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teaandjumpers · 2 days ago

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Obikin Clueless AU (WIP Wednesday)

“Blast,” said Obi-Wan as he stared down at the three ties laid out on his bed.

Apart from some minor differences in color and texture, they all looked interchangeable to him. It was not something he should be fixating on, not with the signing a mere two hours away.

A sharp knock pulled him from his thoughts, and he turned towards the sound to find Anakin leaning against the door frame. He was dressed for the occasion in flared high-waisted trousers, a semi-sheer ivory lace button down, and black loafers with no socks.

He looked more like a model from a high-end fashion magazine than the teenager who used to fly drones outside their home, repeatedly crashing them into Obi-Wan’s car, much to the younger man’s amusement.

“What are you doing here?” asked Obi-Wan, surprised to see his step-brother back home from school, especially on this day.

It wasn’t that Anakin didn’t support Obi-Wan’s appointment as managing partner of Qui-Gonn’s firm. In fact, he pushed for it more than anyone, grateful that the mantle wouldn’t pass to him, not having the patience for law and the often slow and tactful art of persuasion.

The young man had found his passion in engineering, and with an Ivy League degree and a trust fund that had made Obi-Wan choke on a swig of Scotch upon hearing the size of it, Anakin could fund any project he wanted. Or he could do absolutely nothing for the rest of his life and fund other people’s projects, living in the type of splendor that was usually only seen in swanky Hollywood movies.

But Anakin didn’t like to be idle. It was one of the things Obi-Wan admired about the boy—no, man. At twenty-five, Anakin was very much a man now, and he looked it, too, the way his chest had filled out, the way those long thighs broadened, the way his eyes smoldered, always looking like he was about to take the runway, strike a pose and glare.

Obi-Wan used to tease him about it, saying things like, “I heard they’re hiring live models for the Versace window display, darling. You should look into it.”

It would, of course, make Anakin glower even more, prompting the younger man to chase Obi-Wan around the many rooms of their mansion, ready to smother him with a pillow.

Those were simpler times—before the moment. Before that night in the living room when Obi-Wan was sorting through depositions and Anakin, being the brat that he was, had plopped onto the couch, turned on wrestling, and started chewing on Pringles—loudly.

“Do you mind,” Obi-Wan had asked, grabbing the remote out from under Anakin and turning off the television.

“Actually, I do,” said Anakin, attempting to snatch the remote back but failing. “You can work anywhere, Obi-Wan,” he whined.

“I’m certain you have two televisions in your room, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, holding the remote out of reach behind him. “And one in your bathroom.”

“Yeah, but this is the only room with a TV and a fireplace,” said Anakin, rising to his knees on the couch, attempting to use his height to snatch the remote.

With one hand pressed firmly against the younger man’s chest, Obi-Wan managed to keep Anakin at bay.

“You’re such a spoiled brat,” he said, looking up at Anakin with disbelief.

“Well, you took the only other room with a fireplace, and you don’t believe in having televisions in the bedroom,” Anakin said, mimicking Obi-Wan’s accent.

Distracted by Anakin’s ridiculous attempt at mocking him, Obi-Wan was caught off guard when Anakin lunged at him and pulled the remote from his hand.

“Ha,” the younger man said triumphantly, turning the television back on.

On any other day, Obi-Wan would have left it. Would have left the room, let Anakin win, because Anakin almost never gave up on something once he set his sights on it, whether it was a person or getting his way on movie night.

But that night, Obi-Wan was frustrated—they were falling behind on work, and Anakin, newly graduated from high school, had too much energy. He’d been bouncing through the house all day, and when Obi-Wan finally settled down in a space that Anakin had already torn through, he thought he was safe.

Not so. And so Anakin, who had already turned his wrestling show back back on, who was reaching for the cylinder of Pringles that had rolled under the couch, didn’t expect Obi-Wan to grab him from behind, didn’t expect his step-brother to hook his arms beneath his armpits, locking the younger man’s arms up in a tight hold.

Anakin grunted and tried to shake his way out of Obi-Wan’s hold, but it was no use.

“You forget, I was captain of the wrestling team in college,” said Obi-Wan, huffing the words against the tousled mess that was Anakin’s hair.

“Community college,” snorted Anakin, and that earned him a sharp tug of the arms, one that brought his body closer to Obi-Wan’s, making it so that Anakin was sitting on Obi-Wan’s lap, squirming in the older man’s lap, and then panting as his movements stilled, as he slid farther into Obi-Wan’s space until his back was pressed up against the other man.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved, save for the slow heaving of their chests and the soft shuddering breaths coming from Anakin. The fire crackled in the background and cheers sounded from the television, but Anakin stayed perched atop Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan held him there, the young man’s arms still suspended above his head.

“They call this the Master Lock,” said Obi-Wan softly, relishing the clenching of Anakin’s jaw and the haughty but quiet “I know” that fell from his lips.

At least a full minute passed before Obi-Wan released his hold. Once free, he assumed Anakin would wrench his body away from him, ready to take up the fight again, but Anakin didn’t move. Or at least he didn’t move away. He turned his head, presenting his profile to Obi-Wan. His eyes were downcast, and it made the heavy line of his lashes even more pronounced. Anakin swallowed, and Obi-Wan tracked the slow path of the movement down Anakin’s throat.

And then Anakin shifted. It was minute, nearly imperceptible, but Obi-Wan most certainly felt it, sitting so still beneath his legal but still very young step-brother. It was a slow rock of Anakin’s hips, not even a rock, but a slight pivot, the weight of Anakin’s hips pressing down then sliding back.

At first, Obi-Wan thought that maybe Anakin was trying to get up, get some momentum before sliding off of him, but then it happened again, the press of Anakin’s cheeks against his thighs and then he was shifting back, sliding closer and closer to his groin. When it happened one more time, the slow grind paired now with a low moan that slipped from Anakin’s pink, parted lips, Obi-Wan shot up from his seat and upended Anakin, too afraid to look back as he fled to his room.

Obi-Wan had been careful to give Anakin a wide berth since then, not wanting to examine the very un-familial emotions that had coursed through him when he had Anakin on his lap.

It wasn’t like they were actually brothers. Not by blood at least. But it was still frowned upon, and the other partners at the firm would undoubtedly reconsider appointing Obi-Wan their new managing partner if they knew there was anything untoward going on between him and his step-brother, the current managing partner’s son.

“I thought you were still in Seville—living it up with Padme,” said Obi-Wan, softening his tone. He felt he might have been a bit too harsh to the younger man when he asked him what he was doing here.

“I was,” said Anakin, approaching Obi-Wan’s bed and examining the ties alongside the other man. “But I couldn’t miss your big day,” he said, poking Obi-Wan with an elbow.

Obi-Wan glanced at Anakin’s profile. He was tanned, even more so than usual, and, dear god, he looked beautiful. His lashes were dark and his lips extra pouty, as if he had applied some kind of plumper to it. He really should have been a model, he thought, shaking the words away as quickly as they came.

“Perhaps you can help me pick out a tie for the event?” he asked. “Satine sent them, but they look identical to me.”

“Still letting your ex dress you, Obi-Wan?” Anakin teased as he leaned forward to examine the ties more closely. He turned his nose up at each option, then looked up at Obi-Wan, assessing his wardrobe.

He eyed the dark blue pleated trousers and the fitted white dress shirt, the one Obi-Wan worried he was now sweating through. Anakin stepped closer, a mere foot separating them now. He brought a hand to Obi-Wan’s throat and undid one of the buttons of his collar. He pulled back to consider his work and unbuttoned one more.

“No tie,” said Anakin with finality.

“Did I miss that year where you minored in public relations?”

“Satine knows the press, but I know clothes,” said Anakin, unnecessarily readjusting Obi-Wan’s collar. “The partners chose you because they want someone practical to take over—someone pragmatic who’s not fussy. A tie is fussy.”

“And here I thought they chose me because I’ve only had three losses in my fifteen years of practice.”

“We’re all very impressed,” said Anakin, sarcastic. He smoothed out the nonexistent lines at the front of Obi-Wan’s shirt. Also unnecessary, thought Obi-Wan.

When Anakin seemed satisfied with his efforts, he pulled away, turning towards the door. But he paused for a moment and turned back, biting his bottom lip before approaching Obi-Wan.

“I’m really proud of you, Obi-Wan,” he said, uncharacteristically sincere.

It made Obi-Wan blink back at him in surprise, but what surprised him even more was when Anakin leaned in close and, after hesitating for a moment, gripped the thickest part of Obi-Wan’s arm and pressed a soft kiss on Obi-Wan’s cheek.

When Anakin pulled away, his own cheeks were pink, and he glanced at Obi-Wan shyly.

“You’re gonna be great,” Anakin said, and then he left Obi-Wan on his own, hours away from achieving one of his life-long goals.

Only now, all he would be able to think about was Anakin—Anakin and his impossibly long legs, Anakin and that obscene sheer shirt and the golden warm expanse of skin beneath it, Anakin and those eyes, those eyes that still grew dark when they skirted over Obi-Wan’s shoulders. Anakin and his soft, petal pink lips that were just moments ago pressed against the line where his beard met his cheek.

Fuck. He was definitely sweating through his shirt now.

- - - -

(Anakin’s outfit)

#very loosely based on Clueless #no hate to community colleges–I went to one #i dont know anything about wrestling sorry #or law firms #will post on ao3 later if I write more #obikin #obikin wip #obikin fic #my fic #Clueless Au #obikin step brothers

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ionobjectshow · 15 hours ago

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Hello granddad!! Really enjoyed the new episode by the way :D I just wanted to ask something, I dont know if you already answered this so I'm sorry for bothering you if you have D:

Do you have a particular interest in nuclear physics? I'm wondering because when I watch ION it seems to me like you must be very passionate about it as well, either that or your just very good at researching (or making stuff up this sounds legit to people who dont know anything about physics, like me! /j), but it sounds like you know a considerable amount! Maybe it just seems like that to me because I don't understand physics at all :P

I really love cracklin!! So much!!! I've felt like I was too naive and childish for most of my life, I felt weak, pathetic, i cried nearly every day and my feelings of self hatred were only solidified by the people around me. And even though I act MUCH differently now and am in fact quite crude (I am much like a bird squawking outside your window that refuses to shut up!!!) and say uncomfortable things, I'm still regarded as naive and dumb sometimes! The thing Sylvia and cracklin have going on feels very similar to MANY friendships I've had with girls my age. I liked school very much and liked to work, so it made them angry that I managed to be "so stupid and so smart at the same time" (quoted directly from something a girl said to me when I was in middle school). I feel very seen.

I also want to ask if you have a particular interest in object shows, or if you just happened to choose to make your show an object show by coincidence? Object shows are my special interest and I LOVE how your show goes against (almost) everything standard for an object show. Your show is absolutely unique and there's nothing like it out there! I'm sure you will inspire many young creators to make their object shows more serious and complex, deviating from just the typical competition show. In my eyes something is qualified as an object show when there are objects (or non human characters) and the creator considers it an object show, so I love how versatile the title can be! Your designs communicate a lot about the characters and that's SO uncommon!!!! I love it!!!!! You inspire ME!!!! The art is also BEAUTIFUL, really abnormal to see in object shows, most of the time very little detail is put into it, but your backgrounds feel so ALIVE

Have a good day! :]

☢️ As soon as I saw this secret message, the words flashed through my mind: “this letter is very autistic, perhaps it was created by an autistic person.” ☢️ I love long opinions with lots of details and sincere emotions, thank you for this text, I was very happy reading it!

☢️ Yes, you guessed it - nuclear physics (especially everything related to the operation of Nuclear Power Plants) has been my special autistic interest for about 5 years now. I love everything about it. In fact, I am absolutely bad at the exact sciences, but the dance of nuclear energies fascinates me and takes my breath away! I order manuals on nuclear reactors for myself and read them with great pleasure, waving my hands. I often go to a coffee shop to read there by the window with a cup of coffee ^^

☢️ I created ION during the most terrible period of my life, and this project was the only thing that held me while anxious depression was rapidly developing and consuming me into some bottomless black abyss. So I put my whole soul, all of myself and what I love into ION, I made this project my mirror. ☢️ It is very important for me to see how this story touches the hearts of other people, I scream with delight if some neurodivergent people recognize themselves in Cracklin! This is extremely important to me.

☢️ Object shows are not my special interest, but I was very surprised and intrigued by this genre of web animation. At first, I did not like the concept of an object show and I could not understand why people were watching it … and then something switched inside me and I really wanted to create my own experimental Object show. To create it entirely myself. To make an author's project that will become a part of me. I didn't even hope that ION would be liked by anyone else, I posted 1 episode with the thought that I was doing it only for myself. And now I am happy as a rainbow in the sky, reading so many kind comments and support! Thank you very much

#ion object show #investigation of object nuclearity #i.o.n.#object shows #ион обджект шоу #и.о.н.#cracklin ion #object show community #special interest #autistic character #osc community #objects #object show #osc

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kingmakerpod · 2 days ago

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Might be an uncouth subject, but I was wondering if you'd be willing to share some insight on what kind of money goes into producing audio dramas (specifically when it comes to reaching out to/compensating vocal talent.) I know a lot depends on what tools and connections you already have; I'm just looking for a flexible baseline to start from and make sure I'm not cheating or insulting folks by asking them to work for peanuts. Having a target to save up for would be a huge help. Thanks so much!

(And yeah, I'll totally admit this is partly just me wondering how you fine WANA folks managed to nab Jonny Sims and Tiana Camacho for Killjam XXX; let me know if this is a question better posed via email and I'll get out of your hair, sorry for bothering!)

This isn't an uncouth question at all. It's actually a great question and we'll be happy to answer it!

It's hard to give a definitive baseline for budget beyond the cost of web hosting and audio equipment, which in itself can vary quite a bit. The yeti mic and arm set we (Meg and Henry) bought for Less is Morgue (and still record a lot of Killjam and TKH on) cost about 200 dollars. If I remember correctly the hosting costs for Less is Morgue were about 30 a month, and for Kingmaker it's 14 dollars a month. Those are the only two things you absolutely need to spend money on, so it's definitely possible to make a good quality audio drama for under a grand. In fact, we would absolutely not recommend going over a grand at this point. You definitely don't want to shoot too high with the budget for your first project. Spoken from experience, you will end up spending it on things you'll later realise weren't worth it.

The most important thing is just to put something out there first so the actors can tell that the project is real and you're not just stringing them along. The few episodes of Less is Morgue were pretty much all done in-house with a cast that was mostly people we were already friends with, and we didn't do any open auditions until midway through the season. Another way to do it is to start off as a single narrator podcast then gradually introduce a full cast as the show goes on. Other shows have released a pilot episode to the public that then serves as an advertisement for what the rest of the show will sound like. Once you have a sample of your work out there, you can start reaching out to actors.

When it comes to how you compensate your talent- just be upfront about how much money you're working with. The best way to not cheat or insult folks is by giving them realistic expectations. Don't promise money you don't have, and don't ask them to do work for something that you won't be able to finish. If you're honest and easy to work with, a lot of voice actors will be willing to adjust their rates or work for free. Speaking from a voice actor's perspective, Addison said she would be willing to work for free on a first time indie project if it seemed fun and interesting and she could tell that it was something the creator was really passionate about.

As for how we got some of our big names- it really is all about cultivating a reputation for being cool to work with. Maybe not the most useful advice for a first project, but it will be useful later, and it is true. At this point the WANA core four have been involved in The NoSleep Podcast, Congeria, Less is Morgue, The Kingmaker Histories and Mayfair Watcher's Society, and that's only counting the stuff that more than one of us have been involved with. Every project we try to make loads of friends. Eventually you will have enough mutual friends with enough people that you can just hit up Jonny Sims and Tiana Camancho, because someone you know worked with them on some other thing and they're willing to vouch for you.

#behind the scenes #messages

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connorsnothereeither · 2 days ago

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So,,, it’s backkkk

New Brink/Border chapter for the first time in like 5 months- 🧍

I’ll be honest gang I got a little burnt out when it came to writing, and especially after Fable ended, and I was so intent on speeding through edits and revisions and changes for the Brink series, I needed a break from that world. But HOPEFULLY I’ll get better at balancing the passion of writing it with the consistency of a decent creative schedule to avoid that for a while :)

#on the brink of scientific discovery #fable smp #fablesmp

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almostwisegalaxy · 3 days ago

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Under a grey sky

Bonus part

Older men oc x fem!reader

Reader has a shy character in this story and is in his twenties

Music to listen to for the atmosphere: DtMF_bad Bunny

Debí tirar más fotos de cuando de tuve. Debi darte más besos y abrazos. Las veces que pude...

Translation : I should have taken more photos of when I had it. I should have given you more kisses and hugs. The times I could. (⁠ᗒ⁠ᗩ⁠ᗕ⁠)

Sensitive souls please refrain. Sensitive subject. Death, cancer. I'm not making fun of anything. I'm just writing a story. As they say on Wattpad : I am responsible for what I write, you are responsible for what you read

..................................................................................

It was an evening like any other. The sky was overcast, threatening to rain. Y/n, apprentice baker, was finishing her day. She had spent hours crafting chocolate éclairs and apple tarts, her mind lost in the dream of owning her own bakery. But that night, her thoughts wandered. Too absorbed in calculating her savings, she hadn’t noticed the man crossing at a poorly lit street corner.

The screech of brakes. A thud.

Horrified, Y/n hurriedly got out of her small car. The man on the ground was still breathing, but a thin cut marked his forehead. She immediately called for help, her voice trembling with panic.

Armand opened his eyes in the hospital, disoriented. A dull ache pulsed through his head, and bandages covered his face. Yet what caught his attention was the young woman sitting by his bedside. Y/n was curled up in a chair, nervously twisting a tissue in her hands.

“You’re awake… I’m so sorry,” she murmured, her pleading eyes fixed on him.

Armand, a 39-year-old interior architect, looked at her curiously. Despite the pain, a faint smile appeared on his lips.

“Don’t worry… It’s nothing serious.”

“Nothing serious? I ran you over…”

“And yet, you’re here watching over me,” he replied lightly, trying to reassure her.

Y/n flushed deeply, but he continued, his gaze gentle:

“Go home. I’m fine, I promise.”

She hesitated but eventually obeyed. Yet the image of his comforting smile remained etched in her mind.

A few weeks later, as Y/n was decorating pastries in the bakery where she worked, the doorbell chimed. She glanced up briefly to greet the customer, but her gaze quickly returned to the tart she was preparing.

“Hello,” said a familiar voice.

She abruptly looked up. Standing before her was Armand, well-dressed, his bright smile hiding the slight scar on his forehead. She didn’t recognize him immediately.

“Do you have croissants?” he asked with a disarming ease.

“Yes, of course. Just a moment,” she replied, turning toward the display.

As she placed the croissants in a paper bag, he observed her with a hidden tenderness. She seemed more at ease here, in a world that felt made for her.

“You have a real talent,” he said suddenly.

Y/n blinked, surprised by the remark.

“Thank you… But how can you tell?”

“It’s obvious,” he said warmly. “I can see it in your movements.”

She blushed again, uncomfortable with such a sincere compliment.

Armand became a regular customer. Every morning, he stopped by for a coffee or pastry, finding excuses to exchange a few words with Y/n. He was interested in her work, her dreams.

“So, you want to open your own bakery?” he asked one day, taking a bite of a financier she had made.

She nodded timidly.

“Yes… But it’s still a long way off. I need to save, learn, and find the right place.”

“You’ll make it,” he said with conviction.

His encouragements touched her, but she never dared to ask him personal questions. She was too shy to dig deeper. Meanwhile, Armand found himself increasingly fascinated by her. Her passion, her reserve, and even her clumsiness made him smile.

One evening, as he worked on an architectural project in his office, Armand found his thoughts drifting. He realized he looked forward to seeing her every morning. But he couldn’t ignore the age gap between them.

“She’s in her twenties,” he murmured to himself. “She has so much to live, so much to discover.”

Yet he couldn’t deny the emotions growing within him. Every smile, every exchanged word gave him a thrill he hadn’t felt in years.

One day, as he waited in line at the bakery, he placed a book on the counter. It was a French pastry manual, thick and adorned with vibrant photos.

“For you,” he said with a smile.

Y/n stared at him, puzzled.

“Why…?”

“Because I believe in your dreams,” he said simply.

She clutched the book to her chest, moved by his gesture.

“Thank you… It’s… it’s a lot.”

For the first time, she looked up at him and held his gaze a little longer. An invisible butterfly stirred in Armand’s stomach.

Their relationship evolved slowly, like dough rising under a damp cloth. Y/n found herself waiting for his visits, listening for the bell to chime. Armand, for his part, took his time, respecting her pace, admiring every facet of her personality.

One day, as they shared a brioche fresh from the oven, he softly murmured:

“Y/n… You’re like this brioche.”

She looked at him, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re soft. And… you bring a warmth that isn’t always noticed at first, but it lingers long after.”

She blushed, lowering her eyes, but this time, she didn’t look away completely.

It was the beginning of a fragile yet sincere love, built on glances, gestures, and shared dreams. A love that, like a good pastry, required patience and care.

---

Weeks Passed, but Armand’s Ambition Remained Intact

Weeks went by, but Armand’s ambition remained unshaken. He was a determined man, always immersed in his work, pushing his limits day after day. His architectural projects consumed more of his life than he cared to admit, and every minute of inaction felt like wasted time. Yet deep inside, something grew stronger every time he crossed paths with Y/n: love.

But he was caught in a spiral. He saw their age difference as an undeniable obstacle he couldn’t ignore. He didn’t want Y/n to get lost in a relationship that, in his mind, had no future. She was young, full of dreams, and he… he was already in a different phase of life. He had made choices, sacrificed moments of leisure to achieve his goals.

One evening, after an especially long day, Armand went to the bakery as usual, hoping for a light conversation, a little comfort in Y/n’s small gestures. But something wasn’t right. The stress of his job, his grueling hours, the constant pressure, and lack of sleep weighed heavily on him. He entered the bakery, heading toward the counter, his tired gaze fixed on her.

“Hello,” she said softly, a shy smile on her lips as always. She didn’t know he’d had an especially difficult day.

“I need a coffee, strong,” he murmured, his tone sharper than he intended.

She looked at him for a moment, surprised by the coldness in his voice. But she didn’t respond, simply preparing his order with calm concentration. When she handed him the cup, their hands brushed briefly, and he felt a dull tension rise within him. She was so gentle, so calm. She seemed worlds away from his own turmoil.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to talk about his job, his frustrations. But instead of responding, his words came out more abruptly than he intended.

“Why do you always worry about everyone? Don’t you have anything better to do? It’s not your job to take everything on yourself.”

She flinched, her eyes widening at his harsh tone. He immediately realized his mistake, but he couldn’t seem to regain control of the situation. He had acted impulsively, without thinking. The fatigue and stress had overridden his usual gentleness.

Y/n remained silent, her gaze lowering. She didn’t know what to say, but the hurt was clear on her face. Normally so understanding, so kind, she now felt deeply wounded.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured after a long pause. “I… I just wanted to offer you a little… comfort.”

He looked at her, ashamed of his words. He shouldn’t have spoken to her like that, but his nerves were frayed. Watching her retreat in silence made his heart ache.

The next morning, Armand arrived at the bakery earlier than usual, his mind tormented by the events of the previous evening. He had spent the night reflecting on his behavior, knowing he owed her an apology. But seeing her behind the counter, arranging the morning pastries, he realized he couldn’t bear to hurt her any further.

He waited for her to look up at him. When she finally did, he approached cautiously, a bit hesitant.

“Y/n… I’m sorry about yesterday. I was… I was overwhelmed, and I shouldn’t have acted that way.”

She didn’t respond immediately, and he saw doubt flicker in her eyes. He knew his words had deeply hurt her, and the thought gnawed at him.

“It wasn’t about you,” he added, his tone calmer, almost gentle. “It’s just… it’s hard for me to balance everything I need to do.”

She looked at him for a moment, then lowered her gaze, as if his apology wasn’t enough to erase the sting of his behavior. But instead of retreating into her usual silence, she offered a small gesture of understanding.

“I understand,” she said softly, but with a gentleness that instantly eased his heart. “It’s just… sometimes, we forget to rest. And that hurts you too, doesn’t it?”

Armand stood in silence for a moment, surprised by her insight. He hadn’t thought about it that way. He had been so absorbed in his work that he hadn’t realized how much the tension was hurting him from the inside.

“Yes,” he said after a pause, his voice rougher than he intended. “Sometimes, I’m so focused on what I want to accomplish that I forget to stop, to breathe.”

She nodded slightly, a timid smile brushing her lips. She understood what it meant to be swept up in dreams and ambitions, forgetting to care for oneself.

That evening, Armand went home replaying their conversation in his mind. He knew he was still far from understanding everything that was happening between him and Y/n. But one thing was clear: he loved her, and he didn’t want her to suffer because of his own shortcomings.

He also knew he had to change. Not for her. But for himself. And perhaps, in that process, they could learn to understand and love each other in a healthier, gentler way. Because Y/n deserved to be cherished, with no room for anger or exhaustion.

And for the first time in a long while, he wondered if finding balance between his dreams and his feelings was the true key to his happiness.

---

Armand’s project had consumed every fiber of his being. For months, he had poured his heart and soul into it, investing his time, ideas, and ambitions. He had imagined, designed, and created with the hope that his work would finally be recognized. He knew the moment was approaching—the moment his project would be unveiled to the public, the moment his name would finally be associated with success. And that moment came.

But it wasn’t what he had envisioned.

The day the project was praised, with critics unanimously lauding its quality, Armand felt a strange coldness seep into him. It wasn’t pride. Nor elation. It was emptiness. A void. His superior, someone who hadn’t contributed a single idea, had taken all the glory. His name shone in the headlines, while Armand’s was nowhere to be found.

He was devastated. And yet, he felt nothing. No anger. No frustration. Only an endless fatigue, a deep exhaustion.

He wanted to scream, to overturn everything around him, but his muscles were paralyzed. He couldn’t even move. He couldn’t scream. His mind was blank, as if everything he had lived, everything he had accomplished, had been swallowed by an ocean of silence. His hands trembled slightly, but he couldn’t even lift them. It all seemed so futile, so insignificant.

And yet, he couldn’t shake the sense of loss. Of betrayal. Of frustration. He hated himself for not being able to feel the injustice more intensely, for not being able to scream, to fight. Why couldn’t he react the way he wanted? Why did he feel like an empty man, a broken man without the strength to get back up?

That evening, he returned home, devoid of any enthusiasm. He collapsed on his couch, staring at the ceiling with vacant eyes. The air in the room felt heavy, almost oppressive. It was as if he were breathing in a space too small, drowning in a whirlwind of thoughts he couldn’t even organize.

It was far too late when he finally stepped outside. He didn’t even know why he left or what he was hoping for. Maybe it was the anxiety driving him out, or perhaps the need to be alone with his thoughts in the silence of the night.

The park was deserted, lit only by a few solitary streetlights. He sat on a bench under one of them and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the cool night breeze brush against his face. The sounds of the city felt distant, muffled by the stillness of the place. He felt so far from everything, so disconnected from reality.

That’s when he saw her. Y/n. She was walking alone in the park, probably after her workday. When she noticed him, she stopped for a moment, seemingly surprised to see him there at such a late hour. He slowly lifted his head to look at her, expressionless. He didn’t have the strength to smile. Nor the strength to pretend.

Y/n approached cautiously, her gaze uncertain but gentle. She seemed hesitant, unsure if she should disturb him. But she didn’t need words to know she should sit beside him. She said nothing, offering only her quiet presence.

The silence that settled between them wasn’t heavy but rather… soothing. She didn’t need to ask questions. Somehow, she knew he needed this moment of calm.

And that’s when Armand felt the first tears well up. He tried to hold them back, to stop them from falling, but it was no use. They began to stream down his face, slowly, gently, like a river cascading down a mountain, carrying away all the pain, all the frustration he had suppressed for so long.

The tears wouldn’t stop, one after another, breaking the silence of the night. He let himself go, giving in to the flood of emotions he had ignored for far too long. His body trembled as he leaned toward Y/n, unable to control the shaking.

Without a word, she wrapped her arms around him. He let himself lean into her, his face buried in her shoulder, the tears flowing endlessly. There was no shame in the gesture. No pride. Just the need to feel safe, to let go.

Y/n, silent, held him gently. She didn’t say anything, but she was there for him. That was all that mattered. She could feel the pain in his movements, in his cries, and she knew he wasn’t asking for anything other than understanding, support without judgment.

In her arms, Armand allowed himself to completely let go, his heart heavy but unburdened from the weight that had suffocated him for so long. He had finally stopped holding back his emotions, stopped repressing his pain. Y/n offered him the freedom to cry without judgment, without pressure.

Eventually, the tears subsided, though the emptiness lingered. Yet something had shifted. That emptiness, though still present, felt less insurmountable. He knew he wouldn’t face it alone. Y/n had accepted him without demanding answers, without imposing expectations. She had simply offered her heart, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like he belonged.

---

The silence stretched between them, but this time, it was soothing. Y/n didn’t move; she stayed there, her arms around him, like an anchor in a calm sea. She understood that sometimes, words weren’t necessary. She felt the tension in his muscles gradually ease, and she knew that, little by little, he was regaining control over his emotions.

Armand eventually pulled away slightly, his breathing still uneven. His eyes were red, but they no longer held that empty expression. In Y/n’s embrace, he had found something precious—a peace he hadn’t sought but that had found him. Slowly, he lifted his head to look at her.

“Thank you…” he murmured, his voice broken but full of gratitude.

Y/n smiled softly, her eyes gentle and reassuring. She didn’t need a response, but her gaze spoke volumes. She wasn’t judging him. She wasn’t trying to fix him. She was simply there, by his side, and that was enough.

“I’m here, Armand,” she said simply, her voice soft but filled with tenderness. Nothing more needed to be said.

A faint smile crossed Armand’s lips, but it wasn’t forced. It was genuine—a gratitude he never thought he could feel so purely.

He stood up slowly, taking a deep breath. The night was calm around them, but something within him had shifted. A weight he hadn’t even realized he was carrying had lifted, and he felt lighter, even if only for the moment.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” he offered, his tone now calmer.

She shook her head gently, a small hint of mischief in her eyes.

“No, I’m fine. But thank you. It’s… nice to be here, with you.”

He nodded, accepting her answer, though he felt a new warmth stir within him. It wasn’t just gratitude. He felt a connection, something deep silently weaving between them, without the need for words to express it. He knew that what he had just shared with her, this moment of vulnerability, could never be forgotten.

They remained there for a little while longer, enjoying the tranquility of the night. At some point, though, the silence became lighter, almost playful.

Armand turned to Y/n, his eyes now holding a spark of admiration he had felt for her since their first meeting. He looked at her, and this time, he didn’t see her as timid, fragile, or different from him. No. He saw her simply as Y/n—the person who, with a simple gesture of understanding, had brought him a kind of calm, a kind of peace he hadn’t known for a long time.

“You know, you’re really incredible,” he said softly, his voice both sincere and filled with tenderness.

Y/n blushed slightly, but her gaze didn’t waver from his. She was used to hiding her emotions, retreating into shyness. But that night, something about him encouraged her to be more open.

“Thank you,” she replied with a small smile. “But… I think we help each other.”

He smiled at her response. He didn’t need more words. He understood. They understood each other.

The days that followed felt different. Armand woke up in the morning with a slightly lighter burden on his shoulders. He continued to work, but he found himself appreciating the small things around him—things he had neglected for far too long. He spent more time reflecting on his life choices, his priorities, and what he truly wanted to achieve. But more than that, he started considering how he let his ambitions consume him.

And Y/n. He thought of her often. He hadn’t immediately seen her as someone who could help him through his moments of weakness, but he was beginning to realize that she might be the one who had shown him the path to a balance he had never sought before but was now striving to find.

For her part, Y/n seemed calmer too. She hadn’t tried to force her way into his world or immediately uncover the reasons behind his pain. She had simply listened, offering her support without expectations. She had always been a determined, dream-filled woman, but she understood that life had its own rhythm and that sometimes, stepping back was all it took to see things differently.

It wasn’t a fiery, explosive relationship, nor an all-consuming love story. It was gentler, calmer, like a quiet river. A love that grew in small gestures, in shared silences, in quiet laughter, and late-night conversations. They were learning about each other slowly but surely.

Armand knew he still had battles to fight. He also knew his responsibilities would pull him back into the whirlwind of work. But what he knew even more was that Y/n, with her quiet light and her gentle strength, would always be there, by his side. And perhaps, this budding relationship—fragile and uncertain as it might be—would become the key to a balance he had long sought without realizing it.

---

The little bakery, bathed in soft, warm light, was soothingly quiet. The last customers had long since left, and only Y/n remained behind the counter, meticulously tidying up the utensils, her precise movements reflecting her love for her craft. Armand stood in front of her, his hands buried in his pockets, looking unusually nervous.

He had rehearsed this confession in his head dozens of times. He had written a letter, carefully folded in the inside pocket of his jacket, just in case he forgot everything he wanted to say. But now, standing there in front of her, his thoughts seemed to unravel with each heartbeat.

Y/n finally looked up at him, intrigued by his uncharacteristic silence.

“Armand? Is something wrong?” she asked softly, her voice filled with genuine concern.

He pulled out the letter, hesitating.

“I… I have something to tell you,” he said, his voice rough, almost inaudible.

He placed the letter on the counter, but as he was about to hand it to her, his hand accidentally knocked over a cup of coffee left nearby. The brown liquid spread across the paper in an instant, soaking the carefully written words until the ink became a blur of illegible smudges.

Y/n, initially surprised, watched the scene before bursting into laughter.

“Oh no… You really planned everything, didn’t you?” she said, her playful smile lighting up her face.

Armand, initially panicked, began to laugh nervously too.

“Yes… Well, not exactly this,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed.

Y/n’s laughter faded gently, but the smile remained. She looked at him, curious, waiting for him to continue.

He took a deep breath. So much for the letter. There was no escape now.

“Y/n… I’ll be honest—I’m terrible at expressing how I feel, especially about something this important. But I’m going to try.”

She stood still, her hands folded on the counter, her eyes fixed on him.

“For a while now, I… I’ve been struggling with how I feel about you. Not because I doubt what it is, but because I doubt… myself.”

She furrowed her brows slightly but said nothing, giving him the time he needed to find his words.

“You’re young, Y/n, full of dreams, talent, and life. You have your whole future ahead of you. And me… I’m…”

He paused, searching for the right word, but none came.

“I’m already in a world where I’m fighting just to stay standing. Where I work too much, where I’m always tired. And sometimes, I wonder if I’m just… an obstacle for you.”

Y/n opened her mouth, ready to protest, but he raised a hand to stop her gently.

“Wait, let me finish, please.”

She nodded, though her gaze softened.

“For the longest time, I told myself you’d be better off with someone else. Someone who could give you everything you deserve. Someone who could make you happy in ways I can’t. But every time I tried to let go of that idea… I couldn’t. Because the truth is, I want to be that person for you. Even if I’m imperfect. Even if I’m not the obvious choice.”

He finally lifted his gaze to meet hers, his dark eyes filled with a vulnerability he had never shown anyone before.

“I love you, Y/n. Not in some grand, dramatic way, but in a simple, honest way. I love you because you’re you—with your shy smiles, your passion for what you do, your way of always seeing the best in others… And I know I’m clumsy, that maybe I don’t deserve this, but I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

The silence that followed felt like an eternity. Y/n, her cheeks slightly flushed, seemed to be searching for the right words, her fingers playing with the edge of her apron. Then, slowly, she smiled.

“You know, Armand,” she murmured, “you’re putting way too much pressure on yourself.”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised.

“What I love about you isn’t some perfection you think you have to reach. What I love is you. Your clumsiness, your seriousness, the way you look at me like I’m the most precious thing in the world. I’ve never wanted someone perfect. I just want you.”

This time, it was his turn to be speechless. She leaned slightly over the counter, reducing the distance between them.

“I love you too, Armand,” she added, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “Even if you’re incredibly clumsy sometimes.”

He burst out laughing, relieved, and this time, the laughter was pure, sincere, full of a joy he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“So… you’ll have me, despite everything?” he asked, a hesitant smile on his lips.

She nodded, her smile widening.

“Yes. But only if you promise never to write letters next to a cup of coffee again.”

They laughed together once more, and in that shared moment of joy, the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of them. It wasn’t a perfect confession, nor a scene straight out of a romantic movie. It was clumsy, sincere, full of laughter and shyness. But it was them. Just them.

---

The months had flown by, and their relationship had blossomed in a quiet, unexpected way. Armand and Y/n had found their rhythm, balancing Armand’s busy workdays with the long hours Y/n spent in her bakery perfecting her recipes. Their love was sincere, built on small daily gestures and shared silences that spoke volumes.

They had celebrated Y/n’s victory in the pastry competition together. That day, she had climbed the stage, trembling but radiant, to receive her trophy. Armand had watched her with unwavering pride, as if she had just reached for the stars. They spent the evening laughing and celebrating in a way that felt simple and true to them.

But a few weeks after that moment of glory, their happiness was brutally interrupted.

Y/n had begun feeling pain in her lower abdomen and a fatigue she could no longer ignore. At first, she thought it was due to stress or overwork and delayed seeking medical advice. But one day, Armand insisted she see a doctor.

The diagnosis hit like a thunderbolt: terminal cancer, already too advanced to treat.

When Y/n walked out of the consultation room, her legs trembled. Armand, who had been waiting in the hallway, stood up immediately upon seeing her expression.

“Y/n? What’s wrong?”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Then, with trembling hands, she reached out and grabbed his.

“I… I only have a few months left,” she finally murmured, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Armand felt his heart shatter, as though the ground had been pulled out from under him. But he didn’t let the panic take over. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly as if that simple gesture could shield her from everything.

The shock of the diagnosis changed them. Y/n, initially terrified, found the strength to smile again thanks to Armand. He, though devastated inside, became her pillar of support. Together, they made a decision: they would not let this illness steal the time they had left.

They began crossing dreams off Y/n’s list. A weekend in a small cabin by the lake, where they fished together and stargazed. A day spent at a bustling market, tasting dishes they’d never dared to try before. And, of course, hours spent in the bakery’s kitchen, experimenting with new recipes Y/n had dreamed up.

One evening, as they kneaded brioche dough together, Y/n suddenly stopped, her hands covered in flour.

“You know, Armand…” she began hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“I think… even if I’d known all of this beforehand… I wouldn’t change a thing.”

He looked at her, surprised.

“Nothing?”

She nodded, a sad but sincere smile on her lips.

“Because meeting you, loving you… it was worth it.”

Armand felt his throat tighten. He stepped closer and gently wiped a smear of flour from her forehead.

“I’m the lucky one,” he murmured.

A few months after the diagnosis, Y/n was weaker, but she refused to let it defeat her. It was the day of the event they had planned to share her final pastry creations with her loved ones and loyal customers.

The little bakery was filled with laughter and joy. Armand watched her from a distance, marveling at the way she lit up the room despite her visible exhaustion. At one point, she caught his gaze and walked over to him.

“You know, I saved the best for you,” she said, handing him a small box adorned with a ribbon.

He opened it to find a delicate dessert, carefully crafted.

“I named it ‘Renaissance,’ because… even when something ends, there’s always a part of life that remains.”

He looked at her, moved, and whispered:

“Y/n, you are my renaissance.”

That night, under a starry sky, they sat on the bench in the park where it had all begun. Y/n, nestled against him, felt a tear roll down her cheek.

“Armand… you’ve given me so much more than I could have imagined,” she murmured.

He shook his head.

“You’re the one who’s taught me everything. To love, to live…”

She looked up at him, her tired eyes filled with love.

“Then promise me something,” she whispered.

“Anything.”

“When I’m gone, live for both of us. Live so fully that people will say Y/n taught you how to smile.”

Armand felt the tears well up but nodded, unable to speak. He etched that moment into his heart, as an eternal promise.

Y/n couldn’t change her fate, but she had turned their love into a light that would never fade.

---

The months had passed, and Y/n’s condition had worsened. Yet, she tried to maintain her smile, like a shield against the pain—for Armand, and for herself.

That morning, Armand arrived at Y/n’s place with a box filled with croissants he had carefully chosen from a bakery she particularly loved. But when he knocked on the door and she didn’t answer, a wave of worry washed over him.

“Y/n? It’s me, Armand.”

The silence was oppressive. After a few moments of waiting, he pulled out the spare key she had entrusted to him. When he opened the door, the familiar scent of lavender and flour greeted him, but the atmosphere felt strangely still. He hurried upstairs, his heart pounding.

“Y/n?”

In the bedroom, Y/n was still lying in bed. She slowly opened her eyes at the sound of his voice, but something in her gaze had changed. She seemed… distant. Armand approached her, and that’s when he noticed the strands of hair scattered across the pillow. Her once vibrant hair was almost all gone.

She reached a hand to her head, then lowered her eyes to the strands. A faint “Ah…” escaped her lips, barely audible, as if she no longer had the strength to react.

Armand felt a dull pain crush his heart. That indifference, that emptiness in her voice—it was worse than any tears she could have shed.

“Y/n…” he whispered, kneeling beside her.

But she didn’t respond. Slowly, mechanically, she got up to get ready.

He stayed there, motionless, his eyes fixed on the empty pillow, his trembling fingers clutching the wrinkled sheet. She was moving forward, but he felt her slipping away, like a wisp of wind he couldn’t hold onto.

A few months later, despite Y/n’s obvious weakness, Armand organized a small evening just for the two of them. He wanted to give her a moment of lightness, a little escape.

They laughed. They talked about memories, unfinished dreams, and even joked about how Armand could never bake a cake without burning it.

Y/n, tired but glowing, rested her head on his shoulder.

“You know… I think I’ve never been happier than I’ve been with you,” she murmured.

Armand gently stroked what was left of her hair and kissed her forehead.

“You are my life, Y/n.”

She looked up at him, a peaceful smile on her lips.

“Then keep living, even after me.”

That was their last conversation.

That night, Y/n fell asleep in his arms. Armand, however, couldn’t bring himself to sleep. He preferred to watch her, to engrave every detail into his memory: the softness of her features, the rhythm of her breath in the silence, the fragile warmth of her hand in his.

In the early morning, sunlight timidly peeked through the curtains. Armand opened his eyes and immediately felt something was wrong. Y/n was still—too still.

“Y/n?” he called softly, his voice filled with a hope he knew was futile.

He touched her cheek—it was cold.

“No… no,” he murmured, tears welling in his eyes.

He held her in his arms, gently rocking her, as if saying a final goodbye. Her face was peaceful, as though she had simply fallen asleep after a beautiful evening. But for Armand, the world collapsed in that moment.

The days that followed were dark, but Armand found strength in the memories they had shared. Y/n had taught him how to love, how to live fully, and he knew she wouldn’t have wanted him to drown in despair.

He kept the notebook where she had written her recipes and thoughts, and he worked to keep the promise he had made to her: to live for the both of them.

A year later, Armand opened a small bakery, which he named Y/n’s Light. Each creation carried a piece of her, a tribute to her talent and her brilliance.

And every morning, when he saw the smiles of customers enjoying what she had inspired, he felt her presence beside him. Y/n may not have had all the time she deserved, but her love—her light—was eternal.

---

Days passed, yet Armand continued to visit the cemetery regularly. Under the weeping willow, Y/n rested in the peaceful spot he had chosen carefully for her. He often spoke to the grave as if she were still there, sharing his achievements, doubts, and even the mundane stories of his day.

He decorated the gravestone with care. At Christmas, he brought small garlands and winter flowers. At Easter, he left colorful eggs and sweets he had prepared while thinking of her. The engraved photo on the stone smiled back at him, soft and almost alive.

But one day, something changed.

As part of his new project—renovating an orphanage—Armand immersed himself in his work. He wanted to create a warm, welcoming space where children could feel all the love they deserved.

One afternoon, while discussing the plans with a nun, he passed by the nursery. His gaze was drawn to a group of infants sleeping peacefully, their soft breaths filling the room with a calming rhythm.

That’s when he noticed a little girl, apart from the others. She cooed softly, observing the world with curious but timid eyes. Her cries were gentle, almost hesitant, as if unsure whether she should ask for attention.

Armand froze, his heart clenching. She reminded him of Y/n. Not physically, but in the fragile sweetness she radiated.

In the days that followed, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. The idea of adopting her became an undeniable calling, almost as if Y/n had sent him a sign.

A few weeks later, after completing all the necessary procedures, he finally welcomed the little girl into his home. He named her Y/n, in honor of the woman who had changed his life.

Four months passed. Little Y/n clung to Armand as if afraid he might disappear. Her smile, her clumsy laughter, her first attempts to stand on her tiny legs—everything about her rekindled a light he thought he had lost.

One morning, Armand made a decision. He wanted to introduce little Y/n to her “mother.”

He prepared a simple picnic, packing bottles for the baby and snacks for himself.

When he arrived at the grave, he paused for a moment, his eyes on Y/n’s engraved photo.

“Hello, Y/n,” he murmured.

Little Y/n, nestled against him, babbled softly, her big curious eyes following the willow leaves dancing in the wind. Armand knelt before the grave, spread out the blanket he had brought, and gently placed the baby on it.

“I brought someone to meet you today,” he said, a fragile smile on his lips.

He sat facing the gravestone and placed little Y/n on his lap.

“This is Y/n. She has your name. I couldn’t think of a more perfect name for her…”

He ran a tender hand through the baby’s short, soft hair as she played with a fallen willow leaf.

“She’s incredible, you know. Every day, she reminds me that life can still be beautiful, even after everything.”

He spoke for hours, sharing stories, thoughts, and promises he wanted to keep.

“I’m doing my best to be a good father. It’s not always easy… sometimes I wonder if I’m enough. But she trusts me, Y/n, just like you trusted me.”

The little girl let out a joyful cry as she spotted a butterfly fluttering nearby. Armand laughed—a sound he hadn’t heard from himself in a long time.

“You see? Even a butterfly fascinates her. She has your way of finding beauty everywhere.”

He leaned forward slightly, bringing little Y/n closer to the gravestone as if to introduce her properly to her mother.

“ Say hi to Mama” he whispered tenderly.

The baby didn’t understand what was happening, but when she saw the photo on the grave, she cheerfully held out a flower she had picked earlier and babbled joyfully. The gesture brought a smile to Armand’s face.

“See, Y/n? This little one already loves you.”

As the sun began to set, Armand rose slowly, holding little Y/n close to him.

"In another life, I hope it's you and me... I beg God that it's still you and me. I hope we will be happy together, Maybe we can love each other and... grow old together?" The little y/n in his arms suddenly lets out a chirp, as if to make her presence felt. Armand laughs despite his tears that threaten to flow. "Yes, and that the three of us can form a beautiful and happy family" he said, playing with his daughter's little hand. "Until then, I'll take care of her for both of us. Promise, my love."

“Thank you,” he murmured, looking at the gravestone one last time. “Thank you for everything you’ve given me.”

He placed one final flower on the grave before walking away.

On the way home, little Y/n fell asleep in his arms. Armand, however, walked with a lighter step. That day, under the weeping willow, he felt something shift. It wasn’t a goodbye, but a new chapter—a bridge between the love he had lost and the love he had found.

And he knew he would return to that willow, again and again, to share the joys and sorrows of the life he was building for the two of them.

..................................................................................

Next part

Tags list : @elizalabs3 @slvt4her

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clairedaring · 1 day ago

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First Crucial Clues Unveiled in ‘Dalah: Death and the Flowers’, Gripping Whodunit Coming Soon Exclusively on Netflix!

As the police race to track down suspects in a high-profile murder case, the mysterious death proves to be just the beginning in a series of dark revelations waiting to be uncovered in Dalah: Death and the Flowers. The series follows Dalah (Yaya - Urassaya Sperbund), a stylish floral designer hired to handle flower arrangements for the highly anticipated wedding of Ohm (Na - Naphat Vikairungroj), the leading candidate for Prime Minister, and his bride-to-be Risa (Pat - Chayanit Chansangavej). When the groom is found dead on his wedding day, everyone becomes prime suspects in the murder investigation. Entangled in a web of secret affairs and high-society scandals, Dalah decides to sleuth her way to the truth, unraveling dark secrets and a conspiracy that reaches into her past.

In a shocking turn of events, rising political star Ohm-Anusorn Uathepa, the promising future Prime Minister, was found dead among his own wedding floral arrangements at a renowned florist's studio. The young politician from the For Thai Society Party, who had been making waves with his feminist campaign promoting social equality, was widely tipped to become Thailand's next Prime Minister. Known for his exceptional capabilities and striking looks, Ohm was set to marry Risa-Narisa Tangsinsup, an heiress from one of the wealthiest families in Thailand. Their upcoming nuptials had captured national attention as it was to have united two of the country's most prominent dynasties.

Dalah: Death and the Flowers is helmed by SEA Write Award-winning author Prabda Yoon as executive producer, alongside talented female directors Thanika Jenjesda and Alisa Pien. The series boasts a stellar cast led by Yaya - Urassaya Sperbund, Pat - Chayanit Chansangavej, Na - Naphat Vikairungroj, and Ryu - Vachirawich Wattanapakdeepaisan, along with other renowned names in the industry such as Ron Banjongsang, Amarin Nitibhon, Phuwin Tangsakyuen, Miusic - Praewa Suthamphong, Fairy - Kirana Pipityakorn, Donut - Manatsanun Phanlerdwongsakul, Duentem Salitul, Surachai Ningsanond, Siriporn Sanguanmit, Amata Piyavanich, Co - Khunakorn Kirdpan, Golf - Chalanthorn Menakongka, Lookwa - Pijika Jittaputta, Akkarapat Neeyapan, Nong - Thanongsak Supasap and many more.

Executive Producer Prabda Yoon (Bangkok Breaking, The Stranded) reveals the inspiration behind the series: "I've always wanted to create a mystery investigation series, or the whodunit genre, which I've loved since childhood. This passion, combined with my interest in Japanese culture — having studied tea ceremonies and Japanese flower arrangement — led to this unique blend. Since Dalah, our protagonist, is female, I intentionally sought to build a predominantly female production crew. That's why I invited Dream (Thanika Jenjesda) and A (Alisa Pien) to direct. As we developed the project collaboratively, the series evolved to incorporate a strong contemporary female perspective."

Who killed Ohm? Unlock the mystery and unravel the rot beneath the blooms in Dalah: Death and the Flowers, a whodunit series that weaves a delicate investigation through the sophisticated floral arrangement artistry. Catch it soon, exclusively on Netflix!

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qoldenskies · 1 day ago

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Sorry i live under a rock but whats a map?

omg do i live in a world where people dont know what maps are anymore??? what have we become (not mad at you anon im being silly)

TO ACTUALLY EXPLAIN maps mean multi animator projects, they're produced as passion projects usually free of any monetary incentive outside of individual creators putting wips/early content on their patreon and such if they have that.

basically a host cuts up the song into "parts", where it's either free game (which was mostly the case for 2010s maps, less so now), driven by a script/designs/instructions for what to animate in order to follow a continuity, or its completely storyboarded! animators will each take one part, sometimes several, which vary USUALLY from about 3-7 seconds of time. sometimes people collaborate/split up the work too.

back before things got REALLY intense and the standard of quality in the warrior cats fandom skyrocketed, this was a really good opportunity for smaller/inexperienced animators to find traction without a huge workload, because they only had to animate a couple of seconds. and pieced together it would be one big amv! a little while ago in the wc fandom making maps of scripted aus was really popular, and a couple of sparse people would even do maps of their ocs, and with rise's love for aus/fics being so apparent from my time here my brain automatically correlated the two lol

most "reanimated" projects of scenes of shows/movies are technically maps under a certain theme, but the ones the wc fandom did are popular for being completely original in composition since they were adapting parts of a book. and i swear to god something was put in the water and it was probably CRACK COCAINE because these people are CRAZY JUST LOOK AT THIS!!!!

youtube

sorry of course i had to use the opportunity to plug louixie. genuinely digital james baxter and she makes WARRIOR CATS MAP PARTS

wc community is crazy because as long as you have the patience to write up a script, organize a community, find traction in there, sort through applications, and maybe doodle up a couple of designs you could just get other people to make the amvs you want for you just because it comes from genuine shared love for the source material, and that's magical 2 me,,, even if there are some inter-community issues lolol

#ask #wow is this an infodump #not even autistic i just do it for the love of the game LOL #its sad i dont see this as much in other fandoms! usually when they actually DO exist they come from wc fans anyway #its usually cat-ified/warrior cats aus cause of that lmao #there used to be some other types of stuff but i see way less of it these days ... any fandom maps and oc maps how i miss u

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ignalina-c0re · 1 day ago

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WIP Wednesday on Thursday: Flashfire - a Pacific Rim AU

I'm bringing back the Pacific Rim AUs, babeyyyy!!!

I've been having Pacific Rim brainrot, and I thought, why the fuck not take Clegan and make it drift compatible?? My second thought was that MOTA doesn't have enough insane people with insane relationships, so this is now a MOTA/SAS:RH crossover Pacific Rim AU :,D Set in the North Atlantic instead of the Pacific Ring of Fire, and Boston and Massachusetts Bay instead of Hong Kong.

Welcome to Flashfire AU!! Without further ado, here's the jaegers and their crews:

ECHO COUGAR:

Marshall Marge Spencer

Peggy Doe

HEAD OF MAINTENANCE CREW: Gale Cleven

HOME PORT: Breezy Point Shatterdome

One of the first jaegers ever made, her successes and her pilot's contributions to the development of the program caused a meteoric rise through the ranks for Marge, one of the youngest ever to be promoted to the rank of Marshall; and a deadly cancer for her beloved copilot Peggy. Peggy passed three years before the end of the jaeger program, two years after the decommissioning of Echo Cougar, and Marge, distraught at the death of her copilot and lover, latches onto the genius head of her maintenance crew: Gale Cleven. Marge is an unassumingly sweet woman at first glance, but she's strict and relentless, and she has a way of telling people off without shouting or swearing that has much bigger and much older men COWERING the moment she starts frowning. She zeroed in on Gale because he's a really genuinely kind person, very passionate, and the deadpan kind of hilarious that has Marge rolling when everybody else is like 'was that a joke...?' Also because young Gale with his long messy hair and dirty jumpsuits looks like a tired lesbian mechanic lmao Gale is into Marge because the boy has more mommy issues than a porn mag, and he's not that great at people, so when the sweet, pretty Marshall starts hitting on him, it's over for him.

Gale is a well-know junkbender and chronic overachiever, he's often on the loan for other maintenance crews and supervises upgrades and modifications to any jaeger within reach. He usually supervises multiple jaegers at one, not sleeping for days at a time and living off caffeine and candy bars, but he works miracles every time without a fail. "Get Cleven" is a very often used phrase.

After the Sierra Victory incident, Marge immediately mobilizes Gale to scrape together every decommissioned jaeger still whole enough to restore, and Gale's first thought is Foxtrot Fortress, because she's a giant sunset-red metal angel and Gale is in love with her.

FORTRESS FOXTROT:

Bucky Egan

Curt Biddick

Gale Cleven

HEAD OF MAINTENANCE CREW: Ken Lemmons

HOME PORT: Halifax Shatterdome

A truly unique Mark III, Fort comes with foldable wings and the ability to fly short distances. Her pilots, Curt and Bucky, were both orphans who grew up in the foster system together, signed up for the army to escape as soon as possible, and went on to the jaeger program because they were already finishing each other's sentences and working in perfect synch. With their strong drift, they dominate the battlefields, until Knifehead breaches the Conn-Pod and kills Curt, leaving Bucky to pilot Fort back to dry land alone.

After Curt's death, Bucky is undone. He runs to the Wall of Life project, trying his very best to ignore his whole past and a half of him that's missing (it never seems to work). Marge finds him in Reykjavik, and drags him back to Boston with her, where he's supposed to find a copilot worthy of the freshly rebuilt Fort. He starts hitting on Gale the second he sees him, and to everybody's surprise, Gale is sniping right back. The copilot trials go horribly: Bucky is so damaged that none of the candidates even comes close to fitting with him, and Gale is critical of every move he makes, which only makes Bucky's flirting even worse. In the end, Marge pushes Gale onto the mat as a last Hail Mary: it not only works, it results in a ten minute long bout, a draw, and sexual tension you could cut with a knife, so Gale becomes the new copilot of Fortress Foxtrot and they live and fuck happily ever after

AQUA ROSA:

Rosie Rosenthal

Helen Nash

HEAD OF MAINTENANCE CREW: Tatty Spaatz

HOME PORT: Massachusets Bay Shatterdome

Helen and Nash were happily married, and had plans to apply to the jaeger program together, but Nash got killed during a kaiju attack, and Helen was left adrift. Rosie was a good friend of Nash and a squadmate of his, and he suggested Helen apply with him instead, just to keep both of them afloat. They don't expect much to come of it, but they make a surprisingly strong duo, and they end up with the first and last of the Mark V's, Aqua Rosa.

They're the kind of people who are endlessly nice to others and around others, but in private they both kind of resent each other, so everybody thinks they're good friends who are helping each other out of grief, but when the doors close, 80% of their interactions end either in fighting or fucking, or sometimes both.

HORIZON JACKAL:

Paddy Mayne

Eoin McGonigal

Augustin Jordan

HEAD OF MAINTENANCE CREW: David Stirling

HOME PORT: Galway Shatterdome

Horizon Jackal was the best protector of the Celtic Sea, until a kaiju breached the Conn-Pod and severely injured Eoin, before Paddy primed the plasma canon properly and fried it. Eoin pulled through, but his left arm had to be amputated at the shoulder due to Kaiju Blue poisoning, and he had to undergo months of recovery. Meanwhile, Horizon Jackal was needed, so a French reserve pilot was scrounged up based on brain scans to ride with Paddy, and aside from the constant bickering, they make an amazing team. Eoin wants back in as soon as he can. The first time the three of them meet, a triple drift bond clicks into place. Instead of taking the back seat, Eoin contacts Gale, and asks him to do the impossible: retrofit the Jackal for three pilots. A week of no sleep, a heap of Mark III scrap, gallons of coffee, an absolutely whipped maintenance crew and a shitload of unhinged engineering later, Gale gives them a miracle: a Mark 3.5 frankenjaeger with a tail and a backwards-facing third drive mount. Five hours after the last electrical check, Horizon Jackal rolls out with three pilots, and flattens a kaiju.

TEMPEST GLORY:

Reg Seekings

Johnny Cooper Seekings

HEAD OF MAINTENANCE CREW: Jock McDiarmid

HOME PORT: Bristol Channel Shatterdome

A Mark II tank, Tempest Glory and her crew are the most terrifying of the active units. Their first response to any problem is 'blow it the fuck up'. They have an unnerving amount of shady connections, and Reg and Jock tend to get into fistfights over any disagreement ever. There is an ongoing debate about Reg and Johnny's exact relationship: most assume they are brothers, with the shared last name and the constant good-natured ribbing. Besides their core crew, the only two people who know the truth are Eve (because she knows everything, somehow) and Gale (because he's quiet and unobtrusive enough that most people forget he's there): they are in fact married, and they're disgustingly affectionate in private.

SILVER PROXY:

John Brady

Benny Demarco

HEAD OF MAINTENANCE CREW: Charles Cruikshank

HOME PORT: Nantucket Shatterdome

Lost off the coast of Newfoundland

BRAVO GOLD:

Bill Fraser

Mike Sadler

HEAD OF MAINTENANCE CREW: Bill Stirling

HOME PORT: Tangier Shatterdome

Lost off the coast of Tenerife

SIERRA VICTORY:

Pat Riley

Jim Almonds

HEAD OF MAINTENANCE CREW: Jock Lewes

HOME PORT: Castlebay Shatterdome

Entire crew wiped after damaged reactor explodes during post-battle maintenance. Castlebay shatterdome rendered unusable and hazardous.

OTHERS:

CHIEF LOCCENT OFFICER: Eve Mansour

She's an officer with a mysterious past, plenty of shady connections, and an attitude. She often argues with and directly contradicts Marge's orders (her solutions are usually more brutal). The two of them have an intense tension that tiptoes between angry and sexual.

CHIEF OF SCIENCE (PHYSICS AND PROBABILITY): Bubbles Payne CHIEF OF SCIENCE (EXTRATERRESTRIAL BIOLOGY AND DRIFT MECHANICS): Harry Crosby

Instead of open hostility, the two of them are endlessly excited for each other's discoveries, and in any discussion, they tend jump off of each other's insane ideas, until nobody around them can follow them.

KAIJU BLACK MARKET BOSS: Dudley Wrangle Clarke

Man's a scheming heap of bad news, dunno what else to tell ya lol. He'd do anything for money and glory. Him and Eve have a very strained, love-hate sort of relationship.

Snippets: TBA

Questions, contributions, incoherent yelling, headcanons, ideas, memes, anything absolutely welcome!!! Flashfire will live here on tumblr in the #flashfire au tag, because I can NOT conjure up anything coherent lmao. First snippet about how Gale ended up in the jaeger pilot program coming soonish :)

Tagging: @thegrandpineapple, @antiquitea, @bucksbluescarf LOOK I MADE THE THING

#MOTA/SAS:RH crossover #mota/sas:rh #mota fanfic #clegan #pacific rim au #flashfire au #sachi's locker of random bullshit #masters of the air #mota #sas:rh #sas rogue heroes

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