#the soft sound of a needle breaching fabric

[brooklynislandgirl]

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS.   repost, don’t reblog. bold whatever applies. tag whoever you want and feel free to add to the categories. The Nurse Shark || Beth Riley

THE SHAPE OF WATER : early mornings. art on an easel. being trapped. flashy cars. self-righteous intolerance. speaking volumes without a word. being submerged. learning and adapting. raindrops on windows. bubbles rising in water. cats. taboo desires. tanks of water. kitschy nostalgia. kissing underwater. silence. isolation. golden age Hollywood. sign language. scales. egg shells. jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies. creature features. the space race. red coats. monstrous fairy tales. lab coats. lunches in brown bags. the click of shoes. smog. dance routines. slices of pie. toxic masculinity. chains. government secrets. seeing past flaws. floating aimlessly. needles. greens and blues. deep, inexorable scars. gills. music from the 30′s. retro-futurism. bloody hand-prints. routines. record players. old movies. love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD : a doll in a gilded birdcage. butter to bread. the death of a mother. cycles. hidden messages. a disruptive presence. longing. wedding gowns. posh control. post-war. brightly coloured socks. inner turmoil. poison. an air of quiet death. hallucinations. family dysfunction. rich fabrics. curses. soft piano music. restrained anger. spinning out of control. artist and muse. dark love. pastels. peace in the countryside. clockwork dynamics. perfection. wild mushrooms. giving up every piece of yourself. rags to riches. ghosts. new year’s. lingering gazes. needle and thread. fine dining. hearing every sound. being ambushed. ego. flowing dresses. a person out of place. defiance. ink to paper. an artist tortured by their art. obsessive personalities. peepholes. soothing elegance. silk. spiral staircases. driving at high speeds. high society.

THE POST : typewriters. newspapers. tense climates. distrust of authority. internal battles. a legacy at stake. secrets. cover-ups. defending what you believe. peering through windows. melodrama. political corruption. behind closed doors. sniffing a scoop. ringing phones. lying for over a decade. cramming and crowding. cold grays. war. fluorescent lights. treason. shuffled papers. the jungle. a weight on your shoulders. fresh coffee. thousands of deaths. burglary. finding your voice. risking everything. propaganda. tough choices. exposure. type being set by hand. workplace rivalries. abuses of power. security breaches. hierarchy. a bed strewn with papers and books. paranoia. orders. clicking keys. redacted files. desk clutter. cigarette smoke. precious cargo. vanished technologies. suspenseful conversations. facing charges. courtroom battles. suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR : never surrendering. duty. countless negotiations. the flash of cameras. beaches. historic buildings. guzzling booze. resignation. utter catastrophe. bunkers. radio broadcasts. going against the odds. bathed in red light. a sense of humor. allies. shouting matches. small square windows. selfishness. walking with a cane. war rooms. chandeliers. dust floating in air. righteousness. a poor reputation. an elevator surrounded by darkness. a world at war. needing a miracle. interruptions. a last hope. cigar smoke. quoting poetry. photos of a loved one. a single sunbeam. monarchy. vanity. rescue missions. refusing peace. pallid chambers. military uniforms. taking a stand. common folk. suicide missions. drums of war. tears down sullen cheeks. reluctance. complete collapse. evacuations. enveloped by fog. changing history. blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI : severe burns. police uniforms. sirens. the calmness of a deer. strumming guitars. grieving. horrifying memories. sucker punches. a lack of respect. facing threats. skin under fingernails. flicking cigarettes. awkward dates. nasty rumors. claustrophobia. lush green pastures. molotov cocktails. the fire of anger and revenge. strangers. no remorse. bashing in windows. the midwest. provoking a fight. pointing fingers. being pressed for time. rundown old houses. grey morality. dark undercurrents. insurmountable losses. cruel laughs. the american flag. dive bars. guilty no matter what. buildings in flames. ambulances. coughing up blood. spitting. chewing on fingernails. one versus many. black and red. not understanding another’s feelings. a mother and child. the pain of others. a quest of justice. abandoned billboards. a hardened gaze. driving to nowhere. small towns. last letters. absurd violence.

DUNKIRK : burying a body. warm cider. narrow escapes. a race against time. a small boat. all hope lost. being unable to come home. taken prisoner. shipwrecks. assuming the identity of someone else. setting fire to it all. smoke rising from a crash. sea foam. seaports. rendered blind. dropping to take cover. land, sea, and air. entangled in chain. toast with jam. suspense. waiting for escape. wounded men. laying in the sand. trauma. blank spaces. sinking ships. commended a hero. cocking a gun. swallowed by darkness. bullet holes. obstacles and delays. a hero’s welcome. planes overhead. the sounds of a ticking clock. bullets ricocheting off metal. people by the thousands. shell-shocked. the explosions of shells on shores. the sound of destruction. rising tides. head injuries. target practice. compressed time and space. the perennial threat of death. oil ignited into flames. lying for the greater good. blocking out the noise. primal dangers. taking command. sole survivor.

GET OUT : deer antlers. suburbs. hypnosis. strange behaviour. familial tension. chopping wood. uneasy stares. tears and a smile. deception. fight or flight. blindness. survival. sinking into the floor. watching but powerless. strapped to a chair. plugged ears. a failed handshake. car accidents. sunken places. something out of a nightmare. going hysterical. bingo cards. smoking cigarettes. static on a television set. doing more harm than good. a hint of a smile. a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them. waiting for someone to come when they never will. overturned candles. wealthy garden parties. constantly looking over your shoulder. silence no matter how hard you scream. trances. catharsis. a battle of wills. layers being peeled back. a cup of tea. nosebleeds. addiction. last bits of life leaving a body. black and white photography. sprinting at high speeds. conspiracies. surgery. blankly polite speech. noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup. a deer in headlights. staring at your own reflection. unable to sleep. loyal friends.

LADY BIRD : california landscapes. budding romance. uniforms. consolation. plain and luscious colors. apologizing. boorish sex. prom dresses. secondhand dresses. strong personalities. the theatre. being simultaneously warm and scary. battling depression. 90’s fashion. dreaming of elsewhere. partying. signatures on a cast. living on the wrong side of the tracks. not being bound by any era. rejection. sparklers. thrift stores. high school. identity crisis. a place that looks like a memory. going behind backs. disappointed parents. catholicism. poverty. busy new york city streets. monotonous hometowns. shitty bands. teenage anarchy. drifting in and out of friendships. menial jobs. red hair. self-given names. coming-of-age. a broken arm. excessive drinking. first kisses. cupcakes. smudged eye makeup. strained relationships. screaming in the middle of the street. thoughtful letters. standing out. decorated bedroom walls. having a change of heart. expressing individuality.

TAGGED BY. @void-foxy {by technicality and thank you}

TAGGING. Be fae, steal memes

[iputaspellonyoux]

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS

repost, don’t reblog.

THE SHAPE OF WATER.    early mornings. art on an easel. being trapped. flashy cars. self-righteous intolerance. speaking volumes without a word. being submerged. learning and adapting. raindrops on windows. bubbles rising in water. cats. taboo desires. tanks of water. kitschy nostalgia. kissing underwater. silence. isolation. golden age hollywood. sign language. scales. egg shells. jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies. creature features. the space race. red coats. monstrous fairy tales. lab coats. lunches in brown bags. the click of shoes. smog. dance routines. slices of pie. toxic masculinity. chains. government secrets. seeing past flaws. floating aimlessly. needles. greens and blues. deep, inexorable scars. gills. music from the 30′s. retro-futurism. bloody handprints. routines. record players. old movies. love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD.    a doll in a gilded birdcage. butter to bread. the death of a mother. cycles. hidden messages. a disruptive presence. longing. wedding gowns. posh control. post-war.  brightly colored socks. inner turmoil. poison. an air of quiet death. hallucinations. family dysfunction. rich fabrics. curses. soft piano music. restrained anger. spinning out of control. artist and muse. dark love. pastels. peace in the countryside. clockwork dynamics. perfection. wild mushrooms. giving up every piece of yourself.  rags to riches.  ghosts. new year’s. lingering gazes.  needle and thread. fine dining. hearing every sound. being ambushed. ego. flowing dresses. a person out of place. defiance. ink to paper. an artist tortured by their art.  obsessive personalities. peepholes. soothing elegance. silk. spiral staircases. driving at high speeds. high society.

THE POST.     typewriters. newspapers. tense climates. distrust of authority. internal battles. a legacy at stake. secrets. cover-ups. defending what you believe. peering through windows. melodrama. political corruption.  behind closed doors. sniffing a scoop. ringing phones. lying for over a decade. cramming and crowding. cold grays. war. fluorescent lights. treason. shuffled papers. the jungle. a weight on your shoulders. fresh coffee. thousands of deaths. burglary. finding your voice. risking everything. propaganda. tough choices. exposure. type being set by hand. workplace rivalries. abusing power. security breaches. hierarchy. a bed strewn with papers and books. paranoia. orders. clicking keys. redacted files. desk clutter. cigarette smoke. precious cargo. vanished technologies. suspenseful conversations. facing charges. courtroom battles. suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR.   never surrendering. duty. countless negotiations. the flash of cameras. beaches. historic buildings. guzzling booze. resignation. utter catastrophe. bunkers. radio broadcasts. going against the odds. bathed in red light. a sense of humor. allies. shouting matches.  small square windows. selfishness. walking with a cane. war rooms. chandeliers. dust floating in the air. righteousness. a poor reputation. an elevator surrounded by darkness. a world at war. needing a miracle. interruptions. a last hope. cigar smoke. quoting poetry. photos of a loved one. a single sunbeam. monarchy. vanity. rescue missions. refusing peace. allied chambers. military uniforms. taking a stand. common folk. suicide missions. drums of war. tears down sullen cheeks. reluctance. complete collapse. evacuations.  enveloped by fog. changing history. blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI.      severe burns. police uniforms. sirens. the calmness of a deer. strumming guitars. grieving. horrifying memories. sucker punches. a lack of respect. facing threats. skin under fingernails. flicking cigarettes. awkward dates. nasty rumors. claustrophobia. lush green pastures. molotov cocktails. the fire of anger and revenge. strangers. no remorse.  bashing in windows. the midwest. provoking a fight. pointing fingers. being pressed for time. rundown old houses. grey morality. dark undercurrents. insurmountable losses. cruel laughs. the american flag. dive bars. guilty no matter what. buildings in flames. ambulances. coughing up blood. spitting. chewing on fingernails. one versus many. black and red. not understanding another’s feelings. a mother and child. the pain of others. a quest of justice. abandoned billboards. a hardened gaze. driving to nowhere. small towns. last letters. absurd violence.

DUNKIRK.   burying a body. warm cider. narrow escapes. a race against time. a small boat. all hope lost. being unable to come home. taken prisoner. shipwrecks. assuming the identity of someone else.  setting fire to it all. smoke rising from a crash. sea foam. seaports. rendered blind. dropping to take cover. land, sea, and air. entangled in chain. toast with jam. suspense. waiting for escape. wounded men. lying in the sand. trauma. blank spaces. sinking ships. commended a hero. cocking a gun. swallowed by darkness. bullet holes. obstacles and delays. a hero’s welcome. planes overhead. the sounds of a ticking clock. bullets ricocheting off metal. people by the thousands. shell-shocked. the explosions of shells on shores.  the sound of destruction. rising tides. head injuries. target practice. compressed time and space. the perennial threat of death. oil ignited into flames. lying for the greater good. blocking out the noise. primal dangers. taking command. sole survivor.

GET OUT.      deer antlers. suburbs. hypnosis. strange behavior. familial tension. chopping wood. uneasy stares. tears and a smile. deception. fight or flight. blindness. survival. sinking into the floor. watching but powerless. strapped to a chair. plugged ears. a failed handshake. car accidents. sunken places. something out of a nightmare. going hysterical. bingo cards. smoking cigarettes. static on a television set. doing more harm than good. a hint of a smile. a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them. waiting for someone to come when they never will. overturned candles. wealthy garden parties. constantly looking over your shoulder. silence no matter how hard you scream. trances. catharsis.  a battle of wills. layers being peeled back. a cup of tea. nosebleeds. addiction. last bits of life leaving a body. black and white photography. sprinting at high speeds. conspiracies. surgery. blankly polite speech. noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup. a deer in headlights. staring at your own reflection. unable to sleep. loyal friends.

LADY BIRD.     california landscapes. budding romance. uniforms. consolation. plain and luscious colors. apologizing. boorish sex. prom dresses. secondhand dresses. strong personalities. the ups and downs of adolescence. the theatre. being simultaneously warm and scary. 90’s fashion. dreaming of elsewhere. partying. signatures on a cast. living on the wrong side of the tracks. not being bound by any era. rejection. sparklers.  thrift stores. high school. identity crisis. a place that looks like a memory. going behind backs. disappointed parents. catholicism. poverty. busy new york city streets. monotonous hometowns. shitty bands. anarchy. drifting in and out of friendships. menial jobs. red hair. self-given names. coming-of-age. a broken arm. excessive drinking. first kisses. cupcakes. smudged eye make up. bruises gained unknowingly. strained relationships. screaming in the middle of the street. thoughtful letters. standing out. decorated bedroom walls. having a change of heart. expressing individuality.

Tagged by     :    No one Tagging     :   anyone  who  wants  to do this.

[joinmeinjoy]

Jaskier sews and Geralt crochets. I don't make the rules that's just how it is :/

But think about it- baby Jaskier, still wet behind the ears, arriving at Oxenfurt with nothing but the clothes on his back, a small sack of belongings, and an acceptance letter he reads every night. Maybe he had to persuade his parents to let him go, maybe they begrudgingly wrote his enrolment letter with mumbles about him throwing his life away, shaming him with this phase he was going through. Or maybe they didn't know at all; maybe Jaskier had stolen some of his father's thick letter paper and smooth ink, had penned his own enrolment, mimicking the short blunt writing of his dad. Maybe he scanned each and every letter when they arrived, snagging the one that proudly read ‘OXENFURT ACADEMY’ before anyone else could see it or grab it. Maybe that night he grabbed all he could carry, letter tight in his grip, and left with naught but the scrape of boots on a stone window sill.

He has to learn to sew because he can’t afford to pay someone else for it. He cant make a shirt for shit, or cut some fancy pants out of fabric he doesn’t have, but he can hem. He can take his pants up when it’s in fashion, or add more inches to the legs in scrap fabric and say its a trend from somewhere far in the south. Of course the contrasting colours and textures were intentional, its fashion darling. It’s all the craze.

Jaskier can patch his shirts, his underclothes, can take them in and out. He saves his money to buy more clothes, but in the meantime he teaches himself the basics of using a needle and thread. Eventually, when he’s won various prizes in competitions, he can afford to buy a few new shirts and can sometimes even afford to get them properly fixed...but he does it himself more often than not. He’s been doing it for years now- it may not be done by a professional, but its a near thing. What once were uneven and uncertain stitches, made by hesitant and learning hands, have now become smooth patterns on the inside of his clothes, over holes and tears and ripped seams. Pushing a needle though fabric feels as natural as holding a lute- his hands are steadier now, certain and strong.

He still pricks himself with the needle, gets frustrated when what hes sewing doesn’t work out...but he always picks the needle back up after putting it down. His little box of sewing things never gathers dust.

And when he starts travelling with Geralt, he’s suddenly very grateful for all the years hes spent patching his own clothes. It worked as good practice for fixing the much larger, much harder tears and holes Geralt acquires on his hunts. Its a challenge sometimes, and more often than not Jaskier scraps shirts and pants entirely because honestly Geralt its ripped to ribbons, how can you still call that a shirt? the poor thing....look what you’ve done to it. But he uses those scraps patching other things, so they don’t go entirely to waste.

And Geralt...it’s not like he had much free time in the keep, when he was growing up. But the time he did have was mostly spent alone in a room reading books, sparring with the other boys, or doing (possibly mischievous) things with Eskel. In fact Eskel was the one who taught him how to crochet- the other boy didn’t remember much about his mother or his home, but he was old enough to remember some of the things he had been taught. They unravelled an old pair of knitted jumpers and used the yarn from that- its not like witchers kept balls of yarn lying around the keep, and neither boy wanted to risk the ridicule of asking for some. So they pulled the shirts apart and Eskel whittled two little crochet hooks from some sticks they’d found.

Eskel had sat for hours trying to let his muscle memory take over, trying to remember how to do the stitches properly, before showing Geralt how to do it. He couldn’t remember how to do all the stitches- he knew what they looked like, but he couldn’t remember how to recreate them. That was ok, Geralt had thought, because he was thrilled to be doing even this- making terrible little...he didn’t even know what they were meant to be, they were just squares made with a stitch Eskel called the ‘Granny Stripe’.

They sat crocheting squares for as long as they could, before unravelling them and doing it all over again.

As they grew they discovered more ways to make new stitches, how to make small items, and they shared everything they discovered. Geralt took these skills with him on the path- he bought yarn where he could find it and made his own socks, his own gloves, because sometimes it was cheaper than buying them from people who spat at him. He got a notebook eventually and started writing instructions for himself on how to make things- how many chains to make, where to double crochet and where to treble crochet. He started small and made gloves, socks, even some leg warmers for roach. A scarf or two. Then he made a cardigan over winter, and proudly showed it off. Lambert gave him shit for it but asked when Geralt was going to make one for him because sharing is caring, dumbass. Eskel demanded to know how Geralt made it. Geralt copied the notes for him later.

When Jaskier starts travelling with him he doesn’t pick up his crochet hook for a while. He’s too busy trying to lose this new human to crochet, and he doesn’t have any yarn, and its not like he needs to make anything so-

He carefully pulls out the new yarn he had secretly bought and his trusty metal hook, shiftily eyeing Jaskier across the campsite. The bard seems wrapped up in his own world, staring into the fire, so quietly Geralt starts the chain for his new creation. It isn’t until 20 minutes later that he feels Jaskier watching him. He tenses, expecting a comment about it (because when he’s in town the only people crocheting are old women and he knows that he’s nearly as old as them but that doesn’t matter-), but he continues looping the yarn over the hook and pulling it through spaces, repeating the process stitch after stitch. Jaskier says nothing, just watches in fascination.

Maybe its something they bond over- what they do is different, of course, but its also so similar. Jaskier expands into making actual clothes alongside patching and hemming, he starts making shirts and pants for himself and Geralt. One spring when he meets up with Geralt again, he hands him a parcel and says its for roach. The bard had made a new saddle blanket for roach, had hand-sewn a diamond pattern onto it and made it out of the softest, most durable fabric he could find. It was thick but soft, and Geralt knew each stitch was made with care. It’s one of the first times Geralt actually begins to see Jaskier for the person he’s become, rather than the boy he was.

That year, Geralt spends the month leading up to winter making Jaskier a long, colourful cardigan. He gives it to him right before they part ways, so he doesn’t have to explain himself or the cardigan beyond a gruff “Here. For you.”.

It’s Jaskiers most prized possession- tied only with his lute.

...I will end it here but i haven’t even gotten STARTED on what they make for Ciri......

[one-boring-person]

Okay but fr

Im Rambos’ overprotective, questionable, violent(not towards him) and haunted s/o who makes him candles and teaches him to quilt.

And he can come pet my cows to relax, and if anyone says shit to him all they see is a big metal agender bastard coming to fuck them up…

Idk…just feel he needs a tired, metal, badass s/o who’s only soft spot is for him and they show him the good things in life again

Bruh i want to be this for him too!😭😭❤

Gladly.

John Rambo (Last Blood) x reader

Warnings: mention of war, mention of PTSD, probably inaccurate farm related shit, bad language

Masterlist

"Hey, John? You got a minute?" (Y/n)'s voice startles the veteran as they poke their head around the door, an expression of barely contained excitement on their face.

Looking up in surprise, John stops his movements before he accidentally sticks himself with the needle in his hands, putting the bundle of fabric down in his lap. 

"Yeah. What do you need?" He rumbles, frowning a little, curiosity piqued by their jittery behaviour.

"Wanna help me with the foals? It's their first time outside." They grin, speaking quickly.

John considers the offer, remembering back to his time on his father's ranch, back when he was a kid: the foaling season, or more accurately, the time after had always been his favourite, seeing the young animals exploring the world for the first time. When he was a teen, his father had once let him pick a foal to raise himself, a small buckskin mare with a fiery demeanour that made for some interesting riding. He'd trained her up and had ridden her in many a race, though he's certain now his father had sold her as soon as he had left for the army. Eager to see the sights of his childhood again, John nods in agreement, climbing to his feet with some vigour.

"Yeah, I'll help. Let me just get some boots on." He tells (Y/n), placing his sewing aside and moving to follow them out into the hall.

"Ok, I'll wait for you outside." They reply, turning and leaving through the front door, allowing it to swing slightly behind them.

Swiftly, John pulls on his thick-soled boots, lacing them up tightly before pulling his trousers leg down over the top of them. Years ago, he would've tucked them in, but (Y/n) had once told him that the action would always remind him too much of his old occupation and habits, and that it might be healthier for his head if he tried to breach these second-nature quirks. Shaking his head, he almost smiles at the reminder of the words they'd used to describe it, straightening as he goes to leave through the door, grabbing his battered old Stetson on the way out. 

As usual for this part of Arizona, the sun is beaming down onto the ranch, heating every available surface mercilessly. The air is hot and dry, too, but John's used to it by now - the contrast with the thick, humid jungles of Vietnam always helps to calm him, too. He sometimes misses the sweltering heat of Thailand, but he knows now he only ever liked it because it was familiar, and kept him in a mindset he knew he could function under. Now, he's changed.

John makes his way over to (Y/n), who's stood before the smaller barn they've set aside for the foals in their youth, tipping his hat down over his eyes to shield them from the blazing sun. Already, he can hear the muffled whinnys of the young horses, the excited creatures keen to get out and explore properly for the first time. He feels his expression soften a little at the familiar sound, a smile trying to pull at the corner of his lips as he moves in beside (Y/n).

"Come on." They grin, pushing open the door.

Stepping inside, the two are immediately faced with a barrage of happy snorts and neighs, five gangly foals pushing at the gate holding them back. John has seen them before, but hasn't been in such close proximity, leaving (Y/n) to work with them for the most part, given his speciality in the older horses, so he finds himself marvelling at their oddly amusing antics. They're all about the same size, nudging and pushing at each other in their haste to get out.

"How do you wanna do this?" John asks, looking at (Y/n) expectantly, before eyeing the far door, which leads to a small field behind the stable.

"Get a lead on 'em and get them out one by one. It'll be safer than if they all rush forward." 

"Ok." 

The two move to take up a few leading ropes each, swiftly fashioning slipknot into them to easily but safely close around the foals' necks. As they climb into the pen, the young horses move to nose at their clothes and hands, snorting softly at them. One, a small black-and-white palomino, thrusts his head into John's coat, whinnying gently to him. Unable to help the small smile the plays on his lips, he carefully lifts the foal's head and slips the lead over his neck, tugging it to tighten ever so slightly. Standing, lightly ties the line to a nearby fence post, before repeating the action with two of the others, waiting for (Y/n) to finish up. Once they have, he takes a foal's leash and heads to the far door, which he pushes open and steps through, taking the cheerful horse with him. 

As they step outside, the two foals picked first pull at their lines, excited as they try to leave and explore. John is quick to walk on into the field itself, getting halfway before he leans down and gently slips the rope off of the foal's neck. Instantly, she bounds off, gangly legs moving quickly as she rushes to check the area out. It's not long before she's joined by her brother, who also hurries about wildly. Chuckling, John turns his back and moves to repeat his action, the two ranchers soon managing to get all the foals into the field. 

Standing back, they watch as the youngsters explore, neighing in curiosity and surprise when they find plants they haven't encountered before, a couple calling out to the stallions in the field over. Laughing amongst themselves, and pointing out a few in particular, John and (Y/n) follow the small palomino from before, who consistently trots up to John to judge against him. 

"You know, I think he likes you." (Y/n) laughs, ruffling the foal's mane as he shuffles past. 

"I guess so." The veteran smiles and watches as the young horses bounds back over to his friends, turning his gaze on (Y/n) instead. 

He can't help the flush of affection he feels for them, eyes roaming over the familiar torn jeans, fading Guns 'n Roses shirt that hangs loosely over their muscular build and the bright grin in place on their face. Suddenly, he feels the urge to say something, so he reaches across and takes their hand in his. Surprised, they look at him, head cocked in that way he loves.

"John?" They ask, turning to him.

Taking a breath, he smiles at them.

"Thank you. For this, for showing me that there is still good in my life." He murmurs, knowing they'll hear him.

It takes them aback, he can tell, but the glowing smile he's rewarded with makes his heart ache for them, itching to take them in his arms and hold them close.

"You didn't need me to find it, I just helped a little. And I'll do it again. Gladly." They reply softly, squeezing his hand before stepping forward and wrapping their arms around him.

Returning the gesture, John melts into the embrace, holding them tightly against him.

-

Tag List - @the-mind-of-moss @80s4life @snowgoldwaylon @slystallone @feirceangel

[wicked-mind]

Betrayed: Chapter one

Betrayed

Summary: Everybody thought Steve’s sister had passed away decades ago. But when you show up at the facility and try to attack Bucky, there are questions to be answered.

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Word count: 3.3k

Warning: A bit of violence, a hint of PTSD

Masterlist

All Writings Masterlist

NOTE: This story is set post Endgame, but Natasha is still alive and Steve never went back in time to be with Peggy. Although I have always been a fan of creative writing, this is my first time writing based on any movies/series. Any feedback would be appreciated (: Enjoy!

*gif not mine

_____________________________________________________

CHAPTER ONE- You

“ALERT: PERIMETER BREACH!”

The alert echoed through the rooms of the facility, waking everybody up at the ready for a fight. Natasha was the first one up and slowly sneaking out of her room, armed with a gun. She stopped at a door and opened it, Steve had his shield and was ready to follow her with a nod. They slipped into the hallway together. Bucky joined them, as well as Wanda. They all spread out and went down different hallways in teams.

“We have movement in the kitchen.” Nat whispered to her ear piece, which had Sam and Clint on the other end moving on the opposite side of the facility through the kitchen. They all stopped, looking into the dark room. Nothing was touched. Nobody was there. They slowly spread out into the kitchen, checking any corners where someone could be hiding.

Nat lowers her weapon and looks around at her teammates, who looked as confused as she was. They didn’t get false alarms. Nat suddenly looks down at her phone, which she was using to track movement in the facility.

“There’s definitely something moving around here.” She said, showing Steve. He looked as the dot bounced around the screen, shifting to different rooms. It was going through all their bedrooms, before stopping at the edge the hallway that lead to the kitchen.

Both Nat and Steve looked up to the edge of the hallway. Nat already had her gun pointed, ready to fire. The rest of the team gathered around the entrance, keeping their distant and following Steve and Nat’s lead.

“Whoever you are, come out now!” Steve demanded, stepping forward a few feet and squinting his eyes in the darkness.

The room paused for a moment as something was heard moving in the darkness. Out of the black, a pale foot popped into view, followed by another. A woman now stood in front of the avengers. She was shoeless, dirty, and pale. She was wearing black shorts and a light blue shirt which had mud and what looked like blood stains on them. Her hair was a mess, her face dirty. But her eyes... they glowed a deep red. The woman tilts her head, eyes locked on Steve. In her hand she held one of Steve’s dirty shirts from yesterday, twiddling it in her fingers.

“Steve...?” Y/N whispered from the shadows. She kept his shirt in her hands, gripping it so tightly that her fingers could tear it apart. Her voice was soft, meek.

Steve looked on confused as why the woman held his shirt, but when he looked at her face as she spoke his name, he rushed forward a few steps, waving his hand behind him for Natasha to lower her weapon, “Y/N?” He asks softly, continuing to walk towards her, “Turn off that alarm.” He said back to Nat, who quickly stopped the blaring alert that kept repeating perimeter breach. The room fell silent.

“Who is she, Steve?” Sam asked, approaching Steve slowly, keeping his eyes on the woman. He was still on defense as were the rest of the avengers.

“Y/N... my sister..” Steve said, continuing to slowly walk towards Y/N slowly with his hands outstretched to show he wasn’t a threat. He thought she was dead. Last he heard she was at boarding school with Bucky’s sister, Rebecca. When he came out of the ice he looked her up immediately. All that was on file was that she finished school, had a family, and passed away peacefully in her sleep. He obviously knew now that was a lie.

Bucky came out of the back, stepping into view from the darkness. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Y/N... it had been decades since he had seen you. His heart felt heavy as he observed her, seeing her dirty and covered in dried blood. Y\N was his sister’s best friend. Him, Steve, Bex (Rebecca), and Y/N were always around each other after Bucky and Steve met. He would always steal glances at her, noticing that she would also steal some glances at him and flutter her eye lashes at him. She was always so happy, laughing and tucking her hair behind her ear, looking up at him. He remembered before he was deployed, Y/N snuck out with him to watch the sunrise. She watched the sun kiss the sky, creating vibrant orange streaks. Bucky remembered watching her. The way the fresh rays hit her skin, watching her small, content smile. He didn’t want the moment to end but knew it was coming to a close. He had reached out and gently touched her hand with his fingertips, “Hey Doll, I’m going to need something to keep me motivated while I’m away,” he said gently, smiling softly as she accepted her hand into his. She turned to look at him, her large blue eyes locked on his, “What do you say about saving me a date when I come back?”

Y/N had smiled and nodded, moving her face closer to his, her eyes flickering between his lips and his eyes. Bucky leaned in as well, moving his free hand to gently touch her warm face with his fingertips, inviting her closer. They had shared one kiss that early morning when they watched the sunrise. But that was enough to have both of them hooked on each other. After he was deployed, they would write each other. She had told him her brother finally got accepted into the military, sharing small details of which Steve had told her in letters. Always signing them with xoxo and hearts. But then the letters stopped from Bucky and Steve. Y/N was heartbroken to not hear from her boys.

Now, Y/N was standing in front of him. Bucky was trying to muster up some words to speak, letting her know he was there too. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. When he was back in his right mind after his return, he had looked her up also, wondering what became of her. He was given the same information Steve had. But obviously, something happened. She was young still, alive. “Y/N.. Doll, what happened?” Bucky finally found his words, moving to step closer to Steve, who was still slowly making his way towards his sister.

Y/N finally moved. Well, her eyes did. The deep red eyes flickered to Bucky at the sound of the new but familiar voice voice. Suddenly, her grip on Steve’s shirt tightened, pulling at the fabric. In the silence, everybody could hear it tear ever so slightly as a deep growl was heard coming from Y/N. Her eyes locked on Bucky’s face. Her gums slowly rose, her teeth showing which made the growling even more audible. “You....” was all that passed her lips, her eyes locked on Bucky’s face.

Y/N emotions changed quickly. She was soft, almost scared looking before. Now she looked threatening, angry. Small wrinkles appeared on her forehead as if she was frustrated. In a swift movement, Y/N lunged at Bucky. She was fast, really fast. Steve tried to grab his sister, but was pushed away with ease by her hand, throwing him across the kitchen and into the dining table. She had her hands outstretched at Bucky as she lunged at him. She almost had him in her grasp, and all she could think about was killing him. Shutting those blue eyes forever. But, as she got closer, an arrow hit her shoulder, shocking her. She froze and her body seized from the electricity, before dropping to the floor unconscious.

Bucky turned his attention to Hawkeye, who shrugged, “What? It got hostile real quick.” He said, walking to Nat’s side who had just stood there, confused by the whole ordeal that was unfolding in front of her. Steve sprinted back over to his now unconscious sister on the floor, shooting daggers with his eyes at Clint. He kneeled down, removing the arrow from her shoulder. Bucky leaned down as well, lifting his metal arm to sweep away some hair from her face. As soon as he touched her, Y/N eyes opened and locked with his again. She grabbed his metal arm, twisting it away from her and quickly jolted up towards Bucky. Her face buried in his neck, which almost looked like affection. But given that Bucky let out an audible yelp of pain, it obviously wasn’t. He pushed her off of him and into Steve’s arms, who held her tightly, trying to back her away from Bucky. Y/N was growling, struggling in her brothers arms as her eyes were still on Bucky, determined to rip him to shreds. Nat quickly moved, pushing three needles into Y/N’s neck, causing her to slowly slip into unconsciousness once again.

“You sedated her?” Steve asked, looking at Nat.

Nat looked at him, “Well duh.. did you prefer her trying to kill Bucky?” She said, waving her hand over at Bucky who had his hand to his neck, blood dripping between his fingers. Clint and Sam were immediately at Bucky’s side, assessing his wound. She had bitten into his neck, taking a small chunk with her. Clint and Sam started moving Bucky to get him to med-bay to assess the bite.

Steve picked his sister’s unconscious body up into his arms, turning and walking back down the hallway to his bedroom, placing her on the bed. Those sedatives should keep her down for a while, but then again so should have the shock from the arrow. He had never seen his sister so violent. Sure, he would see her stand up to bullies for him when they were younger. He was a scrawny kid who got beat up a lot, but as soon as his sister showed up she was always able to calm the bullies down with her charm to leave Steve alone when Bucky wasn’t there to save him. But she was never violent. Always kind with a smile on her face. He looked at her now. He never imagined seeing her this way. Dirty, broken looking. Her swept some hair away from her face as Bucky did, but she stayed unconscious.

“Wanda, Nat.” Steve called, knowing they were at his doorway watching, “Can you help get her cleaned up?” He said softly, his eyes not leaving his sister. He didn’t want to see her like this. She looked like she had crawled out of a grave. Crawled out of hell.

Nat nodded, disappearing down the hallway to get some clean towels to help wipe off the dirt.

“Of course.” Wanda said, quickly going to her room to get a change of clothes for Y/N. They looked about the same size of clothes.

Nat returned with a bowl of clean water and a couple medium sized towels, sitting on the opposite side of the bed from Steve, slowly dabbing away dirt from Y/N’s pale skin, “You know there’s going to be some questions when she wakes up..” Nat said, looking over at Steve who nodded, “I think we all have some questions.” He stated.

Wanda returned and picked up a clean towel, starting to help Natasha get rid of the dirt and dried blood. Wanda suddenly froze, looking at Steve and waving for Nat to back up a little bit, “She’s waking up.” Wanda stated.

Nat looked at her, “I gave her three sedatives. She shouldn’t be waking up so soon.” But backed off a little like Wanda said.

Steve took his sister’s hand, standing and hovering over her so he was the first one she would see. Her eyes opened, the red staring at him, “Steve...” a small smile came onto her lips, but as she noticed the two women in the room, she sat up, scooting away from them a little.

“Woah... Y/N, look at me.. Y/N, it’s okay.. they’re here to help. They’re my friends.” Steve said with a small smile for confidence, lifting his other hand to touch her face, “This is Natasha, and Wanda.” He said, introducing you to the women. “Would it be alright if they helped clean you up? You’re really dirty right now and it would make me feel better if you’d let them.”

Y/N looked at Wanda, then Natasha, listening to Steve. She nodded. Her whole demeanor had changed again. She wasn’t threatening at all, instead she seemed a little scared, timid. Wanda gave Y/N a comforting smile, “Come with me, Y/N, I’ll help you to the tub to clean you up. I got some clean clothes too.”

Y/N looked to Steve, as if to ask if it is safe. Steve nodded and slowly helped Y/N to her feet, walking with her down the hallway as Nat and Wanda lead the way. Nat opened the door to the large bathroom and turned on the tub, checking the temperature of the water. Wanda slowly reached her hand out to Y/N, as if to ask permission to help remove her dirty clothing. Y/N nodded to Wanda to accept her help, but then looked at Steve. Her nose scrunched, “Get out, Steve.” Y/N said.

“What? Y/N I’m not leaving.” Steve said, looking at her confused.

“You are not about to see me undress, get out.” Y/N repeated, giving her brother a look as she gestured to her clothes. She seemed almost normal again. She offered Steve a small smile, nodding, “I’ll be fine..”

Steve looked at Nat who nodded in agreement. Steve sighed, “I’ll be outside the door if you need anything.”

Y/N nodded, watching her brother exit and the door shut behind him. She gave a small smile towards Wanda to let her know she can continue to help. Nat and Wanda helped Y/N remove her clothing. Some of it crusted to her skin from blood. It was obvious there had been some wounds on Y/N that caused this, but there were no open cuts. Just small silver scars on her body. Y/N slowly stepped into the warm water, sitting down. She brought her knees to her chest, hugging them in the water. The clear water quickly started turning a brownish color from all the dirt and blood on Y/N’s skin. Nat and Wanda gently scrubbed her skin with sponges until they finally found pale skin underneath the grime. The two ladies helped Y/N wash her hair in silence. Nat was keeping a close eye on Y/N, still unsure what to think due to the fact she had attacked Bucky. But Y/N hadn’t made any threatening moves towards anybody else. It was like for that split moment she had turned into a totally different person, one full of rage and violence towards Bucky.

Wanda smiled at Y/N, “All clean!” She beamed, reached to unplug the drain to allow the dirty water to empty the tub. She grabbed a towel, holding it up for Y/N to step into. It was like Y/N was a totally different person beneath the filth. Nat and Wanda could now see the family resemblance with Steve.

“I’m going to go check on some things, Wanda will help you get dressed and anything else you need, alright Y/N?” Nat smiled and put a hand on Y/N’s shoulder in a comforting way. She then made her way towards the door, opening it slightly to leave but not enough to let Steve see into the bathroom.

“Thank you, Natasha.” Y/N said before Nat slipped out the door, then looked to Wanda, “Thank you, also.” She smiled slightly while Wanda unfolded the clean clothes and passed them to Y/N to get dressed. She quickly put the clothes on. Some dark grey sweat pants and a black T-shirt. They fit perfectly. “Thank you again, Wanda.” Y/N said, giving a smile to her.

Wanda smiled back, “Of course. Now let’s brush that hair.” She said, holding up the brush in her hand. Y/N turned around to allow Wanda to brush through her long blonde hair, detangling it. She stared at herself in the mirror. It was like a totally different person staring at her. She was clean, she looked normal. It left a small smile on Y/N’s lips seeing herself like this. Normal. Besides the red eyes staring back at her.

When they were finished with Y/N’s hair, they exited the bathroom. Steve looked at Y/N, smiling as she finally looked again like the sister recognized. He reached out and pulled her into a tight hug, leaning his head on the top of hers, his cheek now damp from her wet hair. Y/N smiled at the hug, wrapping her arms around her brother and hugging him back. It had been so long. She had missed him so much.

Steve led her back to his bedroom, thanking Wanda for the help before closing the door so the siblings could be alone. He watched as Y/N walked around his room, observing it. She looked at the pictures on the wall, the contents on his desk, taking in everything in the room. Steve stood there for a moment silently, letting her look around, before clearing his throat which brought Y/N’s attention back to him.

“Y/N. Can you tell me what happened? How are you here?” He asked, his voice soft and calm, caring.

Y/N stood silent for a moment, staring at her brother, before sitting down at the edge of the bed, “Am I in trouble?” She asks, looking down at the floor.

Steve shook his head, moving to sit by her, “No, no no Y/N. I just need to understand what happened... why you attacked Bucky and-“

Y/N flicked her head up, her red eyes staring at him, “DON’T!” She stopped him, her face twisting into an angry look again. She held up her palm and him to stop him from talking, “Don’t... say his name. He’s a traitor. He deserves everything he will get. He’s dangerous.”

Steve’s brow pulled together in confusion of why his sister snapped at the name. Why would she call him a traitor? They were best friends, and Steve swore they were closer than he wanted them to be. He remembered their flirtatious looks, the way they would steal glances at each other. She had never spoken ill of Bucky, what changed?

“What do you mean? He’s our friend, Y/N, remember?” Steve asked, careful not to say his name again to not set his sister off.

Y/N quickly stood, looking at him, “He is NOT our friend. He did this to me, Steve.” she said, her hands gesturing towards herself, “He’s the reason I’m like this.. he helped them create me...” her voice slowly got softer as she spoke, tears welling up in her eyes. “He tricked me, told me he came back from deployment and wanted to keep our promise. I stood there like an idiot, all dressed up. But then, he appeared. His eyes empty. He just grabbed me.. and... he took me to them...” she said, her right hand going up to grip the side of her head scrunching her freshly washed hair, her breathing quickening, “He stood by as I screamed... they played with my head... and he just watched... I called to him to save me and he turned his back on me... he... he...” she started to seem like she was hyperventilating, pacing around the room, gripping her head.

Steve stood quickly, pulling his sister into his arms again, shushing her softly to try and get her to calm down, “I’ll figure it out, Y/N. Just shh... calm down. Rest.” He said. He was able to get her to sit down on his bed, still hugging her until she fell asleep. He let her lay on his bed, tucking the blanket over her as she slept. He asked Wanda to keep an eye on her and let him know when she was waking up, to which Wanda nodded and sat in the chair next to the bed. There was something familiar about Y/N to Wanda, but she couldn't place how. Steve walked down the hall on his way to med-bay, a serious look on his face. He had to hear for himself if what his sister told him is true. He had to get some answers from his best friend Bucky.

[hirvitank]

@prosynica

i cannot believe you convinced me to do this...

CREOSOTE CHAPTER 69

read below the cut, but be warned

She checks herself in the mirror, fusses over her hair, tilts her head as she scrutinises her features. She’s nervous, feels her hands tremble, her cheeks flushed a subtle pink. There’s nothing to worry about, she reminds herself, sucks in a steadying breath. Her reflection stares back at her, deceptive enough in her confidence to nearly fool herself—sadly, there’s no denying the nervous race of her pulse. A knock, and she starts at the sound, head whipping around to stare at her door. She smooths down her dress, feels her body through its fabric, skin burning with anticipation—tonight’s the night, she promises herself: she’ll finally make her move.

She opens her door, ready to greet her guest, then falls silent at the sight of him. There’s a cactus in Gaara’s hands, consisting of three stalks. Or, more precisely, two small stems and a larger one, creating a rather... interesting shape.

He’s the first to speak: “I found this by the side of the road, and well,” he pauses at her expression, eyes darting between the cactus and her, “I hope you don’t mind?”

“Oh!” Could this be a hint? Perhaps a warning of some sort? What if, unlike normal men, he has a… “I- no- of course not!” She shakes those thoughts from her mind, feels her cheeks burn.

“Are you sure?” He tips his head, narrows his eyes. “You don’t sound like you mean it.”

“No! It’s just…” she falters, takes another look at the uniquely shaped cactus.

“Just…?”

She clears her throat, feels her blush deepen, then—in a single breath—says: “It looks like a penis.”

“A penis?” He raises the cactus, inspects it closer as he turns it in his hands.

She blanches, reminded of Ino’s words, wonders if maybe he’s never seen one before, which would imply-

“I suppose so,” he concludes, lowering the object, offering: “I can throw it out if it puts you off.”

“No, it’s fine,” she quickly assures, meanwhile trying to usher him in before anyone has a chance to spot the Kazekage carrying a phallic cactus around. He doesn’t protest as she drags him inside, closing the door as soon as she can, only then discovering just how narrow her hallway is. She can feel his breath down the nape of her neck, swears she senses the heat radiating off his body, his arms awkwardly trying to keep the cactus from hurting her.

“Um…” he starts, clearing his throat, the word brushing against her skin, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine.

“Oh, right,” she nervously laughs, shuffling past him without touching any needles, “sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says, following after her. “I’ll just...” He places the cactus on her counter, stares at it strangely for several seconds, a frown tugging at his brow.

“A drink?” she offers, notices the high pitch of her voice and tries clearing her throat.

“Water is fine.”

She nods, offers a nervous smile as she sidesteps him, feeling her heart stutter at the proximity. Tonight’s the night, she tells herself again, biting her cheek as she fills two glasses. But how is she supposed to breach the subject? ‘Hey, Gaara, I know we’ve been dating for several months now, and I’d really like it if we could, you know, do the... the good ‘ole horizontal—or vertical, if that’s your preference.’ No, no way! He’s never going to- it’s too weird, asking it like that. What if he laughs? God, she’s such a-

“Sakura.” She starts as his hand wraps around hers. “I think it’s full.”

“Wha-“ She blinks, shakes her head, notices the glasses are overrun with water. “Right, of course.” She doesn’t move, however, too caught up by his touch, long fingers gently wrapped around her palm. He seems to notice, instead turns off the tab himself.

“Is it the cactus?” he asks, sends her a quizzical look, hand releasing hers. “You seem nervous.”

He’s too close, too warm, too overwhelming for her to process all he’s saying. “The cactus?” she asks, once again feeling her face heat. “No, really, I’m just glad you’re here. In my apartment.” She bites her lip, hands him one of the glasses. “Just you... and me. Alone.”

He takes it, albeit hesitantly, watches her with large eyes. “Yes,” he says, almost like a question.

“Let’s take a seat, hm?” she quickly offers, circles him, nearly jumps onto her couch. The water almost spills from her glass, sloshing dangerously as she sits, a broad smile plastered on her lips. He follows, though in less of a hurry, awkwardly holds his over-filled drink. When he sits down, she carefully scoots a little closer, tries not to move too obviously. It doesn’t escape his attention, however, his eyes darting to where their thighs now touch.

“Actually,” Sakura starts, moving even closer, “about that- ouch!” She flinches away from him, notices too late how her water spills across his lap, leaving a dark stain in his pants. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened!”

He frowns, appears deep in thought, then suddenly perks up. “No, that’s my fault,” he quickly apologises, reaching into his jacket and retrieving... another cactus? “I forgot this was in here.” Its needles are surprisingly long and sharp, making it hard to believe he wouldn’t feel them. He appears to pick up on her thoughts, clarifying: “My defence gets in the way.”

“Right...” she mumbles, then remembers she’s ruined his outfit just now. “Sorry about your pants, I could see if I have-“ she cuts herself off, thinks she could actually use this situation to her advantage, then offers: “Do you want me to help take them off?” Yes, perfect! Now she just has to connect with her inner seductress and get this show on the road, or the bed, preferably.

“Is this standard relationship practice?” He puts his drink away, brow puckered into a pensive frown.

“Yes,” she says, standing from her place. “But only if you like it.” She’s in front of him, feels her heart high in her chest, the bared skin of her arms and legs covered in goosebumps—there’s a nervous thrill running through her limbs, inciting a wave of shivers.

“Okay,” he accepts, watches her with curious eyes. She bites her lip, nods, slowly lowers herself to her knees, resting her hands atop his legs. His gaze follows her all the way, something unfamiliar stirring in its depths, tempting her to take things further—see how far she can go. Releasing a soft breath, she slides her hands further up his legs, takes in the way his eyes follow the movement. She leans forward, presses her chest against his knees as she starts on his buttons, revealing the band of his underwear—she’s almost disappointed he isn’t naked underneath.

There’s an audible hitch in his breathing, and she relishes the small victory, slowly peeling his pants off, hinting for him to raise his hips by briefly tugging upwards. He complies, making it easier for the wet fabric to slip down, exposing the smooth skin of his legs. She frees his feet last, pulls the fabric across one limb at a time, until he’s left in only his jacket and underwear. She takes in his shapely legs, appreciates their slender build before allowing her gaze to travel up; past knees, thighs and then-

“Don’t tell me there’s more cacti?” she blurts, pausing at the noticeable bulge.

“In my underwear?” he asks, sounding as surprised as she. “I don’t think so...”

“You don’t think- how-“ she cuts herself off, feels her heart hammer in her chest. “I’m sorry,” she rushes, “I’m not offending you am I? It’s just, you...” She’s searching for words, hasn’t the slightest idea how to put this—as far as she can tell he’s packing a whole lot more than she’d anticipated.

“It’s fine,” he chuckles, much to her relief, looks as inviting as ever as he smiles. She returns the expression, braves her nerves as she returns her hands to his legs, carefully pushing herself up. His skin is hot beneath her palms, his gaze dark as it follows her, briefly shooting to her lips. She feels her blood rush through, pulse violent as it throbs with hunger.

“I could take these off, too?” she offers, hovering above him, gaze indicating his underwear.

He wets his lips, takes a deep breath, then nods for her to continue. She grins, bites her lip excitedly as she hooks her thumbs behind the band. Carefully, she tugs, feels the fabric start to slip, revealing his hipbones, then further down...

“Holy shit Gaara!” she gasps, eyes wide as his obviously well-endowed member springs forth from its confinement, revealing below an unusually generous pair of family jewels.

“I know, I’m incredibly fertile.”

She blinks, taken aback by the reveal of such a monster cock and brazen set of balls. “What’s in there?” she finds herself asking without thought, fingers itching to touch the admirable assets —wonders if he’s ever even busted a nut.

“Gold, apparently.”

She snorts, meeting his gaze. “You’re kidding?”

He shakes his head, dead serious.

“You have golden jizz?”

He raises a brow, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world for anyone to be shooting actual jewels from their jewels. “Of course.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy, and as a medic I’m concerned.” She pauses, feels her lips pull into a grin. “But as a girlfriend I’m impressed.”

He smirks, pulls her into his lap, his bulging penis violently slapping against her bared thigh, then growls into her ear: “From now on I’ll be Gaara of the Golden Shower.”

You can imagine for yourself what happened next. I’m off crying.

[lppsidefics]

Meihem Fanfic: Ice eyes

Chapter 1: Flurry

><><><><><

Begrudgingly, Jamison Fawkes followed the big ape off the plane and into the frigid temperatures. Despite being inside the damn base, the snow and ice seemed to linger in every corner of this arctic wasteland. The solid hanger doors gaped open, having allowed years of extreme low temperatures to funnel into the massive room. It was hardly livable inside, as the climate turned the metal building into a freezing icebox.

Junkrat stomped and cursed his way through the hanger, his boots caving into the piled snow blanketing the landing strip. “Ak-choo!” He sneezed, and a string of green oozed from his nose. Rubbing his hands up and down his own arms, he attempted to keep the blood in his veins from icing up into strawberry slush.

“M’fucki’n freeze’n me nuts off Monkey! Wot’s so fuck’n important, that we had ta haul our ass’s all tha way ta the tip-top ah no-where, just ta find some abandoned ol’base that no-one even lives in anymore!?”

“Language, Jamison.” Ana scolded, flinging the long end of her blue scarf over her shoulder. She stepped off the plane right behind the younger junker, stopping to adjust his winter hat for him.

“Ah, yeah. Sorry Nan.” Jamison said, and Ana patted his cheek with her soft glove. He smiled at her sheepishly, but when she turned away to join the team leader further inside the base his grumbly expression returned.

With a deeply aggravated sigh, Winston pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mr Fawkes please, I have already told you. I don’t know the cause of the beacon’s activation…That is what we’re here to find out.” The gorilla scientist pressed a thick finger into a button on the wall, but the hanger gate refused to close.

No power, Winston surmised, and shifted his attention to the hanging bay doors. “Mr Roadhog, could you assist me.”

The large man grunted, before following the ape to the opening, where Winston pointed to the door on the left, and he himself approached the one to the right. With their might’s combined, the hanger doors pinched closed, and the bright sunlight in the room snuffed away.

It wasn’t pitch dark, but the loss of sun did give the crannies a dangerous look to them.

The cold was a little more manageable now, but still Jamison shivered beneath his puffy lime green coat. The collar of his woolen turtle neck was itchy and awful, and he’d been tugging at a wedgie in his snow pants for half an hour, but the slippery fabric just kept escaping through his gloved hands.

This trip had been miserable already, and they had only just arrived. Jamison was stuffy, pouty, and grumbly, as he tromped over the landing strip, his brows twitched in irritation on every step.

Meanwhile Roadhog seemed rather snug, layered in a collection of hand knitted jumpers, and wound in a series of multi-colored scarfs. If he was as cold as Jamison was, the large junker didn’t show it, as his masked expression remained just as calm and possibly empty as usual.

Winston quickly discovered that the lift was frozen shut, but it didn’t have the power to work anyway, so the small team instead climbed a set of iron stairs to the upper floors. Jamison’s metal peg leg slipped on only one of the many frozen steps, as they slowly made their way up to the main part of the base, and once at the top, he gave the lengthy drop below an uneasy peek over the railing.

Their foot falls shuffled down the empty corridor, as cold air streamed against their faces. Junkrat paused when they passed by a dark room, where cryo sleep tubes lined the wall in a row. Any power the chambers would have been drawing from was dead, and he could only assume the occupants were as well.

However, each pod was closed except one, which was eerily left propped open and empty.

Jamison gulped, feeling a different kind of chill creep up his spine, one not of cold but of fear. He didn’t like this place, it was all the things he hated most. Cold, dark, and clean. Just like Dr Ziglers hospital room at HQ, where needles and blood bags were stored in freezers like soda pop.

Noticing that Roadhog had also stopped beside him, Junkrat coughed into his gloved prosthetic hand. “S’noth’n.” He sniffed in a string of winter snot, and hobbled after the elder team members who’d continued ahead of them.

The cold air was swirling around them now, seeming to emanate from the beacon control room itself, as chilling mist wafted from the small sliver of an opening between the automatic doors. Winston tried the buttons on the wall, but it was pointless, so he then pressed his thick hands between the open space, and forced the metal to part wider.

As the metal cracked and shifted, snow flurried into his face, the flakes spiraling around him and showering over the new arrivals like a cloud of tiny cold fairies. When the storm settled, they each made motions to shake the collected snow piles off their shoulders and out of their hair.

Sweeping a puffy coat sleeve over his face, Jamison removed the white bits of ice that had landed on his brows and lashes, before huffing visible breaths of air into his gloves. “S-shouldn’t it be get’n warmer further in?”

“Must be another breach somewhere.” Winston said, before stepping aside to let Ana to get a look inside beacon control room.

She leaned in, scanning over the room with her remaining eye, before stepping across the gap and into the ghostly cold, soon followed by a hesitant Junkrat, then Winston, adjusting his glasses as they fogged instantly upon entering the room, and finally Roadhog who had to squeeze his belly through with a pop.

The lights in this room appeared to be as dead as the rest of the place, and Ana cracked a set of sickly yellow glow sticks, before distributing them to each of the four team members.

It was the arctic, and every room in the base was cold, but the temperature dropped significantly once they opened this room, and there was an ominous silence throughout the entire base, but in this room, there was a faint robotic beep replaying over and over.

“Beep….. Beep….. Beep….. Beep….. Beep…..”

It was like a heart monitor, one of those unfeeling rhythms that put a person on edge, and they followed the sound through the dark before the yellow glow met a reflective blue wall.

Crystallized ice towered up to the ceiling, and their eyes glided upward to it’s top in awe. The icy wall had encased the entire beacon and control panel, but it also spiked out to take half the room as well, cresting the walls with patterns of glittering frost.

“Hoolie-doolie, that’sa icicle…” Junkrat enamored it’s size and gave the glass-like casing a few knocks. “…Solid too. What d’ya think happened here mate?”

“I’m not sure…” Winston furrowed his brows at the console, watching the tiny green light blink teasingly beneath the blue coat. “…But what ever happened, it was after the beacon was activated. The ice cuts off all access to it’s panel. Unless… it was an automated system…” He trailed off, bringing a knuckle to his chin as the ape became lost in thought.

“Here is what I don’t understand…” Ana started, and the room turned their attention to her as she walked up to a light switch, flipping the tiny button up and down a few times before planting the same hand on her hip. “…if there’s no power in the facility, then how is the beacon active at all?”

“Perhaps there is a backup supply unit, only for the beacon.” Winston suggested, but Ana wasn’t convinced as she strutted her way back to the iced over control panel, and with a cocked brow she turned her eagle eye on the ape leader.

“That’s not in the standard blueprints…”

“Someone…” Winston started, before giving his wide shoulders a shrug. “…I presume who ever activated the beacon, must have modified the power input. To keep the signal working, even when all other power had been used in the facility.”

“If that’s so, then where are they?” Ana asked, gesturing to the empty room and assumedly the empty base beyond the four walls. She then pointed a finger at the active green dot beneath the ice. “…Winston, this little blinking light traveled all the way to Overwatch HQ. It brought us here… but why?”

The room fell silent again, except for the nerve rattling beep of the beacon terminal. Winston and Ana were deep in a silent thoughtful moment, while the Junkers stood idly, waiting for instruction. Jamison’s eyes darted back and forth between the senior officers, before giving a glance to the iced up control panel.

“Welp!” Junkrat clapped his gloved hands together loudly, shocking a jump out of everyone, and catching all of their attentions at once. “Won’t know why it’s act’n funny, ‘less ya can get ta tha controls ro’ight? Can’t get’ta tha control panel, ‘less this ice is cleared. Ain’t here for piss’n round! So let’s blow this block in’ta ice-cream!”

With another sigh, Winston pulled his glasses from his face, giving the hight of the glacier another inspection. His eyes following it all the way to the top, before returning to the smaller of the two Junkers. “Mr Fawkes, are you sure you can remove the ice with out damaging the machinery beneath it?”

“A’course, mate! It’ll be ace!” With the spin of a land mine in his metal hand, Junkrat stepped up onto a sheet of ice and held his arms up wide. “This’s tha great Jamison ‘Junkrat’ Fawkes yer talk’n bout! I know what I’m do’n!”

Directly after his proclamation, his peg skidded on the ice and the arson’s legs tore into a split. Junkrat howled in pain, and cried for Roadhog to help him up, which the larger junker did, and Winston sighed yet again with his fingers on his temples.

“Winston.” Ana addressed the ape, holding her medical-gun on her shoulder, just in case. “This is what you hired them for… give them time to prove their worth.”

It was true, the team Winston had assembled for this task was strategically thought through, and he’d specifically chose to bring Junkrat for this purpose. He knew they’d be dealing with ice, and the demolitions expert would be useful when facing a blockade such as this one.

Though when asking Jamison to accompany him on this mission, he’d only required the single junker, but Winston was then informed that “Where ever I go, Hog goes!”, and that was the end of the negotiations.

Every team needed a medic, and that was why he assigned Ana. Angela might have been his first choice, but Ana was better at handling the Junkers, the younger one had even grown attached to her, calling her ‘Nan’ like an older relative. Perhaps it was because of their missing biological components that they shared a bond he couldn’t quite grasp.

Or perhaps Ana just views him as an orphan looking for a home… Winston considered this, watching as Junkrat excitedly pressed his thumb into the tiny button of his handy detonator, and the bombs blew with an echoing ripple of sound.

The light from the first explosion cast shadows across the room, and revealed the innards of the glacier for a moment, before the fire died and with it, the light. Just above the beacon’s panel, there was a rather strangely shaped dark spot, hovering within the thick ice wall.

The team leader disregarded it at first, seeing as the icy wall had many strange imperfections, but when Junkrat blasted it again, and again the fire illuminated the shadowed spot, he found it a bit more suspicious. Winston brought his glasses back onto his face and squinted at the dark space, but couldn’t make out it’s proper shape. He stared at it, as Junkrat detonated another bomb, and it’s light revealed the figure of a human body.

Junkrat was positioning another mine just above the panel, when Winston called out to him. “Mr Fawkes, wait a moment…” But the arson was too enraptured with his work to hear the command, and blasted it anyway.

It shook the ice, this time sending cracked bits crumbling from the top, but the person inside still appeared to be intact. Junkrat giggled as he set another mine, but halted when the ape commanded “Jamison! Stop!”, with his palm open in a forceful gesture.

“Alro’ight, crikey. Dan’t have ta shout.”

Ana quickly cracked a hand full of glow sticks at once, shaking them in her fist before holding the bouquet up to the person hidden beneath the ice. “Mei-ling?” She uttered, her brows lifting and her single eye wide in shock.

The dark spot became a girl, pale skinned and soft featured. Her hair was ash brown, her lips blue, and she was dressed for a nap, in fluffy pajamas. She was balled into a fetal position about two feet above the beacon panel, and beside her was some sort of weapon looking device.

“Mei-ling?!” Winston exclaimed, placing his hands on the outside of her ice encasement, as if she’d simply wake at the sound of his voice. His eyes searched her face for life but with a huff, he dropped his fore head against the barrier.

“Who’s it?”

The elder team members turned to Junkrat, and the sorrow in their expressions lingered as they addressed his question. “Mei-ling Zouh…” Winston explained. “…She was a researcher here when it was still an active base. When the first Overwatch devision disbanded, this site was left abandoned and the team was considered dead officially.”

“But…” Ana’s eyes trailed from Mei’s face to the persistent blink of the beacon light on the console below. “…She must have activated the beacon, and then froze herself… Awaiting rescue.”

“A rescue that never came…” Winston finished, and the room fell silent.

“That must have been nearly twenty years ago…”

Junkrat rested his prosthetic hand on his bony hip, and braced a palm against the wall of ice, admiring the sleeping face of the girl within. “Well she’s look’n pretty good for a lady push’n forty.”

“The ice kept her in a stasis.” Ana said, not even batting an eye at the junkers comment, and handed Winston the bouquet of glow sticks, before swinging her bag off her shoulder. It flopped on the floor and she un-zipped it down the middle, digging through it as she spoke. “If she’s still alive in there, she’s going to need medical treatment…”

She started emptying the contents, lining bottles, stacking supplies, and un-raveling a large tarp which was quickly smoothed out onto the tile floor. “…I don’t have the equipment to heal her properly here, but she’s been in the ice this long, it should preserve her until we can get her home.”

“What exactly are you suggesting Ana?” Winston asked, staring at the woman crouched on the floor with a hopeful brow.

“We’ll just have to cut her out…” Ana said plainly, standing again and stretching her back in a rather casual way. “We cut her out, load her onto the transport, and fly her back to HQ where Angela can take over.”

The team all seemed to be turning over the plan in their minds, looking for flaws in it, but the situation was too unusual to have any protocols to think of.

“How’re we ganna cut through this, Nan?” Junkrat asked, gliding his hand across the solid glass-like wall, his fingers dipping into the crevasse he’d created. “Even me bombs didn’t make more than’a crack.”

“This is a science lab, and we are capable…” Ana then spun, taking the glow sticks she’d left with Winston, and looked in to his eyes with her stern one. “…I’m sure we can find a way.”

The gorilla understood without being told. He can find a way. After all, Winston was the team leader, the smart one so to speak, and just like every other member of Overwatch, he had his job to do.

[rotworld]

4: Pest Control

humans have more in common with the neighboring wasp colony than they ever realized.

->contains insects and threats of gun violence.

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.

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From a distance, it looks like something beautiful; wind-swept sand dunes or sheets of spun gossamer. You glimpse it between evergreen needles, gentle slopes arching across the sky. It’s a tainted color, stale and sour like curdled milk, and it’s spreading. You don’t remember it being this big before. A week ago, it was nearly an hour hike before you began to see the first new growths, still wet and malleable. Now you can see it breaching the clouds all the way in town, like a porous mountain peak.

The ground gives and squelches underfoot. One of the soldiers curses when his boot sinks into the muck. It sticks to him, drying quickly against his gloves when he tries to wipe it off. “Jesus, what is this shit?” 

“Probably people,” another mutters. “Chewed up into paste. You’ve seen those fucking things, right? Teeth like no other.” 

“It’s just pulp,” you say. “Wood pulp, not people.” They act like they don’t hear you, parroting the latest urban legends making the rounds at base camp. The pulp is toxic. There’s bones in the pulp. The nest winds deeper and deeper into the earth, and no one knows when it stops. You’d roll your eyes if you weren’t so on edge. 

Soon, the tunnels start. The pale, speckled walls of the nest curl together and form long, dark passageways. You hear something deep inside. An eerie, shrieking wind. Clicking and chittering. The droning buzz of many wings. The officer in charge of the mission claps a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm and threatening. “Call that thing out here,” he orders you. You don’t want to, but he still has the muzzle of his pistol pressed against the back of your head. There’s no way you’re getting out of this alive, but you want to see him again, just one more time.

You press your teeth to your lower lip and breathe out, making a soft, buzzing sound. Behind you, the soldiers are laughing, mocking you with bad imitations. Their pitch is all wrong, but it doesn’t matter. You know he’s in there and he can hear you. 

The buzzing in the tunnels grows deafening. You can feel the vibrations in the very structure of the nest, a tremor at your feet. A shape flits out of the darkness too fast for your eyes to track and then he’s there, landing in front of you, his wings folding.

“Geela,” you say, his name slipping out in a rush of relief and despair. You’ve never been more happy or more guilty to see him. He tilts his head one way and then the other, his mandibles clicking together in what you recognize as fondness. He’s beautiful, his segmented limbs slender and deceptively delicate, his hips flared and his compound eyes iridescent. He clasps two of his hands together while the other two absently knead at the fabric of the nest, mending a weak spot in the wall.

“Hello, doctor,” he says, a low hum accompanying his words that tells you he finds the situation peculiar. His English is peculiarly accented, his sibilants harsh and his vowels strange. “So nice of you to visit. And you have brought friends once again, though they look different. I did not know you could grow armor, like us.” 

You try to explain but the Lieutenant cuts you off. “The good doctor said you’re this colony’s ambassador, so I figured this’d be the fastest way to send a message. Tell your queen and everyone in there to vacate the premises immediately. We have orders to torch the nest.” Already, the combat team is spraying chemicals and sharp-smelling accelerants. Geela tilts his head again. His eyes don’t move in the sockets but you know he’s watching them, all of them. “I know you can understand me,” the Lieutenant says sharply. “I understand the doctor’s been teaching you how to speak English these last couple months.” 

“I’m sorry, Geela,” you say. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. One of my colleagues leaked our research. They thought it was a threat.” 

“Threat?” Geela echoes. His antennae twitch and mandibles click together more firmly. A threat gesture, not that the Lieutenant would recognize it. “Oh. I think I understand, doctor. Your colony believes my colony is dangerous. They have sent this swarm to eliminate us.” He takes a step forward, his four arms by his sides. His wings bristle and buzz at his back and the Lieutenant grabs you around the throat, moving his firearm where Geela can see it. “Strange. Does your colony have no soldiers? Why would they send drones?” 

“Drones?” the Lieutenant spits. “Say that again, you fucking insect.” 

“There is no shame in being a drone,” Geela tells him matter-of-factly. He attempts a smile, just as you taught him, and it looks jagged and frightening on his face. “But they are ill-suited to leave the nest or participate in combat. Look at you. Your entire swarm has been taken by surprise, and you did not even notice.” 

You don’t know what the Lieutenant does. If he looks back or if he holds Geela’s prismic gaze. But there’s movement, the lightning-fast flit of Geela in the space between you. He tears you out of the Lieutenant’s grip and you expect a bullet in your skull, a bang, an impact that ends your life, but nothing comes. Geela sweeps you up in his arms, holding you securely against his carapace. He turns swiftly so you’re facing the nest but you saw something in that split second when you were wrenched away. A blur—red—in pieces—

Geela catches you trying to peek over his shoulder and tucks your head against his chest. “DO not look, doctor,” he says, clacking his mandibles in reproach. “You said that your colony is, ah, squeamish. You would not like to see.” 

“What did you do?” you ask shakily. He tilts his head. You hear the buzz of his wings and then you’re higher off the ground, slowly approaching the mouth of the tunnel. “Geela, what did you do to them?” 

“It was not me,” he says. “It was our soldiers. There was an ambush waiting when you arrived. I simply diverted attention. It took only seconds. Very humane, you would say. Probably painless.” You grasp his arm. There’s no softness like skin, no give, your nails scraping a surface as hard as rock. Geela watches you, humming softly. “In truth, doctor, this was a bit of a coincidence. My colony had plans in place before our scouts spotted your drones. It seems your colony has plans, as well, but they are sloppy and fallible. We will do better.” 

“Plans?” you echo nervously. “What plans?”

“The Queen does not like how close your colony is to ours. She would like it vacated, the structures torn. We will not be so foolish as to send a warning.” 

You stare at Geela in quiet horror, unable to voice even a single question. How long have they been planning this? Weeks? Months? Since you first met? Since that first hike through this forest and you thought you’d stumbled into some strange fairy tale, this great nest like a castle in the woods? The first time you laid eyes on one another, he impossibly tall and thin, striped black and gold, you a small, soft creature covered in seed pods and scratches?

“Ah, but do not worry,” Geela assures you, flying into the oppressive darkness of the nest’s entry tunnel. He holds onto you tightly, as though he fears you might try to run. “You are safe. In fact, I had convinced the Queen to allow me to accompany a swarm of our soldiers. I intended to retrieve you before the destruction of your nest. But now I will not need to. This is good.” He smiles and it’s utterly inhuman, the segments of his jaw opening in strange places. “I would like you to teach me more words. And I can teach you new words. We can continue speaking and learning, without your colony in the way. I think the Queen will like you. You can help us get rid of other colonies that are in the way, too.” 

In the dark, Geela’s eyes shine, catching the slightest sliver of sunlight through cracks in the tunnel ceiling. You love those eyes. They’ll get you through anything, whatever is yet to come. You hold onto him and a whimper slips out of you.

Geela doesn’t know what that means, but he hums, pleased.

[hieludoboi]

Again?

A/n- I needed to take a break from my Daichi series, I want to be able to write it organically and not pump it out like some factory, so I decided to write this :)

Pairing- Tsukishima/Fem!Reader

Summary- Sometimes things fray, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be fixed

Trigger Warnings- Not a lot really, just a little angsty and a mention or two of just some blood!

Y/n sighed as she stepped past the cherry stained door frame. The bag that clung to her shoulder slipped from her grasp, clattering against a pile of heavily weathered shoes. She cringed, the sound of needles, embroidery scissors and plastic bobbins most likely becoming a mess of tangles and thorns in the black bag. She was tired though and left the bag where it was, practically kicking off her shoes. Her life was going pretty okay, she guessed. Asahi snagged her a spot with a well-known brand as soon as she graduated. She was doing something she loved, threading beautiful tapestries onto ridiculously expensive shirts, reveling in the way designer brands vied for her and her work. It was a nice change from home. Home should feel warm and open, that’s what her sister had told her. So why did her living room feel like a closet?

It was quiet, all the lights were off. There was no trace of Kei in the house, except for his messily piled shoes at the door. How long had they been living like this? In a limbo of bitter feelings? Coming home to empty rooms and dusty clutter on the coffee table? Y/n felt her shoulders sag, her body becoming numb as she trudged into the kitchen, the smell of sweet strawberry shortcake still clinging to the kitchen walls, a subtle reminder of the love she desperately felt for her lover. Love? No, that wasn’t the word. Being with Kei wasn’t love, it was comfortable and normal, mundane at best. There were no soft touches, no gaps of silence suddenly filled with bursts of airy giggles. Lately, her relationship with Kei felt like a construction site. Kei lugged around beams and barrels of concrete as he built up his walls, Y/n standing still on the other side of the barrier, lazily throwing pebbles at the infrastructure he had built overnight. She had stopped trying long ago.

Her fingers felt heavy as she pulled open the fridge. The taste of yearning coated her tongue, clinging to her throat and building a home in her chest. She missed him. She missed the way his voice would float with every chuckle, the way he’d roll his eyes with that tender smile, the dopey smirk on his lips when he would wake up in the morning, their legs tangled among cheap comforters and puppy like love. Y/n sighed through her nose, tired eyes searching the fridge for something filling, only to land on the cake she had made him sitting untouched in the back of the fridge. She had made it for him, knowing it was a favorite before she had to leave for a work trip. She would be stuck in Italy for a few days working on some fancy designer piece. Their relationship was in tatters, but she hoped that the sight of warm cake on the counter could patch up the gaping holes in the fabric of their relationship. How silly of her.

She racked her brain, her head racing along non existent horse tracks while a wispy detective walked idly by on the forgotten roads of her memories. Why? What had she done for him to just leave her on standby? Yet still, she couldn’t be bothered. They had fallen out of sync long ago, only staying with one another out of complacency. The house was big, and it was easier to save money when there was someone to share bills with. Love didn’t exist inside their four walls anymore, but climbing into bed with someone felt better than laying alone and lingering on your thoughts. The feelings were gone, but at least the sex was good, right? Staying together was forgetting, forgetting about their problems, ignoring the depression that dug at their intestines with bottles of strong liquor and clumsy kisses. Forgetting was better than remembering.

“Hey,” Y/n turned from the open fridge to come face to face with Kei. She had been staring at the molded frosting and fuzzy strawberries in the fridge for longer than she thought. Nodding a response, she turned back to the fridge, pulling out the cake to throw it away. “I’m sorry, I forgot about it. Thank you though,” Kei’s voice was soft, his eyes focusing on the black bag that sat on the floor, a frown tugging at his lips. They had loved each other at some point, Kei knew they did. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss it a little. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” Kei questioned, walking into the kitchen with an annoyed look on his face. He had gotten home late after going to catch up with Tadashi at some little cafe after work.

“Tired,” is all Y/n said as she threw the rotten cake into the trashcan. She’d have to take out the garbage later. Kei huffed, normally, Y/n would be dragging answers from his lips with the claws of her questions, but today seemed different. Had she finally given up? He could feel a frown clinging onto the corners of his lips, but why did it bother him so much? They had never ended their relationship, just watched it waste away, hoping someone would cut the tether before they got married out of complacency. He didn’t know why, but the nagging feelings of change gripped onto his chest, begging for him to do something. What was there left to salvage?

“I’ll do chores tonight, okay?” It was so simple, but the small gesture was enough for her heart to fall into a frenzy of jitters. The look in his eyes was softer than it had been in months, and oh, suddenly his hair seemed brighter, his eyes oozing honey and warmth. Pathetic, she thought to herself. He was just offering to do chores, that was all, Y/n tried to reason with herself. But this was Kei. The smallest of gestures were always the most complex. He didn’t like big shows of emotions after all.

Kei watched as Y/n nodded, her eyes showing the way her mind swam in pools of confusion. This is stupid, Kei thought to himself, sighing through his nose as he pulled the bag from the bin, tying it closed before carrying it to the buckets outside. Doing the chores wouldn’t bring about any change. There wasn’t a remedy for a wandering love. There was no bait that could hook it back to their shores, so why should he even bother? And then he was walking upstairs to their shared bedroom, passing photo after photo of her pretty smile, tripping over the gift bags that littered the steps and finally passing the embroidered dinosaur that sat in a frame on the wall. A gag gift turned favorite by Kei.

He stopped to look at the cloth in the frame, admiring the stitching and shading that ran across its back. He could only imagine all the pricks she had sustained on her fingers because of that stupid little dinosaur. Kei couldn’t help the laugh that breached past his lips, the tender warmth of memory that climbed over the barbed wire around his mind.

Y/n had been working on some piece for a Tokyo based brand when she came to Kei with watery eyes and bloodied fingers. At nearly twenty years old, he never expected to be taking on the role of nurse. He had shaken his head, laughing to himself as he gently wrapped up her fingers, making a quick quip about the way he wraps his own fingers before matches before she interrupted to tell him she knew exactly how he wrapped his fingers. They had spent the rest of the night on the couch, Y/n’s tongue poking out from between her lips as she perfectly wrapped up his fingers. It was such an insignificant gesture; she knew how he wrapped his fingers, so what? But she knew how to wrap them. She came to his games so often that she knew; she paid attention to all his little quirks, and the fact that she paid attention was enough to make him swoon. Not long after that, Kei had become her first.

He shook his head, turning away from the frame to twist the door nob and step into their bedroom. Y/n was sat in bed, the only thing that clung onto her body being the oversized hoodie he had bought for her about two years ago. Why had they fallen out of sync? Things were perfect, simple and so warm. Why had they disconnected? It was, of course, because of Kei’s lack of communication and Y/n’s fear of confrontation.

Y/n looked up at Kei from the manga she had been reading, putting it into her nightstand drawer. Why did she do that? Kei wondered, pulling the glasses from his face and setting them on his dresser. Because you hate having the lights on when you sleep, and she doesn’t want to turn the lights on to read. It bothers you, Kei reminded himself. Lowly humming to himself, Kei walked towards the air conditioner in the room, bumping it down to the lowest setting and angling the vents to blow air to the left. It was a habit, ingrained into his muscles, something he couldn’t go to sleep without doing, but why?

Y/n thought the same thing as she settled into her side of the bed, making sure to leave most of the blanket for Kei. He didn’t exactly like a freezing cold room, so why had he been doing it for so long? You hate sleeping in a warm room, he’s always made sure you’re comfortable before you sleep, Y/n reminded herself, her eyes focusing on the glossy ceiling. Maybe they hadn’t forgotten everything.

“Do- do you think…” Y/n trailed off, rubbing her hands across her face. What was she thinking? Of course there wasn’t, right?

“Hmm?” Kei hummed, feeling the mattress dip under his weight.

“Do you think, that maybe one day we could… Fall in love again?” Y/n whispered, her hands fisting into the quilt they lay on. Kei looked over at Y/n, his face seemingly expressionless. But Y/n knew, with just one look into the pools of honey reflected almost every emotion that ran rampant in her chest.

Kei stayed quiet for a moment, eyes staring at the same ceiling Y/n had been staring at for the past five minutes.

“I want to believe we will…”

[loganscanons]

what friends are for

Context: Prue wakes up in Lou’s room after an episode of madness, and Lou is a good friend and is there for her.

Breaching into consciousness from a black void, Prue slowly opened her eyes. She instantly regretted it as a wave vertigo slammed into her. Everything within her sight was tripled, shadowed by a hue of drunk purplish-blue and highlighted by violent pink, not unlike the layered colors of a 3D movie. The outlines of objects vibrated uneasily. A bottle of Gatorade on the nightstand flickered in and out of reality like a dying neon sign. Multiple realities layered on top of each other, and nothing was sure if it was meant to exist. As her brain instinctively tried to make sense of the images, a sharp needling sensation erupted behind her eyes and ripped her mind open with a searing and blinding pain. She mentally wrestled between the layered realities in front of her and the burning light that was bleeding into her brain.

She shut her eyes, blocking out the confused images, and took a deep, slow breath. Imagining a threaded needle, she sewed the tear in her mind shut, matching the timing of her slow breaths with each stitch piercing the fabric of her mind. With deliberate care, she turned away the overwhelming amount of information trying to infiltrate her thoughts.

That done, she turned her attention to her emotions, gauging their stability. Exhaustion and numbness hung over her. Nothing she couldn’t handle. Her eyes closed, she kept her breathing even and slow, and grasped for memories of what she’d been doing before she was unconscious. She must have had a fit of madness. It would explain the emotional exhaustion and the gaps in her memory. She breathed out a long breath and opened her eyes again.

This time, Prue’s vision was normal. She was only seeing one reality, the reality she lived in. And she was in a room she recognized. Lou’s bedroom. She let out a relieved sigh, and without moving, she glanced around the room. Lou was across the room leaning back in their desk chair with one leg propped up on their desk and the other bent up so they could rest their journal against it. Their pen moved smoothly across the page. Prue watched as they pulled back and tilted their head, rereading what they’d written. They tapped their pen against their lower lip and hummed to themself. Prue was fairly certain Lou wasn’t messing with her brain chemistry, and the feeling of appreciation and admiration she had for them in that moment was completely organic. 

Their considerate expression slipped into a smile as they looked up and their warm brown eyes met hers.

“Hey! You’re awake,” Lou said. They pulled their leg off their desk, then closed their journal and placed it on a stack of notebooks. They took a seat beside Prue on the bed and asked, “How are you feeling?”

She was feeling awful. In addition to the emotional hangover, the skin on her arms and back felt chafed and uncomfortable, feeling like a shirt that didn’t fit quite right. There was a deep ache in her muscles that made her feel weak and fragile. Though she couldn’t remember it, Prue knew she must’ve transformed.

Prue braced herself, then pushed herself into a sitting position, ignoring the deep ache. The thin blanket that had been draped over her fell from her shoulders and puddled in her lap. She tensed the muscles in her arms, then relaxed, trying to get even a small amount of relief from the ache.

The pain and emotional hangover were bad, but nothing that anyone else needed to be concerned about. 

“It’s nothing to fret about,” she said to Lou, her voice soft. 

Lou laughed, a warm, good-natured sound that sent a surge of comfort through Prue. She ignored the feeling, figuring it was manufactured by them.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” they said, their tone light and friendly. “What—”

Whatever Lou was going to ask was cut off by a soft, startled noise from Prue.

She was looking down at her body. The slate blue dress she’d put on that morning no longer covered her frame. Instead, she wore a gray t-shirt that was a few sizes too big and a pair of thick, white tights. Her arms were bare, and though the tights kept her skin covered, they fit to the shape of her legs and made her feel exposed. She might as well have been nude. Her cheeks flushing, she covered her thighs completely with the thin blanket, then turned her gaze to Lou.

“I transformed, didn’t I?” Prue said.

Lou nodded, their expression sympathetic. Prue straightened her back and tilted her chin up, trying to regather her dignity and fight off the flustered, embarrassed feeling that was mounting within her.

“I don’t remember what happened,” she said.

“I wasn’t there,” Lou said, moving closer to Prue, but not close enough to touch her.  “Truck brought you home.” At the word home, Lou hit her with a rush of pleasure. “They said you were okay one minute, then, well, you snapped. They got you back to yourself pretty quickly, but not before you grew a few tendrils. It must have exhausted you.” The sympathy in their voice was palpable. But perhaps that was as manufactured as the chemical releases they controlled in Prue’s brain. “You could barely stand when Truck brought you home.”

“Truck,” Prue said quietly. The color drained from her face, then her cheeks flushed a darker shade of pink than before as she processed what that meant. “This is their shirt?” she pinched the fabric of the t-shirt between her forefinger and thumb.

Lou nodded and bent their head toward her. Prue caught the scent of their perfume, an alluring scent that she couldn’t quite place. “You were wearing it when you got home.” Another rush of comfort and pleasure at the word home. Prue did her best to ignore it. 

She had transformed without planning to, which of course meant her clothes ripped off. And that meant she’d been all but nude in front of Truck, and who knows who else. Where had they been when it had happened? Who had seen? This was the second time this had happened, but last time Truck hadn’t thought to give her his shirt and they’d brought Prue home in just her bra and tights. Her cheeks grew warmer at the memory. She touched her bra strap through the gray t-shirt. It appeared that her bra had again survived the destruction her tendrils had caused, which was a small comfort. She was mortified regardless.

Lou held out their hand, their palm facing up. Prue wasn’t keen on being touched by other people, or any living creature at all, if she was being honest. Even the gentlest brush against her would make her bristle. But, Lou knew this. They were inviting physical contact, but letting Prue make the decision to initiate. Touch, something that usually made her uncomfortable and put her on edge, seemed okay right now, maybe even nice, if it was coming from Lou. She placed her hand in Lou’s and a warm, happy feeling flooded her brain. The feeling eased the discomfort and embarrassment of being practically naked in front of Truck and who knows who else. This time, she didn’t try to resist the chemical release Lou was undoubtedly causing.

Lou stroked their thumb over the back of Prue’s hand, passing over the pale red scars that marked where her skin split open every time her arms morphed into inky black tendrils. Though her muscles and bones pieced themselves back together as soon as she retracted her tendrils, her nerves always seemed to take longer to get back into order. She could barely feel Lou’s touch. But, in a few hours, she would be on the opposite end of that spectrum. She would be over-sensitive, and even the brush of sheets against her legs would hurt. The pain and ache in her muscles would worsen. Her skin would feel unbearably tight and itchy. But for now, she could enjoy the unobtrusive sensation of Lou gently caressing her hand.

“You need to hydrate,” Lou said. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m fine,” Prue said reflexively. 

Lou smiled and massaged their thumb between Prue’s knuckles. “Are you?” they asked.

In truth, she could benefit from something to eat, but a lifetime of conditioning had taught her not to impose. 

“If something is already made, I’ll eat that,” she said. 

“If you could eat anything, what would you want?” they asked. Prue felt herself getting more relaxed the longer she sat with them.

She wanted to say that anything would be fine, but that wasn’t the answer they wanted. For a few seconds she said nothing, then said, “Oatmeal? Or toast with jam. Nothing rich or heavy, please.”

Episodes of madness could leave her feeling queasy. She wanted comfort food. 

“Okay, easy. I can get that for you. What else do you need?” they asked.

Prue noted the way Lou has asked the question. Not do you need anything else? The way they phrased things was deliberate, and in this case, they were trying to convince Prue to let go of her ingrained habit of deferring to others on things that didn’t heavily impact her. There were many things Prue would never trust about Lou, but at this point she knew that they genuinely didn’t see helping their friends as a bother.

“Do you have the balm I use?”

“Of course,” Lou said. With a smile, they added, “What is this, amateur hour?”

They turned, letting go of Prue’s hand to grab the bottle of Gatorade and a small, cylindrical tub off the nightstand. They handed both to her. 

“Anything else?”

Prue hesitated, bringing the Gatorade bottle to her lips. She didn’t need anything else, but she knew Lou wasn’t actually asking what she needed; she was asking what she wanted. What would make her most comfortable. What would be helpful.

“May I have a cup of ice, please?” Prue asked. 

“Of course,” they said. “I’ll be right back.”

As Lou left their bedroom, Prue unscrewed the lid of the balm they had handed her, then rubbed a generous amount on her arms. It would lessen the discomfort she was bound to feel later. 

She was about to attempt to rub some on her back as well when Lou returned and handed her the cup of ice.

“Want help?” Lou asked. They nodded at the balm, and their hair fell like a dark curtain over their shoulder. Often Prue couldn’t be sure if she found Lou genuinely charming or if they’d trained her into feeling that way. But she was fairly certain at that moment that the warmth in their eyes and their friendly smile still would have made her feel more at ease, regardless of whether Lou used their power. Defying her usual aversion to touch, Prue nodded and turned so her back faced them. 

Lou sat on the bed again. Prue pulled her hair over her shoulder as Lou lifted the gray t-shirt and rubbed the balm over the scars that covered Prue’s back. Their touch felt far away, thanks to her numbed nerves. 

Prue stuck her fingers into the cup Lou handed her, fishing for an ice cube. She put one in her mouth, then gripped an ice cube in each hand. The ice in her mouth was cold enough to elicit the beginnings of a brain freeze. Which was good. The cold of the ice would help her stay grounded. 

With a slow, deep breath, Prue closed her eyes. She relaxed the walls she’d put up, letting the knowledge of the cosmos seep through a crack. Beneath her eyelids, her eyes rolled back. The sounds of the Haven melted away. There was a far away cold feeling tingling her hands and mouth, reminding her of her body, reminding her not to let herself slip. She was more susceptible to fits of madness after she’d recently had one, but she wanted to remember what happened. 

She’d had years to practice navigating the vast, seemingly endless visions she had access to, and it didn’t take her long to find the event of that afternoon. She watched, forcing herself to remain emotionless, as she and Truck left the Haven. A viewer of her own life, she followed them to a professor’s office. Something about the professor made her feel weird. Uneasy and on edge. Frazzled. Was it his mannerisms? She couldn’t pin down what was wrong. She tried to prod deeper, to see what effect this professor could have on her life, but as soon as she did, the crack she’d opened her mind widened. Her heartbeat quickened, but she forced herself to stay calm. She regained control; it was easier than she’d anticipated. Something at the edge of her consciousness suggested that she’d had help keeping her emotions in check.

For now, Prue would leave the professor be. She could look into him later. She followed herself and Truck away from campus. Prue from earlier that day was walking stiffly. The professor had affected her more than she realized and she was struggling to maintain her control over her mind. Prue watched herself lose control. Watched her eyes roll back into her head as her consciousness was overwhelmed. She wasn’t sure what did it, and she wasn’t confident enough in her control to try to check at that moment, but something she’d seen had made her react physically. Her skin peeled back and the snaps that ran up the length of her sleeves burst open as her muscles morphed into dark back tendrils. If she’d only grown them from her arms, her dress would’ve survived. The fabric ripped apart as more tendrils sprouted from her back. 

Prue had seen enough. She knew what happened next. Truck managed to get her back to herself, gave her his t-shirt, then took her back to the Haven. She could watch it again in more detail later, when she felt more confident in her control. 

She forced the crack in her mind closed, then focused on the cold of the ice in her palms and mouth. The homey sounds of the Haven reaches her ears again, and she could feel Lou’s hands on her back, their fingers massaging her tense, achy muscles. She opened her eyes. 

The ice cube in her mouth was water and the ice in her hands were almost entirely melted. She poured the cold water and slivers of ice back into the cup Lou had handed her, then wiped her palms on the blanket that covered her lap. 

There was a knock on Lou’s door. Startled, Prue pulled the blanket up to cover her arms and torso and stared at the door. 

“Yeah?” Lou called out.

“I brought food for Prue!” Truck called back. 

Lou pulled their hands away from Prue and said, “You can come in.”

The door cracked as Truck peered in. They pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped into the room, holding out a spoon and a white ceramic bowl to Prue.

“Here you go, Prue,” he said with a beaming smile. 

Prue still held the blanket over her body, so Lou took the bowl and spoon from him. Prue smiled at him kindly. There was no real feeling behind the smile, but he didn’t need to know that. 

“Thank you, Truck,” she said. She felt her cheeks flush and she added, “and thank you for lending me your shirt. It was very kind of you.”

“No problemo,” Truck said. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes,” Prue said, smiling with a warmth she didn’t feel. “I appreciate you asking.”

“That’s all, thank you, Truck,” Lou said. Prue knew from the way Truck stood straighter that Lou had hit them with some feel-good brain chemicals. 

As they left, they closed the door behind them, and Prue let the blanket drop back into her lap. Lou handed the bowl of oatmeal and spoon to her, then slowly pushed up the t-shirt again, paying close attention to how Prue reacted. Prue was sure Lou had finished applying the balm while she’d been revisiting the day’s events, but the massage they’d been giving her wasn’t unpleasant, and she didn’t pull away when Lou started again.

When she finished her oatmeal, she leaned away from Lou’s touch, and that was enough of a sign for them to pull away. Prue shifted, turning to face her friend.

“Do you still have the dresses I left here?” Prue asked, though she knew the answer. 

“Of course!” Lou said. “What kind of a friend would I be to get rid of them?” 

They hopped off the bed and pulled open their closet doors. At the far end of the closet, tucked against the wall, three dresses hung from hangers. Prue had left a few dresses at the Haven after the last time she’d transformed and had to wear a pair of pants from Lou and a long sleeve shirt from Sadie. She hadn’t expected Lou to store the dresses in their own closet. It was a kind gesture of friendship and closeness that Prue would not replicate if she were in Lou’s position. 

“Which one do you want?” Lou asked. 

“You can choose,” Prue said. Lou pulled a long-sleeved black dress from the closet and held it out to her. 

“Thank you,” she said, taking the hanger from them. 

Lou flopped down in their desk chair and rotated it so they didn’t face Prue, knowing she would want privacy to get dressed. Prue took her time, not wanting to strain her already aching muscles. She managed to zip up the zipper that ran along her spine, but the dress had a high collar with buttons above the zipper, and she struggled to lift her sore arms and fasten them. 

“Let me help,” Lou said, their voice low and warm and suddenly close. 

Their tone made Prue feel warm. She reminded herself that this is what Lou did; they charmed people. Despite that knowledge, she pulled her hands away from the buttons and let them fasten them for her. 

“There you go,” Lou said, briefly putting their hand on Prue’s shoulder.

“Thank you.”

Lou didn’t step back as Prue turned to face them, and though her base instinct was to put distance between them, she didn’t even sway. She wasn’t used to this kind of proximity, but she was emboldened for reasons she couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the post-madness haze, or the moments of physical closeness she’d already had with them today. 

Oh, but they were so close to her. Their shirt was parted open, the top few buttons undone. It was distracting. And attractive. There were very few moments where Prue found herself attracted to anyone, but she’d be lying if she said Lou didn’t have an allure. She looked up at them, meeting their gaze. The warmth in their eyes made Prue feel bold and defiant. Defiant of her usual behavior. She reached out and deliberately, slowly, she readjusted the collar of Lou’s shirt where it had folded out of place. She could feel the heat of Lou’s body radiating off them. Holding their gaze, she flattened her palm against them, below their shoulder.

“Thank you, Lou,” she said. “For everything you did today.”

“It was nothing,” Lou’s voice was quiet and Prue knew they meant what they said. “This is what friends are for.”

They placed their hand on top of Prue’s. Just as Prue had, they held her gaze, then they brought Prue’s hand to their lips and pressed a gentle kiss against her knuckles. 

This was not something Prue could win. She couldn’t escalate beyond this. Not with someone she actually cared about. Did she care about Lou? Actually care?

Yes, she decided, she did. Despite her best efforts, the small, unhardened part of her that could feel affection did care about them. 

Gently, she pulled her hand away from Lou’s grasp.

[conseille]

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS.   repost, don’t reblog. bold whatever applies. tag whoever you want and feel free to add to the categories.

THE SHAPE OF WATER : early mornings. art on an easel. being trapped. flashy cars. self-righteous intolerance. speaking volumes without a word. being submerged. learning and adapting. raindrops on windows.  bubbles rising in water. cats. taboo desires. tanks of water.  kitschy nostalgia. kissing underwater. silence.  isolation. golden age hollywood.  sign language.  scales.  egg shells. jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies.  creature features. the space race. red coats. monstrous fairy tales.  lab coats. lunches in brown bags. the click of shoes.  smog. dance routines.  slices of pie. toxic masculinity. chains. government secrets. seeing past flaws. floating aimlessly. needles. greens and blues.  deep, inexorable scars. gills.  music from the 30′s.  retro-futurism. bloody handprints.  routines.  record players. old movies. love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD  :  a doll in a gilded birdcage.  butter to bread. the death of a mother. cycles. hidden messages.  a disruptive presence. longing.  wedding gowns.  posh control. post-war. brightly colored socks. inner turmoil.  poison.  an air of quiet death.  hallucinations. family dysfunction. rich fabrics. curses. soft piano music.  restrained anger. spinning out of control.  artist and muse. dark love. pastels. peace in the countryside. clockwork dynamics. perfection.  wild mushrooms.  giving up every piece of yourself. rags to riches.  ghosts.  new year’s.  lingering gazes.  needle and thread. fine dining. hearing every sound.  being ambushed. ego.  flowing dresses.  a person out of place. defiance.  ink to paper.  an artist tortured by their art.  obsessive personalities. peepholes.  soothing elegance.  silk. spiral staircases.  driving at high speeds. high society.

THE POST : typewriters. newspapers.  tense climates.  distrust of authority. internal battles.  a legacy at stake. secrets. cover-ups.  defending what you believe. peering through windows. melodrama. political corruption.  behind closed doors. sniffing a scoop. ringing phones. lying for over a decade.  cramming and crowding.  cold grays.  war.  fluorescent lights.  treason.  shuffled papers.  the jungle.  a weight on your shoulders. fresh coffee. thousands of deaths. burglary.  finding your voice.  risking everything.  propaganda. tough choices. exposure.  type being set by hand.  workplace rivalries.  abuses of power.  security breaches. hierarchy. a bed strewn with papers and books. paranoia.  orders. clicking keys. redacted files. desk clutter.  cigarette smoke.  precious cargo.  vanished technologies.  suspenseful conversations. facing charges.  courtroom battles.  suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR  : never surrendering.  duty.  countless negotiations.  the flash of cameras.  beaches. historic buildings.  guzzling booze.  resignation. utter catastrophe. bunkers.  radio broadcasts. going against the odds.  bathed in red light.  a sense of humor.  allies. shouting matches.  small square windows. selfishness. walking with a cane. war rooms.  chandeliers.  dust floating in air. righteousness.  a poor reputation.  an elevator surrounded by darkness.  a world at war.  needing a miracle.  interruptions.  a last hope. cigar smoke.  quoting poetry.  photos of a loved one.  a single sunbeam. monarchy. vanity. rescue missions. refusing peace.  pallid chambers.  military uniforms. taking a stand. common folk.  suicide missions.  drums of war.  tears down sullen cheeks.  reluctance.  complete collapse.  evacuations. enveloped by fog.  changing history. blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI  :   severe burns.  police uniforms.  sirens. the calmness of a deer. strumming guitars. grieving. horrifying memories. sucker punches. a lack of respect. facing threats.  skin under fingernails. flicking cigarettes.  awkward dates.  nasty rumors. claustrophobia.  lush green pastures.  molotov cocktails.  the fire of anger and revenge.  strangers.  no remorse. bashing in windows.  the midwest. provoking a fight. pointing fingers. being pressed for time.  rundown old houses. grey morality.  dark undercurrents. insurmountable losses. cruel laughs. the american flag. dive bars. guilty no matter what.   buildings in flames. ambulances. coughing up blood. spitting.  chewing on fingernails.  one versus many.  black and red. not understanding another’s feelings.  a mother and child.  the pain of others.  a quest of justice. abandoned billboards.  a hardened gaze.  driving to nowhere.  small towns. last letters. absurd violence.

DUNKIRK  : burying a body.  warm cider.  narrow escapes. a race against time.  a small boat. all hope lost. being unable to come home.  taken prisoner. shipwrecks.  assuming the identity of someone else. setting fire to it all.  smoke rising from a crash. sea foam.  seaports.  rendered blind. dropping to take cover. land, sea, and air. entangled in chain.  toast with jam.  suspense.  waiting for escape.  wounded men. lying in the sand. trauma.  blank spaces.  sinking ships.  commended a hero.  cocking a gun. swallowed by darkness.  bullet holes. obstacles and delays.  a hero’s welcome. planes overhead.  the sounds of a ticking clock.  bullets ricocheting off metal.  people by the thousands.  shell-shocked.  the explosions of shells on shores.  the sound of destruction. rising tides.  head injuries. target practice.  compressed time and space. the perennial threat of death.  oil ignited into flames.  lying for the greater good.   blocking out the noise.  primal dangers.  taking command.  sole survivor.

GET OUT  : deer antlers.  suburbs.  hypnosis.  strange behavior.  familial tension.  chopping wood.  uneasy stares. tears and a smile. deception. fight or flight.  blindness.  survival.  sinking into the floor. watching but powerless. strapped to a chair.  plugged ears.  a failed handshake.  car accidents.  sunken places. something out of a nightmare.  going hysterical. bingo cards. smoking cigarettes.  static on a television set.  doing more harm than good. a hint of a smile. a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them. waiting for someone to come when they never will.  overturned candles.  wealthy garden parties.  constantly looking over your shoulder. silence no matter how hard you scream.  trances.  catharsis.  a battle of wills. layers being peeled back. a cup of tea.  nosebleeds.  addiction.  last bits of life leaving a body.  black and white photography.  sprinting at high speeds. conspiracies. surgery. blankly polite speech.  noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup.   a deer in headlights. staring at your own reflection. unable to sleep. loyal friends.

LADY BIRD : california landscapes. budding romance.  uniforms. consolation. plain and luscious colors.  apologizing.  boorish sex. prom dresses.  secondhand dresses.  strong personalities. the theatre.  being simultaneously warm and scary.  battling depression.  90’s fashion.  dreaming of elsewhere. partying. signatures on a cast. living on the wrong side of the tracks.  not being bound by any era. rejection.  sparklers.  thrift stores.  high school.  identity crisis.  a place that looks like a memory.  going behind backs.  disappointed parents.  catholicism.  poverty.  busy new york city streets. monotonous hometowns. shitty bands.  teenage anarchy. drifting in and out of friendships.  menial jobs.  red hair. self-given names.  coming-of-age.  a broken arm. excessive drinking.  first kisses.  cupcakes.  smudged eye makeup. strained relationships.  screaming in the middle of the street.  thoughtful letters. standing out. decorated bedroom walls. having a change of heart. expressing individuality.

tagged: @decepteur​ ( thank you ! loved this ) tagging: @rousseure​ @sunplagued​ @yenure​ @tigertempered​ @rakkirrrowch​ @thornvows​ @astralsung​ @florensflos​ @courtscaptor​ @xmenageriie​ @evokered​ @ravyndae​ @sakuraari​ @sampatii​ @favdream​ @xonismsx​ @rainatsu​ @daemonry​ @theycallmekaibara​ @raiiju​ @xking​ @fukenzena​ @esluthe​ @lcgcrity​ @turquoisedays​ @tcndrcssc​ @astrumstilla​ @bcbybats​ @midoriimu​ @monstheart​ @ukubi​ & you

[wishfell]

best picture nominees (2018) aesthetics.

the shape of water.  early mornings.  art on an easel.  being trapped.  flashy cars.  self-righteous intolerance.  speaking volumes without a word.  being submerged.  learning and adapting.  raindrops on windows.  bubbles rising in water.  cats.  taboo desires.  tanks of water.  kitschy nostalgia.  kissing underwater.  silence.  isolation.  golden age hollywood.   sign language.   scales.  egg shells.  jell-o.  the smell of cleaning supplies.  creature features.  the space race.  red coats.  monstrous fairy tales.  lab coats.  lunches in brown bags.  the click of shoes.  smog.  dance routines.  slices of pie.  toxic masculinity.  chains.  government secrets.  seeing past flaws.  floating aimlessly.  needles.  greens and blues.  deep, inexorable scars.  gills.  music from the 30′s.  retro-futurism.  bloody handprints.  routines.  record players.  old movies.  love in unexpected places.

phantom thread.  a doll in a gilded birdcage.   butter to bread.  the death of a mother.  cycles.  hidden messages.  a disruptive presence.  longing.  wedding gowns.  posh control.  post-war.  brightly colored socks.  inner turmoil.  poison.  an air of quiet death.  hallucinations.  family dysfunction.  rich fabrics.  curses.  soft piano music.   restrained anger.  spinning out of control.  artist and muse.  dark love.  pastels.  peace in the countryside.  clockwork dynamics.  perfection.  wild mushrooms.  giving up every piece of yourself.  rags to riches.  ghosts.  new year’s.  lingering gazes.  needle and thread.  fine dining.  hearing every sound.  being ambushed.  ego.  flowing dresses.  a person out of place.  defiance.  ink to paper.  an artist tortured by their art.  obsessive personalities.  peepholes.  soothing elegance.  silk.  spiral staircases.  driving at high speeds.  high society.

the post.  typewriters.  newspapers.  tense climates.  distrust of authority.  internal battles.   a legacy at stake.  secrets.  cover-ups.  defending what you believe.  peering through windows.  melodrama.  political corruption.  behind closed doors.  sniffing a scoop.  ringing phones.  lying for over a decade.  cramming and crowding.  cold grays.  war.  fluorescent lights.  treason.  shuffled papers.  the jungle.   a weight on your shoulders.  fresh coffee.  thousands of deaths.  burglary.  finding your voice.  risking everything.  propaganda. tough choices.  exposure.  type being set by hand.  workplace rivalries.  abuses of power.  security breaches.  hierarchy.  a bed strewn with papers and books.  paranoia.  orders.  clicking keys.  redacted files.  desk clutter.  cigarette smoke.  precious cargo.  vanished technologies.  suspenseful conversations.  facing charges.  courtroom battles.  suits and ties.

darkest hour.  never surrendering.  duty.  countless negotiations.  the flash of cameras.  beaches. historic buildings.  guzzling booze.  resignation.  utter catastrophe.  bunkers.  radio broadcasts.  going against the odds.  bathed in red light.  a sense of humor.  allies.  shouting matches.  small square windows.  selfishness.  walking with a cane.  war rooms.  chandeliers.   dust floating in air.  righteousness.  a poor reputation.  an elevator surrounded by darkness.  a world at war.  needing a miracle.  interruptions.  a last hope.  cigar smoke.  quoting poetry.  photos of a loved one.  a single sunbeam.  monarchy.  vanity.  rescue missions.  refusing peace.  pallid chambers.  military uniforms.  taking a stand.  common folk.   suicide missions.  drums of war.  tears down sullen cheeks.  reluctance.  complete collapse.  evacuations.  enveloped by fog.  changing history.  blood, toil, tears and sweat.

three billboards outside ebbing, missouri.   severe burns.  police uniforms.  sirens.  the calmness of a deer.  strumming guitars.  grieving.  horrifying memories.  sucker punches.  a lack of respect.  facing threats.  skin under fingernails.  flicking cigarettes.  awkward dates.  nasty rumors. claustrophobia.  lush green pastures.  molotov cocktails.  the fire of anger and revenge.  strangers.  no remorse.  bashing in windows.  the midwest.  provoking a fight.  pointing fingers.  being pressed for time.  rundown old houses.  grey morality.  dark undercurrents.  insurmountable losses.  cruel laughs.  the american flag.  dive bars. guilty no matter what.   buildings in flames.  ambulances.  coughing up blood.  spitting.  chewing on fingernails.  one versus many.  black and red.  not understanding another’s feelings.   a mother and child.  the pain of others. a quest of justice.  abandoned billboards.  a hardened gaze.  driving to nowhere.  small towns.  last letters.  absurd violence.

dunkirk.  burying a body.  warm cider.  narrow escapes.  a race against time.  a small boat.  all hope lost.  being unable to come home.  taken prisoner.  shipwrecks.  assuming the identity of someone else.  setting fire to it all.  smoke rising from a crash.  sea foam.  seaports.  rendered blind.  dropping to take cover.  land, sea, and air.  entangled in chain.  toast with jam.   suspense.  waiting for escape.  wounded men.  lying in the sand.  trauma.   blank spaces.   sinking ships.  commended a hero.  cocking a gun.  swallowed by darkness.  bullet holes.  obstacles and delays.  a hero’s welcome.  planes overhead.   the sounds of a ticking clock.   bullets ricocheting off metal.  people by the thousands.  shell-shocked.  the explosions of shells on shores.  the sound of destruction.  rising tides.  head injuries.  target practice.  compressed time and space.  the perennial threat of death.  oil ignited into flames.  lying for the greater good.  blocking out the noise.  primal dangers.  taking command.  sole survivor.

get out.   deer antlers.  suburbs.  hypnosis.  strange behavior.  familial tension.  chopping wood.  uneasy stares.  tears and a smile.  deception.  fight or flight.  blindness.  survival.  sinking into the floor.  watching but powerless.  strapped to a chair.  plugged ears.  a failed handshake.  car accidents.  sunken places.  something out of a nightmare.  going hysterical.  bingo cards.  smoking cigarettes.  static on a television set.  doing more harm than good.  a hint of a smile.  a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them.  waiting for someone to come when they never will.   overturned candles.  wealthy garden parties.  constantly looking over your shoulder.  silence no matter how hard you scream.  trances.  catharsis.  a battle of wills.  layers being peeled back.  a cup of tea. nosebleeds.  addiction.  last bits of life leaving a body.  black and white photography.  sprinting at high speeds. conspiracies.  surgery.  blankly polite speech.  noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup.   a deer in headlights. staring at your own reflection.  unable to sleep.  loyal friends.

lady bird.  california landscapes.  budding romance.  uniforms.  consolation.  plain and luscious colors.  apologizing.   boorish sex.  prom dresses.  secondhand dresses.  strong personalities.  the theatre.  being simultaneously warm and scary.  battling depression.  90’s fashion.  dreaming of elsewhere.  partying.  signatures on a cast.  living on the wrong side of the tracks.  not being bound by any era.  rejection.  sparklers.  thrift stores.  high school.  identity crisis.  a place that looks like a memory.  going behind backs.  disappointed parents.  catholicism.  poverty.  busy new york city streets.  monotonous hometowns.  shitty bands.  teenage anarchy.  drifting in and out of friendships.   menial jobs.  red hair.  self-given names.  coming-of-age.  a broken arm.  excessive drinking.  first kisses.  cupcakes.  smudged eye makeup.  strained relationships.  screaming in the middle of the street.  thoughtful letters.  standing out.  decorated bedroom walls.  having a change of heart. expressing individuality.

TAGGED BY: @conseille ( tysm!! tfw i don’t know more than half of these movies...... orz ) TAGGING: @rousseure​, @megane-samurai​, @ikiruwill​, @pasttorn​, @benosuke​, @eiikyuu

[alexandriteobscuraarchive]

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS Repost don’t Reblog

Muse: Howard Silk (Prime)**

**Howard Silk (Alpha) will be under the cut at the bottom!

THE SHAPE OF WATER

early mornings. art on an easel.  being trapped.  flashy cars. self-righteous. intolerance.  speaking volumes without a word.  being submerged.  learning and adapting. raindrops on windows.  bubbles rising in water.  cats.  taboo desires.  tanks of water.  kitschy nostalgia.  kissing underwater.  silence. isolation.  golden age hollywood.  sign language.  scales.  egg shells.  jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies. creature features. the space race.  red coats.   monstrous fairy tales. lab coats.  lunches in brown bags.  the click of shoes. smog.  dance routines.  slices of pie.   toxic masculinity.  chains.  government secrets.   seeing past flaws.   floating aimlessly.  needles.  greens and blues. deep, inexorable scars.  gills.  music from the 30′s.  retro-futurism.  bloody handprints.  routines.  record players.  old movies.   love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD

a doll in a gilded birdcage.  butter to bread. the death of a mother.  cycles. hidden messages.   a disruptive presence. longing.  wedding gowns.  posh control.  post-war. brightly colored socks . inner turmoil.  poison.  an air of quiet death.  hallucinations. family dysfunction.  rich fabrics.  curses.   soft piano music.  restrained anger.   spinning out of control. artist and muse.  dark love.   pastels.  peace in the countryside.   clockwork dynamics. perfection.  wild mushrooms.   giving up every piece of yourself.   rags to riches.  ghosts. new year’s.   lingering gazes.   needle and thread.   fine dining. hearing every sound.   being ambushed.  ego.   flowing dresses.   a person out of place.  defiance.  ink to paper.   an artist tortured by their art.  obsessive personalities.   peepholes.   soothing elegance.   silk. spiral staircases.   driving at high speeds.    high society.

THE POST

typewriters.   newspapers.   tense climates.   distrust of authority.   internal battles.   a legacy at stake.   secrets.   cover-ups.   defending what you believe.   peering through windows.  melodrama.   political corruption.  behind closed doors.   sniffing a scoop.  ringing phones.  lying for over a decade.   cramming and crowding.   cold grays.   war.   fluorescent lights.   treason.   shuffled papers.   the jungle.   a weight on your shoulders.   fresh coffee. thousands of deaths.   burglary.   finding your voice.   risking everything.  propaganda.   tough choices.   exposure.   type being set by hand.   workplace rivalries.   abusing power.  security breaches.   hierarchy.   a bed strewn with papers and books.   paranoia.   orders.   clicking keys.   redacted files.   desk clutter.   cigarette smoke.   precious cargo.   vanished technologies.   suspenseful conversations.   facing charges.   courtroom battles.   suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR

never surrendering.  duty.   countless negotiations.   the flash of cameras.   beaches.   historic buildings.   guzzling booze.   resignation.   utter catastrophe.  bunkers.   radio broadcasts.  going against the odds.   bathed in red light.   a sense of humor.   allies.   shouting matches.    small square windows.   selfishness.   walking with a cane.   war rooms.   chandeliers.   dust floating in air.   righteousness.   a poor reputation.   an elevator surrounded by darkness.   a world at war.   needing a miracle.   interruptions.   a last hope.  cigar smoke.   quoting poetry.   photos of a loved one.  a single sunbeam.   monarchy.   vanity. rescue missions.   refusing peace.   allied chambers.  military uniforms.   taking a stand.   common folk.   suicide missions.   drums of war.   tears down sullen cheeks.  reluctance. complete collapse.   evacuations.   enveloped by fog.   changing history.   blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI

severe burns.   police uniforms.   sirens.   the calmness of a deer.    strumming guitars.  grieving.   horrifying memories.   sucker punches.   a lack of respect.   facing threats.  skin under fingernails.   flicking cigarettes.   awkward dates.  nasty rumors.   claustrophobia.   lush green pastures.   molotov cocktails.   the fire of anger and revenge.   strangers.  no remorse.   bashing in windows.   the midwest.  provoking a fight.  pointing fingers.   being pressed for time.   rundown old houses.   grey morality.   dark undercurrents.   insurmountable losses.   cruel laughs.   the american flag.   dive bars.   guilty no matter what.   buildings in flames.   ambulances.   coughing up blood.   spitting.   chewing on fingernails.   one versus many.   black and red.  not understanding another’s feelings.   a mother and child.   the pain of others.   a quest of justice.   abandoned billboards.   a hardened gaze.    driving to nowhere.   small towns.   last letters.   absurd violence.

DUNKIRK

burying a body.   warm cider.   narrow escapes.   a race against time.   a small boat.   all hope lost.   being unable to come home.   taken prisoner.   shipwrecks.   assuming the identity of someone else.   setting fire to it all.   smoke rising from a crash .  sea foam.   seaports.   rendered blind.   dropping to take cover.   land, sea, and air.    entangled in chain.   toast with jam.    suspense.   waiting for escape.   wounded men. lying in the sand.   trauma.   blank spaces.   sinking ships.  commended a hero.  cocking a gun.   swallowed by darkness.   bullet holes.   obstacles and delays.   a hero’s welcome.   planes overhead.   the sounds of a ticking clock.   bullets ricocheting off metal.   people by the thousands.   shell-shocked.   the explosions of shells on shores.    the sound of destruction.  rising tides. head injuries.   target practice.   compressed time and space.   the perennial threat of death.  oil ignited into flames.  lying for the greater good.   blocking out the noise.   primal dangers.   taking command.    sole survivor.

GET OUT

deer antlers.   suburbs.   hypnosis.   strange behavior.  familial tension.   chopping wood. uneasy stares.   tears and a smile.   deception.   fight or flight.   blindness.   survival.   sinking into the floor.  watching but powerless.   strapped to a chair.   plugged ears.   a failed handshake.  car accidents.   sunken places.   something out of a nightmare.   going hysterical.   bingo cards.   smoking cigarettes.   static on a television set.   doing more harm than good.   a hint of a smile.   a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them.  waiting for someone to come when they never will.   overturned candles.   wealthy garden parties.   constantly looking over your shoulder.   silence no matter how hard you scream.   trances.   catharsis.    a battle of wills.   layers being peeled back.   a cup of tea.  nosebleeds.   addiction.   last bits of life leaving a body.   black and white photography.  sprinting at high speeds.   conspiracies.   surgery.   blankly polite speech.   noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup.  a deer in headlights.   staring at your own reflection.   unable to sleep.   loyal friends.

LADY BIRD

california landscapes.   budding romance.   uniforms.   consolation.   plain and luscious colors.   apologizing.   boorish sex.   prom dresses.   secondhand dresses.   strong personalities.   the ups and downs of adolescence.   the theatre.   being simultaneously warm and scary.    battling depression.   90’s fashion.   dreaming of elsewhere.   partying.  signatures on a cast.   living on the wrong side of the tracks.   not being bound by any era.   rejection.   sparklers.  thrift stores.  high school.  identity crisis.  a place that looks like a memory.   going behind backs.   disappointed parents.   catholicism.   poverty.   busy new york city streets.   monotonous hometowns.   shitty bands.   anarchy.   drifting in and out of friendships.   menial jobs.   red hair.   self-given names.   coming-of-age.   a broken arm. excessive drinking.   first kisses.   cupcakes.   smudged eye makeup. bruises gained unknowingly.   strained relationships.   screaming in the middle of the street.   thoughtful letters.   standing out.   decorated bedroom walls.   having a change of heart.   expressing individuality.

Muse: Howard Silk (Alpha)

THE SHAPE OF WATER

early mornings.  art on an easel.  being trapped.  flashy cars. self-righteous. intolerance.  speaking volumes without a word.  being submerged.  learning and adapting.  raindrops on windows.  bubbles rising in water.  cats.  taboo desires.  tanks of water.  kitschy nostalgia.  kissing underwater.  silence. isolation.  golden age hollywood.  sign language.  scales.  egg shells.  jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies. creature features. the space race.  red coats.   monstrous fairy tales. lab coats.  lunches in brown bags.  the click of shoes.  smog.  dance routines.  slices of pie.   toxic masculinity.  chains.  government secrets.   seeing past flaws.   floating aimlessly.  needles.  greens and blues. deep, inexorable scars.  gills.  music from the 30′s.  retro-futurism.  bloody handprints.  routines.  record players.  old movies.   love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD

a doll in a gilded birdcage.  butter to bread. the death of a mother.  cycles. hidden messages.   a disruptive presence. longing.  wedding gowns.  posh control.  post-war. brightly colored socks . inner turmoil.  poison.  an air of quiet death.  hallucinations. family dysfunction.  rich fabrics.  curses.   soft piano music.  restrained anger.   spinning out of control. artist and muse.  dark love.   pastels.  peace in the countryside.   clockwork dynamics. perfection.  wild mushrooms.   giving up every piece of yourself.   rags to riches.  ghosts. new year’s.   lingering gazes.   needle and thread.   fine dining. hearing every sound.   being ambushed.  ego.   flowing dresses.   a person out of place.  defiance.  ink to paper.   an artist tortured by their art.  obsessive personalities.   peepholes.   soothing elegance.   silk. spiral staircases.   driving at high speeds.    high society.

THE POST

typewriters.   newspapers.   tense climates.   distrust of authority.   internal battles.   a legacy at stake.   secrets.   cover-ups.   defending what you believe.   peering through windows.  melodrama.   political corruption.  behind closed doors.   sniffing a scoop.  ringing phones.  lying for over a decade.   cramming and crowding.   cold grays.   war.   fluorescent lights.   treason.   shuffled papers.   the jungle.   a weight on your shoulders.   fresh coffee. thousands of deaths.   burglary.   finding your voice.   risking everything.  propaganda.   tough choices.   exposure.   type being set by hand.   workplace rivalries.   abusing power.  security breaches.   hierarchy.   a bed strewn with papers and books.   paranoia.   orders.   clicking keys.   redacted files.   desk clutter.   cigarette smoke.   precious cargo.   vanished technologies.   suspenseful conversations.   facing charges.   courtroom battles.   suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR

never surrendering.  duty.   countless negotiations.   the flash of cameras.   beaches.   historic buildings.   guzzling booze.   resignation.   utter catastrophe.   bunkers.   radio broadcasts.  going against the odds.   bathed in red light.   a sense of humor.   allies.   shouting matches.    small square windows.   selfishness.   walking with a cane.   war rooms.   chandeliers.   dust floating in air.   righteousness.   a poor reputation.   an elevator surrounded by darkness.   a world at war.   needing a miracle.   interruptions.   a last hope.   cigar smoke.   quoting poetry.   photos of a loved one.   a single sunbeam.   monarchy.   vanity. rescue missions.   refusing peace.   allied chambers.  military uniforms.   taking a stand.   common folk.   suicide missions.   drums of war.   tears down sullen cheeks.  reluctance. complete collapse.   evacuations.   enveloped by fog.   changing history.   blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI

severe burns.   police uniforms.   sirens.   the calmness of a deer.    strumming guitars.  grieving.   horrifying memories.   sucker punches.   a lack of respect.   facing threats.  skin under fingernails.   flicking cigarettes.   awkward dates.  nasty rumors.   claustrophobia.   lush green pastures.   molotov cocktails.   the fire of anger and revenge.   strangers.  no remorse.   bashing in windows.   the midwest.  provoking a fight.  pointing fingers.   being pressed for time.   rundown old houses.   grey morality.   dark undercurrents.    insurmountable losses.   cruel laughs.   the american flag.   dive bars.   guilty no matter what.   buildings in flames.   ambulances.   coughing up blood.   spitting.   chewing on fingernails.   one versus many.   black and red.  not understanding another’s feelings.   a mother and child.   the pain of others.   a quest of justice.   abandoned billboards.   a hardened gaze.    driving to nowhere.   small towns.   last letters.   absurd violence.

DUNKIRK

burying a body.    warm cider.   narrow escapes.   a race against time.   a small boat.   all hope lost.   being unable to come home.   taken prisoner.   shipwrecks.   assuming the identity of someone else.   setting fire to it all.   smoke rising from a crash .  sea foam.   seaports.   rendered blind.   dropping to take cover.   land, sea, and air.    entangled in chain.   toast with jam.    suspense.   waiting for escape.   wounded men. lying in the sand.   trauma.   blank spaces.   sinking ships.  commended a hero.  cocking a gun.   swallowed by darkness.   bullet holes.   obstacles and delays.   a hero’s welcome.   planes overhead.   the sounds of a ticking clock.   bullets ricocheting off metal.   people by the thousands.   shell-shocked.   the explosions of shells on shores.    the sound of destruction.   rising tides.  head injuries.   target practice.   compressed time and space.   the perennial threat of death.  oil ignited into flames.  lying for the greater good.   blocking out the noise.   primal dangers.   taking command.    sole survivor.

GET OUT

deer antlers.   suburbs.   hypnosis.   strange behavior.  familial tension.   chopping wood. uneasy stares.   tears and a smile.   deception.   fight or flight.   blindness.   survival.   sinking into the floor.  watching but powerless.   strapped to a chair.   plugged ears.   a failed handshake.  car accidents.   sunken places.   something out of a nightmare.   going hysterical.   bingo cards.   smoking cigarettes.   static on a television set.   doing more harm than good.   a hint of a smile.   a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them.  waiting for someone to come when they never will.   overturned candles.   wealthy garden parties.   constantly looking over your shoulder.   silence no matter how hard you scream.   trances.   catharsis.    a battle of wills.   layers being peeled back.   a cup of tea.   nosebleeds.   addiction.   last bits of life leaving a body.   black and white photography.   sprinting at high speeds.   conspiracies.   surgery.   blankly polite speech.   noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup.  a deer in headlights.   staring at your own reflection.   unable to sleep.   loyal friends.

LADY BIRD

california landscapes.   budding romance.   uniforms.   consolation.   plain and luscious colors.   apologizing.   boorish sex.   prom dresses.   secondhand dresses.   strong personalities.   the ups and downs of adolescence.   the theatre.   being simultaneously warm and scary.    battling depression.   90’s fashion.   dreaming of elsewhere.   partying.  signatures on a cast.   living on the wrong side of the tracks.   not being bound by any era.   rejection.   sparklers.  thrift stores.  high school.  identity crisis.  a place that looks like a memory.   going behind backs.   disappointed parents.   catholicism.   poverty.   busy new york city streets.   monotonous hometowns.   shitty bands.   anarchy.   drifting in and out of friendships.   menial jobs.   red hair.   self-given names.   coming-of-age.   a broken arm. excessive drinking.   first kisses.   cupcakes.   smudged eye makeup. bruises gained unknowingly.   strained relationships.   screaming in the middle of the street.   thoughtful letters.   standing out.   decorated bedroom walls.   having a change of heart.   expressing individuality.

[reincarneth-moved]

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS.   repost, don’t reblog. bold whatever applies. tag whoever you want and feel free to add to the categories.

THE SHAPE OF WATER : early mornings. art on an easel. being trapped. flashy cars. self-righteous intolerance. speaking volumes without a word. being submerged. learning and adapting. raindrops on windows.  bubbles rising in water. cats.  taboo desires.  tanks of water.  kitschy nostalgia. kissing underwater. silence.  isolation. golden age hollywood. sign language. scales.  egg shells. jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies.  creature features. the space race. red coats. monstrous fairy tales.  lab coats. lunches in brown bags. the click of shoes.  smog.  dance routines.  slices of pie. toxic masculinity. chains. government secrets. seeing past flaws. floating aimlessly. needles. greens and blues.  deep, inexorable scars. gills.  music from the 30′s. retro-futurism. bloody handprints.  routines.  record players. old movies. love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD  :  a doll in a gilded birdcage. butter to bread. the death of a mother father. cycles. hidden messages.  a disruptive presence. longing.  wedding gowns.  posh control. post-war. brightly colored socks. inner turmoil.  poison.  an air of quiet death.  hallucinations. family dysfunction. rich fabrics. curses. soft piano music. restrained anger. spinning out of control.  artist and muse.  dark love.  pastels. peace in the countryside. clockwork dynamics. perfection.  wild mushrooms.  giving up every piece of yourself.  rags to riches.  ghosts.  new year’s.  lingering gazes.  needle and thread. fine dining. hearing every sound.  being ambushed. ego.  flowing dresses.  a person out of place. defiance.  ink to paper. an artist tortured by their art. obsessive personalities.  peepholes.  soothing elegance.  silk. spiral staircases.  driving at high speeds. high society.

THE POST : typewriters. newspapers. tense climates.  distrust of authority. internal battles. a legacy at stake. secrets. cover-ups.  defending what you believe. peering through windows. melodrama. political corruption. behind closed doors. sniffing a scoop. ringing phones. lying for over a decade.  cramming and crowding.  cold grays. war.  fluorescent lights.  treason.  shuffled papers.  the jungle. a weight on your shoulders. fresh coffee. thousands of deaths. burglary.  finding your voice.  risking everything.  propaganda. tough choices. exposure.  type being set by hand.  workplace rivalries.  abuses of power.  security breaches. hierarchy. a bed strewn with papers and books. paranoia.  orders. clicking keys. redacted files. desk clutter.  cigarette smoke.  precious cargo.  vanished technologies.  suspenseful conversations. facing charges.  courtroom battles.  suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR  : never surrendering.  duty.  countless negotiations.  the flash of cameras. beaches. historic buildings.  guzzling booze.  resignation. utter catastrophe. bunkers.  radio broadcasts. going against the odds.  bathed in red light.  a sense of humor.   allies. shouting matches.  small square windows. selfishness. walking with a cane. war rooms. chandeliers. dust floating in air. righteousness.  a poor reputation.  an elevator surrounded by darkness.  a world at war.  needing a miracle.  interruptions.  a last hope. cigar smoke.  quoting poetry.  photos of a loved one.  a single sunbeam. monarchy. vanity.  rescue missions. refusing peace.  pallid chambers.  military uniforms. taking a stand. common folk. suicide missions.  drums of war. tears down sullen cheeks.  reluctance.  complete collapse.  evacuations. enveloped by fog.  changing history. blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI  :   severe burns.  police uniforms.  sirens. the calmness of a deer. strumming guitars. grieving. horrifying memories. sucker punches. a lack of respect.  facing threats.  skin under fingernails. flicking cigarettes.  awkward dates.  nasty rumors. claustrophobia.  lush green pastures.  molotov cocktails.  the fire of anger and revenge.  strangers.  no remorse. bashing in windows.  the midwest. provoking a fight. pointing fingers. being pressed for time.  rundown old houses. grey morality.  dark undercurrents. insurmountable losses.  cruel laughs.   the american flag. dive bars. guilty no matter what.   buildings in flames. ambulances. coughing up blood. spitting.  chewing on fingernails.  one versus many.  black and red. not understanding another’s feelings. a mother and child.  the pain of others. a quest of justice. abandoned billboards.  a hardened gaze. driving to nowhere.  small towns. last letters. absurd violence.

DUNKIRK  : burying a body.  warm cider.  narrow escapes. a race against time. a small boat. all hope lost. being unable to come home.  taken prisoner. shipwrecks.  assuming the identity of someone else. setting fire to it all.  smoke rising from a crash. sea foam.  seaports.  rendered blind. dropping to take cover. land, sea, and air. entangled in chain.  toast with jam. suspense.  waiting for escape.  wounded men. lying in the sand. trauma. blank spaces. sinking ships.  commended a hero.  cocking a gun. swallowed by darkness. bullet holes. obstacles and delays.  a hero’s welcome. planes overhead. the sounds of a ticking clock. bullets ricocheting off metal. people by the thousands.  shell-shocked.  the explosions of shells on shores.  the sound of destruction. rising tides.  head injuries. target practice.  compressed time and space. the perennial threat of death. oil ignited into flames.  lying for the greater good. blocking out the noise.  primal dangers.  taking command.  sole survivor.

GET OUT  : deer antlers.  suburbs.  hypnosis.  strange behavior.  familial tension.  chopping wood.  uneasy stares. tears and a smile. deception. fight or flight.  blindness.  survival.  sinking into the floor. watching but powerless. strapped to a chair.  plugged ears.  a failed handshake.  car accidents.  sunken places. something out of a nightmare.  going hysterical.  bingo cards. smoking cigarettes.  static on a television set.  doing more harm than good. a hint of a smile. a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them. waiting for someone to come when they never will. overturned candles.  wealthy garden parties.  constantly looking over your shoulder. silence no matter how hard you scream.  trances.  catharsis. a battle of wills. layers being peeled back. a cup of tea. nosebleeds.  addiction.  last bits of life leaving a body. black and white photography.  sprinting at high speeds. conspiracies. surgery. blankly polite speech.  noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup.   a deer in headlights. staring at your own reflection. unable to sleep. loyal friends.

LADY BIRD : california landscapes. budding romance.  uniforms. consolation. plain and luscious colors.  apologizing. boorish sex. prom dresses.  secondhand dresses.  strong personalities. the theatre.  being simultaneously warm and scary.  battling depression.  90’s fashion.  dreaming of elsewhere. partying. signatures on a cast. living on the wrong side of the tracks.  not being bound by any era. rejection.  sparklers.  thrift stores.  high school.  identity crisis. a place that looks like a memory.  going behind backs.  disappointed parents.  catholicism.  poverty.  busy new york city streets. monotonous hometowns. shitty bands. teenage anarchy. drifting in and out of friendships. menial jobs.  red hair. self-given names.  coming-of-age.  a broken arm. excessive drinking.  first kisses.  cupcakes. smudged eye makeup. strained relationships.  screaming in the middle of the street.  thoughtful letters. standing out. decorated bedroom walls. having a change of heart. expressing individuality.

tagged: @bojoukken​ tagging: @kaerux​ @fmthefm​ @nostomannia​ @fxtelism​ @precure-memory​ @batoushoujo​ @sukiban​ and whoever else wants to do this-

[raiiju]

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS.   repost, don’t reblog. bold whatever applies. tag whoever you want and feel free to add to the categories. 

THE SHAPE OF WATER : early mornings. art on an easel. being trapped. flashy cars. self-righteous intolerance. speaking volumes without a word. being submerged.  learning and adapting.  raindrops on windows.  bubbles rising in water. cats. taboo desires. tanks of water.  kitschy nostalgia. kissing underwater.  silence. isolation. golden age hollywood. sign language. scales.  egg shells. jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies.  creature features. the space race. red coats. monstrous fairy tales.  lab coats. lunches in brown bags. the click of shoes.  smog. dance routines.  slices of pie. toxic masculinity.  chains.  government secrets. seeing past flaws. floating aimlessly. needles. greens and blues.  deep, inexorable scars. gills.  music from the 30′s.  retro-futurism. bloody handprints.  routines.  record players. old movies. love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD  :  a doll in a gilded birdcage. butter to bread. the death of a mother. cycles. hidden messages.  a disruptive presence. longing.  wedding gowns.  posh control. post-war. brightly colored socks. inner turmoil.  poison.  an air of quiet death.  hallucinations. family dysfunction. rich fabrics. curses. soft piano music. restrained anger.  spinning out of control.  artist and muse. dark love. pastels. peace in the countryside. clockwork dynamics. perfection.  wild mushrooms.  giving up every piece of yourself.  rags to riches.  ghosts.  new year’s.  lingering gazes.  needle and thread. fine dining. hearing every sound.  being ambushed. ego.  flowing dresses.  a person out of place. defiance.  ink to paper.  an artist tortured by their art.  obsessive personalities. peepholes.  soothing elegance.  silk. spiral staircases.  driving at high speeds. high society.

THE POST : typewriters. newspapers.  tense climates.  distrust of authority. internal battles. a legacy at stake. secrets. cover-ups.  defending what you believe. peering through windows. melodrama. political corruption.  behind closed doors. sniffing a scoop. ringing phones. lying for over a decade.  cramming and crowding.  cold grays.  war.  fluorescent lights.  treason.  shuffled papers.  the jungle.  a weight on your shoulders. fresh coffee. thousands of deaths. burglary.  finding your voice.  risking everything.  propaganda. tough choices. exposure.  type being set by hand.  workplace rivalries.  abuses of power.  security breaches. hierarchy. a bed strewn with papers and books. paranoia.  orders.  clicking keys. redacted files. desk clutter.  cigarette smoke.  precious cargo.  vanished technologies.  suspenseful conversations. facing charges.  courtroom battles.  suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR  : never surrendering.  duty.  countless negotiations.  the flash of cameras.  beaches. historic buildings.  guzzling booze.  resignation. utter catastrophe. bunkers.  radio broadcasts. going against the odds.  bathed in red light.  a sense of humor.  allies.  shouting matches.  small square windows. selfishness. walking with a cane. war rooms.  chandeliers. dust floating in air.  righteousness.  a poor reputation.  an elevator surrounded by darkness.  a world at war.  needing a miracle.  interruptions.  a last hope. cigar smoke.  quoting poetry.  photos of a loved one.  a single sunbeam.  monarchy.  vanity.  rescue missions.  refusing peace.  pallid chambers.  military uniforms.  taking a stand.  common folk.  suicide missions.  drums of war.  tears down sullen cheeks.  reluctance.  complete collapse.  evacuations. enveloped by fog.  changing history.  blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI  :   severe burns.  police uniforms.  sirens. the calmness of a deer. strumming guitars. grieving. horrifying memories. sucker punches. a lack of respect. facing threats.  skin under fingernails. flicking cigarettes.  awkward dates.  nasty rumors. claustrophobia.  lush green pastures.  molotov cocktails.  the fire of anger and revenge.  strangers.  no remorse. bashing in windows.  the midwest. provoking a fight. pointing fingers. being pressed for time.  rundown old houses. grey morality.  dark undercurrents. insurmountable losses. cruel laughs. the american flag. dive bars. guilty no matter what.  buildings in flames. ambulances. coughing up blood. spitting.  chewing on fingernails.  one versus many.  black and red. not understanding another’s feelings. a mother and child. the pain of others. a quest of justice. abandoned billboards.  a hardened gaze.  driving to nowhere.  small towns. last letters. absurd violence.

DUNKIRK  : burying a body.  warm cider.  narrow escapes. a race against time.  a small boat.  all hope lost. being unable to come home.  taken prisoner. shipwrecks. assuming the identity of someone else. setting fire to it all.  smoke rising from a crash. sea foam.  seaports.  rendered blind. dropping to take cover. land, sea, and air. entangled in chain.  toast with jam. suspense.  waiting for escape.  wounded men. lying in the sand. trauma. blank spaces. sinking ships.  commended a hero.  cocking a gun. swallowed by darkness.  bullet holes. obstacles and delays.  a hero’s welcome. planes overhead. the sounds of a ticking clock. bullets ricocheting off metal.  people by the thousands.  shell-shocked.  the explosions of shells on shores.  the sound of destruction. rising tides.  head injuries. target practice.  compressed time and space. the perennial threat of death.  oil ignited into flames.  lying for the greater good.  blocking out the noise.  primal dangers.  taking command.  sole survivor.

GET OUT  : deer antlers.  suburbs.  hypnosis.  strange behavior.  familial tension.  chopping wood.  uneasy stares. tears and a smile. deception. fight or flight.  blindness.  survival.  sinking into the floor. watching but powerless. strapped to a chair.  plugged ears.  a failed handshake.  car accidents.  sunken places. something out of a nightmare.  going hysterical. bingo cards. smoking cigarettes.  static on a television set.  doing more harm than good. a hint of a smile. a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them. waiting for someone to come when they never will. overturned candles.  wealthy garden parties.  constantly looking over your shoulder.  silence no matter how hard you scream.  trances.  catharsis.  a battle of wills. layers being peeled back. a cup of tea. nosebleeds.  addiction.  last bits of life leaving a body.  black and white photography.  sprinting at high speeds. conspiracies. surgery. blankly polite speech. noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup.   a deer in headlights. staring at your own reflection. unable to sleep. loyal friends.

LADY BIRD : california landscapes. budding romance.  uniforms. consolation. plain and luscious colors.  apologizing. boorish sex. prom dresses.  secondhand dresses.  strong personalities. the theatre.  being simultaneously warm and scary.  battling depression.  90’s fashion.  dreaming of elsewhere. partying. signatures on a cast. living on the wrong side of the tracks.  not being bound by any era.  rejection.  sparklers.  thrift stores.  high school.  identity crisis.  a place that looks like a memory.  going behind backs.  disappointed parents.  catholicism.  poverty.  busy new york city streets. monotonous hometowns. shitty bands.  teenage anarchy. drifting in and out of friendships. menial jobs. red hair. self-given names.  coming-of-age.  a broken arm. excessive drinking.  first kisses.  cupcakes.  smudged eye makeup. strained relationships.  screaming in the middle of the street.  thoughtful letters. standing out. decorated bedroom walls. having a change of heart. expressing individuality. 

tagged: @conseille​ & @xking​​ ( ty! ♥ ) tagging: @jaxyu​​, @horclogium​​, @reiked​​, @pseudogaiety​​, @abendrotbrav​​, @darkbootsofblood​​​

[infireandfury]

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS.   repost, don’t reblog. bold whatever applies. tag whoever you want and feel free to add to the categories.

THE SHAPE OF WATER : early mornings. art on an easel. being trapped. flashy cars. self-righteous intolerance. speaking volumes without a word. being submerged. learning and adapting. raindrops on windows.  bubbles rising in water. cats. taboo desires. tanks of water.  kitschy nostalgia. kissing underwater. silence.  isolation. golden age hollywood. sign language. scales. egg shells. jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies.  creature features. the space race. red coats. monstrous fairy tales.  lab coats. lunches in brown bags. the click of shoes.  smog. dance routines.  slices of pie. toxic masculinity. chains. government secrets. seeing past flaws. floating aimlessly. needles. greens and blues.  deep, inexorable scars. gills.  music from the 30′s.  retro-futurism. bloody handprints. routines.  record players. old movies. love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD  :  a doll in a gilded birdcage. butter to bread. the death of a mother. cycles. hidden messages.  a disruptive presence. longing.  wedding gowns.  posh control. post-war. brightly colored socks. inner turmoil.  poison. an air of quiet death.  hallucinations. family dysfunction. rich fabrics. curses. soft piano music. restrained anger. spinning out of control.  artist and muse. dark love. pastels. peace in the countryside. clockwork dynamics. perfection.  wild mushrooms.  giving up every piece of yourself. rags to riches.  ghosts. new year’s.  lingering gazes.  needle and thread. fine dining. hearing every sound.  being ambushed. ego.  flowing dresses.  a person out of place. defiance.  ink to paper.  an artist tortured by their art.  obsessive personalities. peepholes.  soothing elegance.  silk. spiral staircases.  driving at high speeds. high society.

THE POST : typewriters. newspapers. tense climates.  distrust of authority. internal battles. a legacy at stake. secrets. cover-ups.  defending what you believe. peering through windows. melodrama. political corruption.  behind closed doors. sniffing a scoop. ringing phones. lying for over a decade. cramming and crowding.  cold grays. war. fluorescent lights.  treason.  shuffled papers.  the jungle. a weight on your shoulders. fresh coffee. thousands of deaths. burglary.  finding your voice. risking everything.  propaganda. tough choices. exposure.  type being set by hand.  workplace rivalries.  abuses of power.  security breaches. hierarchy. a bed strewn with papers and books. paranoia. orders. clicking keys. redacted files. desk clutter.  cigarette smoke.  precious cargo.  vanished technologies. suspenseful conversations. facing charges.  courtroom battles.  suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR  : never surrendering.  duty.  countless negotiations.  the flash of cameras.  beaches. historic buildings.  guzzling booze.  resignation. utter catastrophe. bunkers.  radio broadcasts. going against the odds.  bathed in red light.  a sense of humor.  allies. shouting matches.  small square windows. selfishness. walking with a cane. war rooms.  chandeliers. dust floating in air. righteousness.  a poor reputation.  an elevator surrounded by darkness.  a world at war.  needing a miracle.  interruptions.  a last hope. cigar smoke.  quoting poetry.  photos of a loved one.  a single sunbeam. monarchy. vanity. rescue missions. refusing peace.  pallid chambers.  military uniforms. taking a stand. common folk. suicide missions.  drums of war.  tears down sullen cheeks.  reluctance.  complete collapse.  evacuations. enveloped by fog.  changing history. blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI  :   severe burns.  police uniforms.  sirens. the calmness of a deer. strumming guitars. grieving. horrifying memories. sucker punches. a lack of respect. facing threats. skin under fingernails. flicking cigarettes.  awkward dates.  nasty rumors. claustrophobia.  lush green pastures.  molotov cocktails.  the fire of anger and revenge. strangers. no remorse. bashing in windows.  the midwest. provoking a fight. pointing fingers. being pressed for time.  rundown old houses. grey morality.  dark undercurrents. insurmountable losses. cruel laughs. the american flag. dive bars. guilty no matter what.   buildings in flames. ambulances. coughing up blood. spitting.  chewing on fingernails.  one versus many.  black and red. not understanding another’s feelings. a mother and child. the pain of others. a quest of justice. abandoned billboards.  a hardened gaze.  driving to nowhere.  small towns. last letters. absurd violence.

DUNKIRK  : burying a body. warm cider.  narrow escapes. a race against time.  a small boat. all hope lost. being unable to come home.  taken prisoner. shipwrecks.  assuming the identity of someone else. setting fire to it all.  smoke rising from a crash. sea foam.  seaports.  rendered blind. dropping to take cover. land, sea, and air. entangled in chain. toast with jam. suspense.  waiting for escape.  wounded men. lying in the sand. trauma. blank spaces. sinking ships.  commended a hero.  cocking a gun. swallowed by darkness.  bullet holes. obstacles and delays.  a hero’s welcome. planes overhead. the sounds of a ticking clock. bullets ricocheting off metal.  people by the thousands.  shell-shocked.  the explosions of shells on shores. the sound of destruction. rising tides.  head injuries. target practice.  compressed time and space. the perennial threat of death. oil ignited into flames.  lying for the greater good.  blocking out the noise.  primal dangers. taking command. sole survivor.

GET OUT  : deer antlers.  suburbs.  hypnosis. strange behavior.  familial tension.  chopping wood.  uneasy stares. tears and a smile. deception. fight or flight.  blindness.  survival.  sinking into the floor. watching but powerless. strapped to a chair.  plugged ears.  a failed handshake.  car accidents. sunken places. something out of a nightmare. going hysterical. bingo cards. smoking cigarettes.  static on a television set.  doing more harm than good. a hint of a smile. a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them. waiting for someone to come when they never will. overturned candles.  wealthy garden parties.  constantly looking over your shoulder. silence no matter how hard you scream. trances.  catharsis.  a battle of wills. layers being peeled back. a cup of tea. nosebleeds.  addiction. last bits of life leaving a body.  black and white photography.  sprinting at high speeds. conspiracies. surgery. blankly polite speech.  noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup.   a deer in headlights. staring at your own reflection. unable to sleep. loyal friends.

LADY BIRD : california landscapes. budding romance.  uniforms. consolation. plain and luscious colors.  apologizing. boorish sex. prom dresses.  secondhand dresses.  strong personalities. the theatre. being simultaneously warm and scary.  battling depression. 90’s fashion. dreaming of elsewhere. partying. signatures on a cast. living on the wrong side of the tracks.  not being bound by any era. rejection.  sparklers.  thrift stores.  high school.  identity crisis.  a place that looks like a memory.  going behind backs.  disappointed parents.  catholicism.  poverty.  busy new york city streets. monotonous hometowns. shitty bands.  teenage anarchy. drifting in and out of friendships. menial jobs. red hair. self-given names.  coming-of-age.  a broken arm. excessive drinking.  first kisses.  cupcakes.  smudged eye makeup. strained relationships.  screaming in the middle of the street.  thoughtful letters. standing out. decorated bedroom walls. having a change of heart. expressing individuality.

tagged: @xking //ty my king tagging: @musaiya @eyes-ofthedragon @jaxyu​ and whoever’s reading this !!