred Sanderson, couldn't help but be fascinated by the feel of the silicone breasts that now seemed part of him. He explored the sensation discreetly, the weight and movement feeling foreign yet oddly intriguing.

Tom, similarly, was getting accustomed to the hips and the form of Mary Sanderson. The way his costume altered his posture and the distribution of weight around his hips was something he had never experienced. As they sat, they shared a look of bewildered amusement, their conversation turning to how these new bodies moved and felt, a mix of comedy and genuine curiosity coloring their exchange.

Mia, on the other hand, experienced a different kind of revelation. Assigned the role of Billy Butcherson, she found the addition of a prosthetic penis particularly novel. During a trip to the restroom, she experienced what it was like to stand to urinate—a mundane act for many but a completely new experience for her. Mia found herself surprisingly at ease with the change, the functionality of the prosthetic adding a layer of authenticity to her costume that she hadn't anticipated enjoying. The curiosity and novelty of the experience brought a smirk to her face as she realized the practical aspects of her temporary anatomy.

Adjusting to Their New Selves

Each friend, in their own way, began to bond with their new forms. The changes were subtle at first, enough to be dismissed as excellent costume design, but as the night wore on, the lines between costume and reality blurred. Joey's potion had laid the groundwork for these transformations, and as midnight drew closer, the permanence of their situation was still a secret kept only by Joey.

The Halloween party was a tremendous success, and as the clock struck midnight, Joey and his friends were declared the grand prize winners. The announcement came amidst a chorus of cheers and applause, their costumes garnering awe and admiration from everyone at the party. The celebration, coupled with the effects of alcohol, masked the deeper transformation that had been quietly unfolding throughout the evening.

The Morning After

The next morning, Joey's friends awoke, not in their beds as themselves, but still in the form of their "Hocus Pocus" characters. The full realization of their situation hadn't hit them yet as they stumbled out of their rooms, each encountering the unfamiliar reflection in the mirror.

Confusion and panic began to set in as they realized the costumes and makeup were no longer on them—they were them. Joey gathered his bewildered friends in the living room, where the previous night's festive atmosphere had been replaced by an air of uncertainty.

"Okay, everyone, please sit down. I have something important to tell you," Joey began, his tone serious and compassionate. "Last night wasn’t just about winning the costume contest or having the best Halloween. The potion we drank... it was real. It’s going to keep us like this—for a whole year."

The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air.

Coming to Terms with Their New Reality

"But how? Why would you do this?" Clara asked, her voice tinged with disbelief and a hint of fear.

Joey sighed, "I wanted us to win, to have the best costumes ever, to really become our characters. I never imagined it would work this well. I’m sorry—I thought it would be fun."

The shock slowly morphed into a mix of resignation and curiosity. Joey explained that as the day went on, their memories of their former selves would start to fade, replaced by those of their characters. They would fully become Winifred, Mary, Sarah, Billy, Thackery, and Dani—not just in looks but in essence.

Embracing Their New Identities

As the reality set in, the group slowly began to embrace their fate. The initial shock gave way to a tentative acceptance. After all, they had always loved Halloween and the idea of becoming someone else for a night—now they had the chance to extend that adventure for a year.

Mia, still embodying Billy Butcherson, cracked a joke, her voice a perfect imitation of the character's raspy tone, "Well, at least I don’t have to worry about shaving."

Tom, adjusting his skirt, added, "And I’ve got to admit, these curves are kind of growing on me."

They spent the day together, exploring the nuances of their characters, testing their new voices, and adjusting to their new physicalities. As the sun set, they noticed a subtle shift—memories of their past selves fading, like dreams upon waking, and their new, magical personas taking hold.

Joey watched his friends adapt, feeling a mix of guilt and fascination. He had changed their lives drastically, albeit temporarily, and the journey they were now on was something none of them could have prepared for. Yet, as they laughed and shared a meal together that evening, Joey realized that they might just make the most of this unexpected adventure. Joey, after all was now a real witch. what's next.

[cewritten23]

Surrealism

• began in 1924 and lasted until 1966

“Nature does not create works of art. It is we, and the faculty of interpretation peculiar to the human mind, that see art” Man Ray.

“Beloved imagination, what I most like in you is your unsparing quality”-

“Everything we see hides another thing, we always want to see what is hidden by what we see”- Magritte.

• Surrealist artists aimed to delve into the unconscious mind in order to reveal the abilities of our imagination.

• Influenced by rationalism, literary realism, and heavily influenced by psychoanalysis.

• Beloved that the rational mind did not allow us to fully embrace our imagination.

• inspired by Karl Marx and aimed for the psyche to reveal contradictions within our everyday lives as well as spark a revolution.

• having personal imagination puts surrealist artists on the same line as Romanticism.

• their interest in myth and primitivism influenced many other art movements within todays world.

• Andre Breton described surrealism as “psychic automatism in its pure state, by which one proposes to express- verbally, by means of the written word, or in any other manner- the actual functioning thought”

• surrealism and the idea of automatism allows artists to go past the conscious mind and bring our visions and thoughts to life through our art, in turn allowing us to embrace chance.

• Sigmund Freud’s theory and his The Interpretation of dreams, (1899) was heavily influential within the surrealist art movement.

• Surrealist imagery is the most recognisable of the movement.

• Each artist engaging with this movement used their own motifs and ways of working in order to convey their thoughts of their dreams and unconscious mind.

• Many of surrealist imagery is described as outlandish, perplexing and at times uncanny.

Key Artists:

• Andre Breton

• Hans Arp

• Max Ernst

• Salvador Dali

• Alberto Giacometti

• Joan Miro

• Rene Magritte

• Man Ray

• Yves Tanguy

• Leonora Carrington

• Pablo Picasso

• Meret Oppenheim

• Hans Ritcher

• Hans Bellmer

• Luis Bunuel

• Claude Cahun

• Remedios Varo

• Andre Masson

• Gala Dali

• Paul Eluard

• Louis Aragon

• Charles Baudelaire

• Arthur Rimbaud

Overview:

• Anti-rationalism of the Dada art movement.

• Made effective and work that was outwith the norms of the art world and gave a new direction for artists.

“creativity is that marvellous capacity to grasp mutually distinct realities and draw a spark from the juxtaposition”- Max Ernst.

Beginning of Surrealism:

• grew and developed from the Dada movement and was a rebellion against middle-class’s known judgements and ignorance against others.

This art movement was also inspired by Surrealist Giorgio de Chirico, Gustave Moreau, Arnold Bocklin, Odilon Redon as well as Henri Rousseau.

Artists from the Renaissance period were also inspiration for Surrealist artists, these included Hieronymus Bosch and Giuseppe Arcimboldo.

Breton is at times described as the 'Pope' of Surrealism as he officially founded the movement in 1924.

the term "Surrealism" was founded in 1917 by Guillaume Apollinaire.

Breton's manifesto, La Revolution surrealiste this included art and writing.

The Bureau for Surrealist Research or Centrale Surrealiste established in Paris in 1924.

Surrealism: Concepts, Styles and Trends

Artist utilised their fantasy and dream imagery to create works using a wide range of media in order to convey their inner minds in an eccentric, bold, and symbolic ways. In turn this exposed ones anxieties allowing the artist to use their art to help themselves.

Surrealist Paintings:

works like Salvador Dali, Yves Tanguy and Rene Magritte's paintings were create with hyper-realistic imagery were all objects were depicted in very sharp and crisp detail with a three-dimensional quality, in turn drawing attention to their dream-like appearance and atmosphere.

works like Joan Miro and Max Ernst used many techniques and media such as; collage, doodling, frottage, decalcomania, and grattage to create their surrealism artworks.

Rise and Decline of The Surrealism Art Movement:

global war and political issues had negative effects on the views towards the art movement as civilians were in a state of crises during the 1930s and 1940s.

During World War 2 many Surrealist artist emigrated to the Americas which resulted in their ideas and work being recognised on a larger scale.

Ideas and views towards Surrealism changed and challenged due to the rise of Existentialism.

Abstract Expressionist artists were inspired by Surrealism, however Abstract Expressionism took over and invented new techniques in order to convey the unconscious.

British Surrealism:

Female Surrealist artists; Eileen Agar, Ithell Colquhoun, Edith Rimmington and Emmy Bridgwater.

The British interpretation of the Surrealist movement was towards thoughts of humans relations to their surrounding natural environment, specifically the sea.

Paul Nash had an interest in the object trouve which involved collecting objects from the beach.

The International Surrealist Exhibition (1936) in London, a major event for many British artists, in turn allowing the Surrealist art movement to thrive in the UK.

The Persistence of Memory (1931) by Salvador Dali

How does this relate to my work?:

When painting my sinister characters I use my imagination or images I have seen when sleeping in order to create the faces of my sinister characters. It is as though I am entering my own pitch black world where I can see these face formulate in front of me. Once they have formulated enough in my head i automatically convey their imagery onto the canvas, not thinking too much about what they will look like. I almost allow the medium and my hand to do their own thing. My works have been more refined and soft in shape much like some of the shapes within surrealist paintings, however, I have been experimenting with a new technique that allows automatism to surface allowing my to have less control on the overall outcome of my paintings. These images in my head are other worldly, I do not see them in my everyday life unless I force it in order to create my paintings. They are not images that the people around my can see unless the engage with my art.

[genesismyart]

Agnus Dei, Francisco de Zurbarán, oil painting, religious symbolism

Zurbaran, one of the most significant figures of Spanish Baroque art, gained respect as a painter renowned for his religious compositions. Among his various religious works, one stands out prominently: the painting named 'Agnus Dei' or 'Lamb of God.' This artwork's captivating simplicity and realism, combined with the brilliance of Baroque chiaroscuro, make it truly enchanting. Despite the lack of intricate details, the painting's simplicity draws viewers in so strongly that they find themselves as calm as the sacrificial lamb depicted. In Baroque art, movement and motion are crucial. Figures are often portrayed in intense motion, conveying a perpetual sense of movement. However, in this scene, stillness prevails continuously. The Lamb of God, representing Jesus and his self-sacrifice for God, awaits calmly in a motionless state to be sacrificed.

The lamb's tranquil expression, as soft as its white fur, invites viewers to a sense of serenity. Additionally, the humility and peaceful expression it wears while heading towards death reflect the characteristic qualities of Jesus. The lamb is depicted in a dark environment, illuminated by divine light, signifying God's watchfulness and love for his son. Amid a dark world, this lamb, resigned to its fate, displays a final silent resistance under God's light. 'Lamb of God' is not the first composition of its kind by Zurbaran; he had produced different versions before achieving perfection in this piece. The mastery in rendering both light and the lamb's anatomy is remarkable. Notably, while the earlier versions omit the lamb's horns, this version's inclusion of powerful horns is striking. This might signify Zurbaran's intention to portray the lamb as powerful and majestic. The lamb's depiction lacks the beams of light seen in other versions, making it appear just like a regular lamb. Zurbaran deliberately refrains from adding any explanation or symbolism to the artwork, allowing viewers to directly engage with the lamb and even empathize with it. Many artists have tackled this subject in art history, but none have accomplished the same impact as the Spanish master Zurbaran. Born in Seville, he specialized in scenes of saints and monastic life. His exposure to various masters' works during his time in Madrid, aided by his friend Diego Velazquez's recommendation, helped him refine his style. Upon returning to Seville, he solidified his unique approach to Baroque art. While Baroque typically features dynamic figures, Zurbaran's figures remain static yet monumental, embodying the Baroque chiaroscuro technique.

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