#this is lowkey all over the place

[hwaightme]

Wilting to bloom

🍃 pairing: soldier!san x reader (told in first person) 🍃 genre: angst, a smidgen of fluff, warrior/royalty, battle 🍃 summary: we were meant to remain in the meadows, living under the sun and blessed by joyous unity. no eyes were made to witness what you had seen, san. these letters and dreams are a recollection of all that is to never be, and all that we have to bear. 🍃 wordcount: 5.0k 🍃 warnings/tags: nightmares, discussion of trauma, side character death, waiting for san to come back, cottagecore, military, ptsd/trauma, paralysis, told through the eyes of mc ('you' is an address to san), a dog, hoping for a better life, nothing will be the same. let me know if anything else. 🍃 taglist: @doom-fics @layzfeelit @acciocriativity @izuijin @justhere4kpop @honey-lemon-goose @byuntrash101 🍃 a/n: a chaotic experiment, bear with me; much love <3

Wearing the purest white, chasing the freedom of being young. Hot summer rays kissing bare skin, the wind cheering us on until we collapse on the ground with breathless, airy laughter. Hiding among the lilac, lavender, and black locust. Those carefree days. Nobody thought that this could ever change. Our life was that of a mayfly’s, existing entirely in the present – the reason for our happiness. We lived in blissful stagnancy, with our guardian angels watching over us, hand in hand, from the heavens above. We were free in the groves, free to do whatever we wanted.

The clover and chamomile crowns we would make for one another – yours were always much better than mine. Sorry I could never give you something you truly deserved. But you smiled anyways and took my collection of withering leaves and put it on your head with pride, dirtying the perfect locks that turned to rich chestnut and mahogany hues in the sun. Pollen would stick to your tousled strands, and yet, you would wave off my hands, saying that this was a blessing of nature. I did not argue. You managed to make the floral grains take on the appearance of magical fairy dust, or glistening gold. We went out during daybreak into the meadows to pick the marvellous beauties – second compared to you, but nevertheless wonderful.

You brought me flowers – whichever were in season. By the bouquet on my windowsill, I could tell what time of the year it was. You were my messenger, my sun and moon. You knew how to make me blush and how to tease me painlessly, peppering kisses in a playful apology after a joke that would make me tear up from laughter. You learnt how to braid hair, just so you could tame my unruly curls on the days when the air hung low and stuck to the skin. A simple braid had turned into gorgeous designs, ones which I had never seen on any other lady, even on those aristocratic dames that had taken to visiting our lovely part of the kingdom.

Whenever I went out into the world, the market mainly, with your gentle touch having moulded me into what you called a goddess, it was a reminder that you were unparalleled – the girls would give me long side glances, obviously trying to spot a mistake, cursing me over and over. Little did they know, you, and everything you do, defined faultlessness. You have marvellous hands – not too delicate, not too rough. Just right. Those hands still linger on my skin in the echoes of caresses, yet another reminder of your irreplaceable presence. A man’s marvellous hands, your hands, which I could rely on holding me up to greatness. I wonder how they are now and if you are managing out there. Those hands were never meant for bloodshed and violence.

‘A musician’s fingers’ – that is how they are called; I found out recently. It is a shame that I could never put it into words for you then, so you just laughed whenever you caught me admiring them. You brushed me off, saying ‘they are just hands’ and continued doing what you were doing. Sometimes, your fingers would intertwine with mine and we would amble in the verdant grass together and collect gifts of the earth. Walking at the same pace, side by side. We were one another’s world. At least, you were definitely mine. You still are. The moment I wake up, right up until I fall back into a restless slumber, you greet me in my memories, with that gorgeous smile of yours. Do you still gleam like that, my love?

I have a particular scene ingrained in my mind, moment for moment. How we sat together watching the sunset, tired but still elated after ambling across the endless expanse of fields for far too long. How you glanced over at me and grinned wide. I was stunned then. What had I done to deserve to have such an angel beside me? Your features – a divine perfection, accompanied by wit and charms unlike anybody else’s. If only I could eternally live in that evening when we whispered sweet nothings to one another with our berry-stained lips, embraced by the corals, pinks and dusty ultramarines of the sky. The present would not be so terrifying if I had the ability to go back with you, to that small fragment of heaven.

How are you out there? My apologies for getting so sentimental – it seems that I cannot control myself when it comes to this… I miss you terribly. If only you could come home this instant. We could check on the honeysuckle in your mother’s garden – she gave me some to plant in mine! Just you wait, we will have the best garden in the village! Come home soon, I will have your favourite dinner ready, and we can chat about anything except the world out there, and laugh, and love.

Get back safe, San.

You came to me in my dream last night. It was so real that I could almost feel the breeze and taste the pungent odour of ripe fruit coming from the orchard. It was the middle of the night, and I was resting, embraced by rolling waves of linen. You had knocked on my window. Gave me quite a fright, you know!? The moon that enveloped your form and climbed into my room with its ashen rays had made your complexion pallid, washed out, ghostly, rendering me terrified and unknowing of who had awoken me from my slumber. A part of me had expected it to be father – you know how he is - a skilled carpenter, loves to work into the night, cutting and shaving away.

With one pull of the curtains, the white light had turned into a halo, and your skin had been covered by a silvery sheen. You beckoned me, and despite my initial hesitations I went with my calling, and in my nightgown, carefully opened the window and slid out. My family home only has one floor, however you were protective of my and were prepared to catch me as if I was about to perform a death-defying stunt, jumping from a cloud straight into your arms.

Not too far from the truth. That was what falling for you felt like. Though the best, unforgettable element was that you were there for me, reciprocating what had been building in my heart for so long. I only realised it when the beating got so loud and strong that it was about to burst. You told me you had loved me from the very beginning and had already sacrificed yourself to being by my side regardless of whether I returned your adoration or not. You were not afraid of any legends of unrequited love – nothing would turn your ribcage into a garden of flowers, for you had told yourself to live on, if not for yourself, then for me.  Are you still living for me? Are you still out there, blood coursing through your veins reciting the vows we had made to one another under the moon?

A memory turned mantra had come forth to me in that dream. Of that night. How we were sat on our favourite hillside, overlooking the meandering river turned moon path, the world holding its breath for us. We promised to one another to be there until time itself would give the universe up to us. A destiny unbreakable by reality. We had tied all our strings of fate together, with you braiding them into an unbreakable union. Or so we thought. For the time being, you are not here. We cannot repeat that moment like we had done every anniversary. I had spent the third one without you sleepless – a wolf soundlessly howling at the glowing orb in the sky with a pitiful expression on my face. You would most certainly have poked me in the cheek and told me off for being so down.

Is the moon the same where you are? Did you think of me? Did you rest underneath the blanket of spectacular constellations, drawing lines between stars, your inhale and exhale being the only thing audible for miles? The nights are getting cooler now, I hope you wrapped up warmer. You had that one trench coat, remember? The hand-me-down from one of your friends who… oh, never mind that. It is not relevant. Didn’t you take it with you? Yes, yes you did! I can see your silhouette drifting away into the distance, becoming a dot in the horizon. You had that trench coat on. It suits you so well. Better not go around stealing the hearts of naïve young ladies wherever you are.

I wonder if you are stationed in a town like the one to which we used to go to for school. Or maybe... you are in a city! A giant city with sky-high walls and a dizzyingly colossal castle, with bustling taverns and busy squares, luxuries spilling over from baskets and intricately woven into the locals’ drapes and… just the musings take my breath away. Last month I went to a city like that. No, even better. I went to the capital of our country – it was even better than in the pictures and textbooks. I was pleasantly overwhelmed by all of the activity and people rushing back and forth. In our village, you know almost exactly where a person is going by their facial expressions, by how they are dressed and how they are walking. Be it the market, the cemetery, the orchards, somewhere further out. We used to sit on a bench next to the main road and make our, nearly always correct, guesses about a fellow villager’s path. In the city, in the security of its grand gates, that was virtually impossible, and yet in the thousands passing me by, I had somehow managed to imagine I spotted your face.

There had been no silence in the night either. Always, there seemed to be something going on, and lights were never put out. Never was there a total somnolence, unlike in our quaint home. I bet that when one falls asleep, another wakes up – a cycle of the day and night. Would our moonlit walks have the same feel if we had been in the city? Probably not. Reality would constantly interfere and mute our true sentiments. I hope you are in a place where you are free to think; it seems to me that that is exactly what those who I shall not dare mention are trying to control lately. The posters clinging to stone walls have become wallpaper, dirtied by the sediment left from horse-drawn carts going to and fro. The announcements and misleadingly fun, inspiring songs boasting glory and promising a brighter future, tailored by fiendish composers to convince impressionable citizens that aggression is the answer. The horror of manipulation did not seduce you – you had cupped my face and whispered your hatred for the game where you and I were crafted to be pawns. But, somehow, the claws of the devilish puppeteer, searching for a fresh sacrifice, had made it into our paradise, ruining the safe haven and ripping you away to a foreign land.

I cannot begin to imagine where your feet are taking you at this very moment. Whether you are in a cheery stride singing at the top of your voice or burying yelps of fear and pain while staying crouched in the dirt. You would probably explain to me that it is better that I cannot see the present you. Before you left, you had told me that once you appear in the horizon once more, liberated from your unwanted service, we will be able to live with even grander joy, grateful for the time that we would still have together. All smiles, you promised to return with your arms wide, ready to embrace me. We could return to the same patterns, the same legend of our love.

Are you keeping your word? Does the promise stand?

Frankly, it does not matter, as long as you come home safe and sound.

San, my love, please return soon, so our hearts can beat in unison once more.

For the nation, for the glory, for the power.

You never understood why you had to leave. The slogans were obviously manipulated, the encouragements were laughably weak, and yet you left. You had seen through the façade immediately and yet, with pursed lips and tears in your eyes that you were never going to allow to fall, you marched away, so far away from home, from love, from life. We all wanted peace. However, unfortunately, those who had the power to decide thirsted for a good share of the riches that came with a catastrophe. The country, not the people, are struggling – that is what the flyers say. Fight for the greater good. For the big message. From crusades to conquests to battles to wars, there was always, supposedly a greater good. The country: a united front, a body that was the only one allowed to forget the names of those who make it, providing the individuals in control with beautiful ignorance, and the ones beneath them, sacred anonymity. You were called to work and fight for the country, not knowing what the country was. It is said that the country needs your help, but it is the people who have to fall in the end. The same people who fell into delusions that they would be saved by their glorious rulers, by their nation... Crumble like fortification, or rattle on forwards like heavy artillery.

No way back. You are an automaton. Keep your head down. Left right, left right, left right… A blank stare trained on the muddy path. There is no choice but to continue walking forwards. Those who fall do not get up again. Once you are taken to serve, you lose all sense of self. You forget about who you have been before this moment. Before the higher ups began to shout you down for breathing too loud, for having a foot a millimetre out of place, for blinking at the wrong time… You lose your feeling of being human, praying to become a machine. There is no place for humans out there.

You cannot recall what you have done after charging, spurring yourself on with an earsplitting scream. Your mind draws a blank. It is blocking you from returning to what you have seen and heard. But sometimes, on nights when you are restless and cannot fall asleep, lying on the side and staring at light coming into the room through the line between the curtains, your thoughts begin spiralling out of control. All the shards are recollected at once. You can smell the fear of your comrades, the despair and the lack of willingness to accept that it is all over.

You are holding your friend in your arms, practically lying down beside him in an attempt to avoid the barrage above you. You have known him since childhood. From the age of five years old you have supported one another and have shared one another’s joys and sorrows. You have watched one another grow up, learn, and fall in love… A part of your soul is being torn away from you. He is bleeding out too fast. Shrapnel is stuck in his body and bullet wounds pierced it right through. There is nothing you can do, and yet you keep on uttering that ‘it will be fine, you can survive, you will survive, do not go’. There is horrifying acceptance in his eyes. A gentle, holy smile. The only serenity on the battlefield. You find the actions of the rest of the soldiers around you to be sordid. They are not stopping, those fools. They are running to their own deaths. Your friend is rapidly departing. He gestures for you to lean closer. With tears making rivers down your cheeks, stained with dirt, you obey. Stifling a cry of mourning you hold him in an embrace. He whispers ‘it has been a good life’ into your ear, weakly. There is almost no spirit left in him. You could sense Death lying in wait – standing outside of the action, observing and calculating the work cut out for it: here goes another one, and another… How many guided tours would it have to make to the place of Judgement?

After coughing up the mucus that has blocked up his throat, your friend says: ‘I love you, brother. Thank you for being by my side… until the very end. Tell my wife and daughter that I love them. Yes… it has really been a good life.’ With one final push he grips your hand and squeezes it. The last handshake you will ever share with him. He shuts his eyes and lets out his final breath. His everythings will never see him again, only his name on a letter marking his end. They will never get to have a family breakfast beneath the birch in their garden. ‘Papa’ is gone. ‘Darling’ is gone. ‘Brother’ is gone. The least you can do is clean his fatal wounds and cover his body in tarpaulin to provide the bare minimum protection from the elements. Honour him by letting him go in the right way. He must have a name. Even after his death. The least you can do is to find a place which his ‘everything’, the two women in the photograph he carried in his pocket, could visit.

You scream. You cannot stop yourself. Grief overtakes you and you look up to the gloomy grey sky. Permanently overcast, looming. It is about to rain. You could smell it over the stench of raw and rotting wounds and destroyed earth. The Heavens are preparing to cry for the loss of so many innocent lives. So many guardian angels looking down on the regular civilians thrown into a war that was not meant for them. It is the people who fall, not the country.

The scream permeates dreams and reality. You jolt yourself back. Covered in cold sweat you find yourself shivering. Hair clinging onto the back of your neck and your forehead, you are lost. But it was… so real? Where did it go? You can still hear the gunfire, the sabres cutting flesh and bone, the yells. The sound of utter demise all around you. Your hands fly up to cover your ears. There is no way one can bear this. The noise spreads through you. Your heart is beating to the rhythm of the brutal march you were trained to follow.

You are home, but your inner turmoil cannot let you fully acknowledge it. Stuck in a limbo between past and present, you are trapped. The gunfire fades back into the rustling of the orchards, and the sirens dissolve into the hooting of an owl. You sit in silence, your breathing agonal. Vision swimming, it is impossible to focus. Drifting in and out of consciousness. After staggering from your bed to the windowsill you lean on it with both arms, which now bear a multitude of scars – majority of which you do not remember getting. The curtain obediently slides away revealing the night scene.

The rolling hills that go down to the river; the groves and meadows lining them at the tops. The forest in the distance. The moon. The wondrous, miraculous full moon. Untainted by the sorrows of the world it has to orbit. Forever young and beautiful. It has watched over you. Seen you at your worst and is praying for you to be able to return to your best.

The grass seems to shine in the silvery blue light. Dew has already built up, readying itself for flight in the dawn. Last echoes of grenades disappear, replaced by crickets that are giving a concert in the fields. It has been a pleasantly warm September, surprising the majority of the villagers. They rejoiced and happily spent their days working and then relaxing on one another’s porches.

Now new colours are taking over. Once the sun rises, the yellows are going to stand out against the greens, multiplying and spreading, until they will give way to oranges, reds, and browns. Birds shall migrate to a warmer place. You ponder as to where. What place could be better than this?

It was almost two hours until all symptoms and aftereffects of the attack have faded away. The tremor in your hands halted until another time, and the shallow breathing has finally levelled out and you could fill your lungs. You open the window to allow the fresh, cool night air in. Drifting into the room along with it is relief. You are thankful for the tiredness that washes over you. A welcome fatigue greets you and guides you back to bed.

Snuggling into the white sheets you curl into a foetal position and inhale the night air. It lulls you and comforts you. For now, all that haunts you is forgotten, and you are back to how you were. You are back to racing through the lilac, the lavender… Back to lugging heavy baskets full of fruit. Back when you knew of nothing that could harm you. In less than a second, you enter the land of dreams.

To this day we do not talk about what had happened. I do not want for you to suffer, nor do I want your present to be tainted with such darkness. We are now focused on what we love, and live to seize the best moments. Perhaps if I were to give my reasons for not mentioning anything, or asking you after what you had done, you would say I pity you and see you as a weakling, but that is not the case at all. I see you as the strongest person alive. You have survived through terror. You have faced phobia and apocalypse and did not cower in its presence. You have come back.

It was on a bright August morning that you have returned. The sun was shining, the nature was gleaming and a sense of victory was still hovering in the air. I had just finished preparing myself for a day of work at the farms and helping out with some resource gathering, when I see a limping figure in the distance. My heart was leaping. I did not want to bring my hopes up, but something was telling me that it was you. Perhaps it was the way your shoulders were outlined against the sky. The way you walked on without the need to check where you were going. You avoided the bump, the dips in the road without a single glance at them. It was you, my love.

I stepped outside and carefully chose my steps. Since our house was fairly close to the outskirts, I did not have to pass through the main roads to greet the mysterious, yet so familiar a figure. I slipped through the gap in the fence that has been there for as long as I can remember and quickened my pace. I strode past the field and followed the meandering path between the shacks and houses. Perhaps my wait was over, I thought. When I stopped at the road, I was sure. It could not be anybody else. But I was still tentative to rush ahead, letting me be carried by my intuition.

My legs moved on their own accord, leading me to you. We took our time. Our eyes were fixed on one another. I could not read your expression. Deep in contemplation and solemn, you trudged on, and we reunited on the golden, gravelly road to the village where we grew up. You were in uniform – had gone up in the ranks, look at you! You took off your hat, and your shabby rucksack fell to the ground, bringing up a cloud of dust with it. You leaned down to place the hat down on it, and then straightened yourself. Your eyes travelled up and down my body, as if you were trying to memorise me. I still could not begin to comprehend what you were feeling. I did not say anything. Were you disappointed? Did you expect to see somebody else?

My doubts dissolved as soon as your powerful arms wrapped around my waist, and you pulled me close. You held me in a tight embrace, whilst my hands snaked around you, recalling just how much I missed you. It was you. It was definitely you. We stood there for an eternity. We were as still as statues, even when a distant shout of ‘he returned’ had travelled to us. There was bound to be a commotion, a celebration. The biggest one after the news that the war was over. But we did not move. You did not look up. You hugged me tighter and let yourself melt into my caresses. Whispering my name, over, and over again, you were misty eyed as you removed your head from the crook of my neck and gazed at me. Tenderly, I guided you into a soothing kiss, reminding you that it was all over. You were here. You were home.

A month later, we said our real vows. We got married in the tiny church that was central to the village square. It was meant to be. The sun blessed us, shining down and giving us a shimmering peck on the tops of our heads. After the celebration, at dusk, we escaped to the hillside and gazed at the stars, drawing those same constellations with our fingers. We had been craving these quiet moments together. Now we always dedicate sometime to ourselves, in unity. Sometimes, we sit on the porch or at the table in the garden, drinking freshly made juice or tea. We do not have to talk. We just exist together. We understand what the other wants to say without it being voiced. Nodding and a knowing smile is plenty.

I will always be there. I hold your hand through your dark times and pray for it all to get better. Whatever it is. Perhaps there is no diagnosis – there are no physical symptoms for what you are feeling, and yet, you experience unbearable agony. I do not know where it comes from, so I can only assume it is in the mind. If only emotion and memory was built up of bricks or was a jigsaw puzzle. Then I would remove the pieces that hurt you so and you could go back to being a young boy with a dream.

You have matured in a way that nobody should. Far too early you have seen the evil of society and had to grow up into a stoic man. Now that you could, technically, return to how you were, the demons have stuck to you, and haunt you wherever you go, attacking you when you least expect it. Once, it happened at the farmer’s market. A loud bang from somebody dropping pots and pans resulting in us hiding in an alleyway where you collapsed with your back to a wall and curled into a ball. I dropped to my knees beside you, and counted out loud, diverting your attention, calling you back. It was always a challenge. There was nobody we knew who could give us a helping hand; we had to combat the invisible on our own.

So here we are two years later. Getting by. Living in small steps. That is enough. We try to stick to routines and use that as a comfort. A year ago, by coincidence on the anniversary that you have returned from the land beyond, we have stumbled upon a spectacular companion – an adorable mutt with wagging tail. He senses your pain and knows when to alert you. He knows you trusted him, and gave him the name ‘Haneul’. Suits him nicely.

He was the runt of the litter, and the owner thought to ‘let him go’, as they had put it. Your heart had ached for him and soon enough, the tiny puppy was wriggling in your hands, snuggling into your warmth. You fed him and cared for him night and day. The new responsibility swept you away and let your mind rest for a record amount of time.

Now, Haneul is always by your side, even when I cannot be with you. He follows you around with unbeatable persistence, protecting you. He allowed you to try and step out into society on your own, with success. Of course, it would not be life if there were no setbacks, but even when you could not leave the house, Haneul is right there, with you. He rests his upper body on your chest, right above your heart, and looks up at you with concern and adoration.

We are a happy family: you, Haneul and I. At least, we are managing with the happiness that we are provided. Long gone are the days when we would dance with the breeze, and bathe in the sunshine; white shirts fluttering like butterfly wings. It will not come back, and for the better. We would not give that time the love it deserves – our souls and will has dried out, and the time of our youth is distant. What is left is to sit in the garden, with Haneul at our feet, holding hands and recalling the time when we had made flower crowns – king and queen of a pretend world, accessible only through a child’s imagination. Too soon we have lost it. Too soon. Without a chance to say goodbye. We are two shells, together out of habit, waiting out the days and seasons. Living in perpetual motion until we live our peaceful last.

Once, in half slumber, you told me about your friend. Yes, the one who said that he has lived a good life. All I can pray for is that when the time comes, we would be able to say the same.

[deadpoets]

GEORGE HARRISON + SNOOPY

[science-lings]

okay this has been going through my mind for days and I have to get my thoughts out before I explode

Disclaimer, this is not talking about a specific artist/person and would never condone or participate in anon hate or online bullying for any reason but especially this one. 

I get why people are mad about Link being portrayed as this buff, hypermasculine, tall guy. I am too (again don’t fucking attack people over it though) and it seems like such an infuriating way to change the character just to fit into some ideal of hypermasculine attractiveness or to make a ship fall into a more hetero lense by making him a decent foot taller than whatever girl he’s being paired with. 

The world of video games and action movies and every form of media ever is extremely saturated with male characters that are swole and manly and whatever other descriptors people are trying to push onto Link that don’t fit into his actual character. There are so many characters out there that already fit this male standard and having a clearly androgynous elf guy was like a breath of fresh air. 

Link was literally designed to be a character whose lines on gender were blurred, ‘a girl with a masculine touch or a guy with a feminine touch’ so that anyone could project themselves onto him. His physical design in botw/totk was specifically made to be feminine enough to wear a certain outfit to pass as a woman (which includes a nearly mandatory cutscene where he puts on the clothes and blushes after being called pretty, like you have to be blind to think that its an experience that he doesn’t like at all) and in totk there are a bunch of outfits made for Link that are blatantly gnc, ones that are practically dresses, include nail polish and lipstick, you can even dye his hair bright and vivid colors and that’s half way to giving him new pronouns. The whole reason Linkle isn’t included in more mainline loz games was because her existence would force Link into a gender dichotomy, if there's a clearly female version of the main hero, that means the main hero has to be a man, and they would rather abandon a potential reoccurring character than make Link conform to a gender binary. 

So pardon me when it feels disingenuous and even malicious for him to be morphed into these clear masculine ideals, where he towers over any female romantic partner (even when in canon he is regularly depicted as noticeably shorter than her) or even in m/m fanworks he’s really beefed up, perhaps to make the scene feel more gay or something. 

Perhaps it’s because his more twink-y/ femboy body type is so heavily sexualized (though obviously when people are sculping abs on him it’s totally not because they’re horny about it) and that’s an issue in itself that bothers me. But it’s just so tiring to see one of the very few popular main characters who is short and feminine and androgynous be molded into just another bland muscle-headed action hero over and over and over again. 

I’m not mad at the creators for portraying him differently than how I like him portrayed, I’m mad because we really do get so few characters like him in good popular media, and to be honest, I really like him the way that he is. I love that he’s tiny and has long hair and has the option to dress any way the player likes. It seems a little distasteful to make him taller than a female love interest just because that’s how straight couples have to be, there’s just never been a real straight couple where the guy is shorter than the girl, that’s just Impossible! (/s) 

[hobbithoes]

ref sheet for durge’s scars + undies + linking the playlist #yolo

[eliasorchard]

they keep cracking my knuckles brah it's freaking me out

[sunsetsandsunshine]

HAIAIAIII !!!

I wanna request a tk fic 😇🫶🏻🫶🏻 so uhmm what about a Ler!Jeanette Ler!Brittany and Lee!Eleanor?? from alvin and the chimpmunks !!

~ 𝚂𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚟𝚜. 𝙰𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 ~

🩷💜🩵 𝙵𝚒𝚌 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢: @giggly-cloud 🩷💜🩵

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚𝙰𝙷𝙷𝙷𝙷𝙷 𝙷𝙸𝙷𝙸𝙷𝙸𝙷𝙸 𝙲𝙻𝙾𝚄𝙳𝙸𝙴!!!!! 𝙰𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙰𝙰𝚃𝙲— 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚂𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙷𝙴𝙳 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 😭💔! 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘…“𝚝𝚔?” 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 “𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎” 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎 😇💝💗💕💓˚*• ̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊·̩̩̥͙

𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: 𝙵𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜: 𝟸,𝟸𝟹𝟺

𝙻𝚎𝚎: 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛 🐿️🩵

𝙻𝚎𝚛’𝚜: 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚢 🐿️🩷 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙹𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 🐿️💜

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚜; 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜. 𝙳𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕…

𝚆𝙴’𝚁𝙴 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙾𝙶𝙴𝙴𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁: @shut-up-jo @itzsana-kiddingmenow

@aeinzzzketchup @veryblushyswitch @mysteriouslee

(𝙰/𝙽: 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚢! 𝙸*𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚔/𝙽𝚂𝙵𝚆 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚜 𝙳𝙽𝙸!!!)

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚃𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙰𝚟𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚜 𝚂𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 (𝙸 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊 ☝🏾🥸)! 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝙸 𝚑𝚒𝚒𝚒𝚒𝚒𝚒𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 :𝟹)

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ 𝙴𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚢𝚢𝚢𝚢𝚢𝚢𝚢 ˚*•✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

“You…do know Billie is better than Taylor, right?” Eleanor said, grinning smugly at her eldest sister on the couch.

The eldest sister in question huffed out a bitter laugh, meeting the smallest chipmunk’s wicked smile with a sharp glare, “Ihi beheg your pardon, Ellie?” 

Although, the tallest of the three just sighed sadly as her sisters continued to bicker (for, like, the millionth time), sinking into the couch seat slightly as she observed WWIII being displayed right in front of her. 

Before all of this…drama, the three preteen sisters figured it would be best to spend as much time with each other as possible and take advantage of the Summer break.

Since school would hit as soon as Autumn started to roll around, they would have to go on tour, and go to school and a whole bunch of mega important stuff that would keep their hands full 24/7…

So, sitting on the couch and watching TV together peacefully was something they initally planned to do.

And it was peaceful! Veeery peaceful in fact. 

That was until Eleanor randomly started boasting about how the movie they were watching would be 100x better if 'Hit Me Hard and Soft' was the soundtrack.

But the thing was, they were currently watching Back to the Future. Which, if you didn’t know, aired in 1985. So it wouldn’t really make all that much sense if one of Billie Eillish’s album’s was the soundtrack…but Jeanette wasn’t one to question (that much anyway). 

The harmless comment caused the tiiiiinest ounce of outrage from Brittany as she went on and ON listing all the album’s Taylor had whilst mocking about the fact that Billie only has three as of right now. 

Petty sibling arguments at its finest…

“Guys, can we please just watch the movie…?” Jeanette meekly offered as her two sisters glared absolute daggers at each other, “I think it’s getting to the really good part…!”

“You said that exact same sentence fifteen minutes ago, Jennie.” The pink cladded chipmunk deadpanned, “Besides, avenging Taylor is wahaaaay more important than any weird time travel space movie.” 

“It’s called Back to the Future…” The tallest chipmunk muttered as she adjusted her purple glasses.

“Whatever.” The blue eyed teen huffed, “Anyway, Ellie…I think you owe Taylor an apology.” 

“AN APOLOGY?!” Eleanor squawked in awe, “The only person who should be apologizing is Taylor herself! There are waaaaaaay too many people on this Earth that deserve a Nobel Prize in Physics but yet she got one by just existing!” 

The purple eyed teen winced at the comment, sinking into the couch deeper as she saw her older sister get gradually more angry. 

“Wehell, I guess you haven’t read her research as the lead scientist of the Large Hadron Collider at CERN.” The elder glared. 

“No, no I haven’t.” The youngest said snarkingly as she crossed her arms, “I have better things to do with my time. Besides, she gives us blonde’s a bad name and I am not here for it.” 

“Heeeeere we go…” The brunette mumbled knowingly as she went on her phone. 

Brittany’s left eye twitched as she stood up on the sofa, putting a hand on her hip, “Well, at least she can keep a consistent hair color! Your emo music artist changed her hair color to every shade on the rainbow!”

“And?” Eleanor pressed on, “At least Billie looks good in every single one! Taylor being a brunette was just not it and you know it.”

“YOU LITTLE—!” Brittany sucked in a breath, exhaling slowly as her icy blue eyes met sassy emerald green. “I know you did nohot just—”

“I just did.” The younger cut off as she stuck her tongue out teasingly, “What are you gonna do about it?” 

“…Why don’t I show you?” The eldest chipmunk grinned, basically pouncing on her youngest sister as the two wrestled to get the upper hand.

And out of context? It honestly looked like a WWE match.

“GEHET OFF OF ME!” The mint cladded chipmunk screeched.

“Not uhuntil you admit Taylor is better.” The blue eyed teen smiled sweetly. 

And to a random stranger, that quote on quote 'sweet smile' probably looked 100% genuine. But to Jeanette and Eleanor…? 

…That smile had a whoooooole different meaning…

“N-NEVER!” The blonde exclaimed as she pushed her hands on the other’s chest. 

“Fine then. Have it your way.” The strawberry blonde giggled as she tickled the youngest’s sides casually and effortlessly. The green eyed chipmunk let out a loud but short scream as she descended into small giggles, hugging herself as she squirmed left and right. 

“B-BriHIHIT! STAhap IHIT!!!” The youngest squealed. 

“Ihi’m barely even tickling you, Ellie. Don’t tell me it’s that bad~!” Brittany snickered as she changed her scribbling to squeezing her sister’s sides mercilessly. “STAHA— squeak YOHOUR MEEHEAN!!” 

The oldest of the three chipmunks dramatically gasped, moving her fingers to knead at Eleanor’s underarms, “Me? Mean? Ohhhhh no no no no no no no. I’m not being mean…you’re just super ticklish.” 

The younger blushed slightly, clamping her arms down almost immediately whilst kicking her legs on the couch, “H-HUHUSH UP! SOHO AHARE YAHA— hic YOHOU!”

The strawberry blonde chuckled fondly at her sibling’s weak rebuttal, sneaking one of her hands out of the other’s underarms to try and tickle her neck but was stopped as Eleanor grabbed her wrist. 

“I know I am but what are you~?” Brittany scoffed lightly as she stopped her tickling altogether, crossing her arms as she raised a very amused brow. 

The two sister’s made eye contact— one completely amused by the very silly turn of events as the other was waiting for her grave to be buried. “Come on and share…since you wanna be all sassy today: share with the class. What are you, little sister~?”

At that tease, the green eyed chipmunk’s sassiness most definitely just went down the drain and into the ocean for sure.

The youngest let out a small, giggly whine, looking at her immediate older sister at the end of the couch in seek for help. But the only response she got was a mere shrug as she gave Eleanor an apologetic smile. 

Eleanor covered her face in embarrassment, her tail softly swishing against the couch cushion as her giggles became more giddy and desperate, “I-Ihim tihicklish…” She muttered out.  

“Sorry…didn’t hear that.” The pink cladded preteen mused.

“I-I-Ihihi’m tihihicklish!!” The youngest tried again. 

“Whaaaaaat?”

“I-Ihi sahahaid Ihi’m t-tihihicklish!!” 

“Sorry…one more time~? I really can’t hear you—“ 

“IHI’M TAHA— squeak IHI’M TIHIHICKLISH!!!” The blonde basically screamed. 

“Pfft— yeah, I know.” The eldest snickered as she kneaded the other’s hips. 

Eleanor let out a large and loud squeal as she weakly hit the other’s arms and hands, bucking and twisting around to at least make Brittany’s grip on her hips loosen a bit. 

But the blue eyed chipmunk just snickered evilly at the action, casually tickling her where the thigh met the hip, leaving the youngest of the three in absolute stitches. 

Jeanette looked away from her phone and directed her attention to her two sister’s silly situation, smiling happily. Well…at least they were bonding instead of tugging at each other’s throats. 

The purple eyed chipmunk looked towards the hallway, rolling her eyes fondly as  she saw a red blur basically sprinting into the living room. 

“Hey guys!” Alvin said quickly, basically jumping up and down where he stood, “Me, Si and Theo are gonna go skateboarding outside and we were wondering if you guys would wanna— uhhhhhh...wow.” 

As the hazel eyed chipmunk became more aware to what was going on in front of him, a small flustered blush appeared on his face as he tried to not look at the pink and mint duo— who didn’t even seem to notice he walked in (which was very rude by the way…) 

The purple cladded chipmunk raised a brow at her little brother’s facial expression, “Alv, you need something? You said you wanted us to—”

“Nope. Nah. Nada. I don’t need aaaaaanything…” Alvin mumbled out quickly and quietly, averting his gaze from the scene displaying in front of him to not worsen the tingly butterfly feeling in his stomach.

“AHALVIN! DOHON’T JUHU— hic JUHU— squeak JUHUST STAHAND THEHEHERE!! HEHELP MEEHEEHEE!” The blonde cried.

“Ehellie…my dear bahahaby sihister whom Ihi adore dearly. I would absoltuely lohove to hehelp yohou with your current…predicament but, uhm…I hahave places to go ahand plahaces to be. Sooooo aaaaanyways gOODLUCKBYELOVEYOUUUU!!!” And with that, the red cladded chipmunk Usain Bolted out of the living room. 

“AHAHALVIN YAHA— squeak COHOME BAHACK hic HEHERE YOHOU TRAITOR!!!” Eleanor squealed, letting out small hiccups and squeaks that bounced off the living room’s walls.

Brittany shared a knowing glance at Jeanette, causing the tallest of the three to nod quietly, sitting next to her little sister as she thrashed around. “Seems like that spot is really bad…” The glasses wielding chipmunk mused. 

“IHIT IHIHIS! YOHOU squeak KNOHOW MY hic HIHIHIPS ARE A BAHAD SPAHA— squeak!!!”

“That’s not the only thing that’s bad~!” The purple eyed chipmunk said as she traced Eleanor’s sides lightly, “With all your thrashing and squirming, I noticed you have one missing rib…” 

“NAHAHA— hic NOHO IHI DAHA— squeak DOHOHON’T!!!”

The tallest giggled of the three giggled, “Ihi just want to check to make sure—”

“NOHOHOHOH!” 

“Just a quick check—”

“N-NOHOHAHA! AHA STAHAP! STOHOP BEING MEAN!” The youngest screeched as she descended into a fit of loud laughter. 

“You’re mean for not letting me tickle your neck.” Brittany mused as she used one hand to scribble the crook of her baby sister’s neck while her other hand continued to squeeze at her hip, “That’s better~!” The eldest sing-songed. 

The mint cladded chipmunk scrunched up her shoulder in a weak attempt to at least cease some of the tickles, but to her dismay…it just made it way worse. The youngest dropped her hands to her sides, her legs weakly kicking underneath Brittany as her tail wagged, “IHIHIT TIHICKLES!! BEEHEE NIHIHICE!!!” 

“I was gonna be nice~!” The eldest sang, “But since you didn't let me get your neck…I'll just tickle your tummy then.” The blue eyed preteen grinned, wiggling her finger’s near the blonde’s stomach teasingly. 

The younger’s eyes widened in panic at the tease/light threat, grabbing her older sister’s wrists in an attempt to stop her, “N-NAHA hic squeak NOHO! IHIHI HAHATE hic hic IHAT THAHA— squeak THEHEHERE!!!” 

“But…I thought you liked it here?” Jeanette said genuinely as she stopped tickling her sister’s sides. The strawberry blonde rolled her eyes fondly for her immediate younger sister’s…compassion for all mankind. 

It was sickening, honestly…

“She does like getting tickled there, Jean. It’s one of her favorite spots…you know this.” Brittany said as she shook her head. 

“But she just said she didn’t!” The purple cladded chipmunk exclaimed. 

The blondie groaned at her two sister’s conversation…

God, would they just tickle her already?! She was dying in anticipation here!!!

Her two sister’s then looked at her— Brittany glanced at Jeanette as if to say 'I told you so'. 

And that’s when the youngest realized she said alllllllll of that out loud…

Eleanor buried her face into her arms, her face heating up as the dreaded ghost tickles got worse and worse. 

“…So you do like it! You just didn’t want to admit it.” The purple eyed chipmunk clarified as she put one on one together, “And earlier…you were taunting and bickering with Britt so she and I would tickle you, right?”

The younger’s face just went as red as a tomato, causing her older sister’s to fall into a giggle fit with her. “That makes so much more sense now.” The tallest grinned, tickling her little sister’s stomach and sides. The youngest of the three covered her mouth, shaking her head.

Oh this was gonna tickle so bad…

“I think you can laugh louder than that~!” Jeanette hummed, blowing a raspberry in the crook of Eleanor’s neck while dancing her fingers all over her stomach.

The eldest huffed out a laugh in triumph, cracking her knuckles teasingly as she kneaded the younger’s hips whilst blowing a raspberry on the other side of her neck. The blonde screamed with laughter, happy tears building up in her eyes. 

“There we go~! Much better. Don’t you agree, Jennie?” The strawberry blonde snickered. 

“Oho I definitely agree.” The brunette said as she nodded in agreement, “Ahhh tickle tickle tickle~!You’re so tickle tickle ticklish, little sis~!”

“BRIHIHIT!! JEHEHE— hic JEHE— squeak!!! GUHUYS PLAHAHEEEEEASE!!!” Eleanor cried. The two sister’s sighed lovingly, stopping their ticklish torment on the youngest as they sat back on the couch. 

The purple cladded chipmunk wrapped her little sister in a soft but protective hug, planting a kiss on her temple, “Are you alright? Me and Britt didn’t go too far, right…?”

“N-Noho I’m hic goohoohood. Yohou two ahare hic mean, thohough…” The youngest said through her giggle fit, resting the back of her head on Jeanette’s chest, “Wahait…dihid the mohovie ehend already…?” 

“Yes it did!” Brittany chuckled, getting up to grab the remote which was on the couch rest, “Whihich is why we are going to be watching Taylor Swift Reputation Stadium Tour!” The eldest squealed, flipping through the channels to go to Netflix. 

Jeanette and Eleanor shared a knowing glance with one another, rolling their eyes as the concert began to play.

Oh well…Eleanor would just have to get her revenge afterwards. 

'Expect the unexpected' is what her brother Alvin would say, anyway. 

And besides! After they’re done watching…maybe she’ll come to like Taylor’s music.

…Maybe.

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚𝙵𝙸𝙽˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙ 

(𝙿.𝚂.: 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚌, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐!!!)

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

yall would not Believe the level of 'just ate the floor' i achieved today

[triglycercule]

killer eating food in front of horror as a way to taunt him. duuuude do you see this delectable parfait he has in his hands right now. he just put a spoonful in his mouth. horror is scratching at his own arms right now (trying not to jump this bitchass). killer can't even taste it LMAOOO another bite ‼️ imagine not being able to eat food 🤣🤣🤣 killer can't even taste it and enjoy the food but horror can't even EAT food

then horror grabs the parfait glass out of his hands and oh killer you should probably teleport away before horror does to you what undyne did to his eye

[chaoscheebs]

Consider: Seto Kaiba feels way more safe and comfortable curled up with Yugi in Yugi’s tiny-ass bed than in the far more spacious bed he has at home.

(On that same note, Seto still complains that Yugi needs a bigger bed.  Yugi’s like, “OK, and where am I going to put a bigger bed?” and gestures to the size of his bedroom.)

[minijeong]

red velvet & aespa - 'beautiful christmas' teaser photos

[onesnoopyaday]

Snoopy #33

3/11/2024

[gojoest]

i need the weekend to come faster

[hourcat]

omg can I have an angsty prompt request...post-breakup piarles, reuniting after x years, realizing the feelings are still there...and maybe its not too late...hehe 😋

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

It’s been about two years since Pierre took off his ring for the last time.

He’d done it before then plenty, of course—nothing aggravates an argument with the perfect mirror of yourself quite the same as a grand gesture like that, tugging off an engagement band and leaving it on the counter before storming out. But two years ago, things had just…come to a head. Pierre loved Charles, he did, but keeping up with him had become too much work. Life outside of racing had gotten very big very quickly for him, and there’s only so much a person can do in the shadow of their partner before things get testy.

And when you’re engaged to your lifelong best friend, sometimes testy is just the final straw. Charles had been in the middle of one of his big Ferrari collaborative projects, spending more nights in Maranello than at their shared flat in Monaco, and Pierre fell asleep alone in bed once again with the ache of not being enough.

So he’d left. Took the ring off, wrote Charles a little apology, and packed the things he was confident were his before disappearing into the cool November night. He’d changed both of his phone numbers a few days later when Charles started blowing his phone up with messages and voicemails. And then he’d gone off the grid entirely.

I love you, but I cannot do this anymore. That’s what he’d said. Two years later, sitting in the dining lounge at LVMH headquarters, he thinks it’s probably the right call. He no longer feels like a WAG working under his own collaborative brand with the company’s latest popstar ambassador whose name he doesn’t even really recognize. She’s nice, at least—Pierre is waiting for her now, actually, so that they can walk through the latest scheduling draft for the upcoming Winter show. He’s still not fully involved in the behind-the-scenes work, but if he can figure out something splashy to present at the next meeting, he's convinced that he’ll—

“Pierrot?” A familiar voice breaks through his thoughts, coming from somewhere to his right. Pierre turns.

And then his stomach drops, because standing before him is Charles Leclerc—ex-fiance, former best friend, the love of his life once upon a time, standing there with a bag hanging off his shoulder and his sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Part of Pierre instinctively wants to fix it, either push them gently back where they belong on his face or pull them off and carefully tuck them into the vee of his shirt.

He does neither.

“Charles,” he greets instead, pushing back in his chair casually. He’s not going to get up, he’s not. It’s not like Charles is there for him, after all. “What are you doing here?” He pauses, then realizes how rude it must’ve sounded to just blatantly ask why he’s in Pierre’s workplace. “How have you been?”

Charles, to his credit, doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are lit-up, sparkling the way they always used to when they were together on the track. “I’m good,” he says as he takes a few steps closer to be within proper conversational range. “Ferrari is exploring potential luxury brand partnerships, and since I was already in Paris…” he shrugs. “Just looking, is all.”

Ferrari. Pierre hasn’t followed along close enough with their old sport for quite some time, but the name still makes him grimace. All the time that team had sucked away from him—from them—the thought still makes him bitter enough to taste it. “I see,” he hums in reply, picking up his little espresso cup and sipping at it. Charles just keeps looking at him, though: like he’s curious. “I have been working here alongside some of the lead designers of the season.”

Charles oohs softly. Pierre hates that he can tell it’s genuine even after all this time apart. “They found the perfect model,” he murmurs, a small smile playing on his face. “I’m happy they have you, Pierrot.” He looks like he wants to say more for a moment—it’s been two years and Pierre hasn’t really thought about his almost-marriage for longer than a day at a time, but suddenly having Charles right back in his space is crumbling the foundations of his new life like they’re made of plaster. “How have you been?”

“Good,” is the immediate answer that comes out of his mouth. It’s not entirely false, really, but…Pierre can’t help how his eyes trail up and down Charles’ body, how they catch at the silver chain hanging around his neck. The top button of his shirt is undone, revealing the faint little patch of chest hair that Pierre used to tease him about when they were younger. Nestled in it is…

Is the engagement band Pierre bought him all those years ago. Pierre’s gaze darts to his left hand instinctively. He swallows when he sees it ringless in the places that matter. The sight of the gaudy golden ring against his still-pale chest flings Pierre back in time, when he’d first slipped it on Charles’ trembling hand and whispered be mine forever? Charles had promised him, then, that he would—the memory makes him feel nauseous. Forever had felt like a long time when Pierre had weighed his options before leaving—a long time to be waiting in the wings, a long time to be a love of Charles’ and not the love.

And yet, the last two years without him has felt like a lifetime in the most agonizing of ways. He’s reminded of that yet again with the sight before him: Charles still wears the ring around his neck, and Pierre has his tucked away in the drawer beside his bed, folded in one of Charles’ old bandanas he’d stumbled upon after moving out. It’s silly. It’s devastating. The love Pierre had spent so long packing away in moving boxes is starting to leak out at the bottom.

“Charlie,” he says softly after a long moment, gesturing to the empty seat across from him, “come join me for lunch.” Charles just looks at him, blinking his sweet, slow, cat-like blink until Pierre gestures again, more earnest than before. “Please, mon cheri. It has been so long.”

After another long, breathless moment, Charles’ face softens even further. He pulls out the chair across from Pierre and sinks into it. “It has,” he says quietly. “Pierrot, it has.”

[jihyoruri]

yo hows yn airport looks? Is she the one to always wear black clothing, covering her face with mask hat, or it depends on her mood

yn’s airport fashion is always based on where she’s going, so it can either be baggy, classy or just her regular day outfits, if she’s coming back to korea from somewhere you’ll probably see her in baggy clothes with a mask and a bucket hat or a beanie

[haedgaf]

spent like 45 minutes making this scrapbook frame for my edit just to not know how to transition to this from the previous frame… sighhhhhhhhhh

[twpsyn-who]

Today on "Another JeanMarco Soulmate AU absolutely no one asked for" I present to you -

Soulmate AU in which you stop seeing colors when your soulmate dies, the only exception being your soulmate. Now cue to Jean who just found Marco's, his best friend's, body. And you know, there's the shock of finding out Marco's dead. The pain and confusion and guilt. But there's also the revelation, because despite everything he can still see Marco like nothing took place at all- yes, half of his face is missing and his body is straight up lifeless, but Jean can still make out the color of his eye ; see that light shade of brown perfectly, remember all the times he has found himself looking at them while listening to Marco talk. He can still make out the colors of his uniform, see the same shade of black his hair has always had, practically see. Despite being dead, Marco was the only piece of color left in his life.

And there's denial for a moment because there's no way Marco was his soulmate. But that goes away fast, getting replaced by guilt. By the fact that he hasn't been there to save him, that Marco has to die all alone without anyone being there for him.

And that was worse than the simple fact that he could no longer see colors ; because Marco was there when Jean needed him, but he failed to do the same. And not only he lost his best friend that day, but his other half too.