#thread: to rise from seafoam

[distant--shadow]

Imogen stirs

"Honey, did you say somethin'?" she blearily whispers. 

"I'm sorry, were you sleeping?" 

"No, I was just thinkin'."

"With your eyes closed?" 

"With ma eyes closed." Imogen turns over her shoulder and kisses Laudna on the end of her permanently broken nose. "What were you laughin' about?" 

Laudna's focus darts to where her hand had grasped for energy unattainable to her. 

"I was thinking about my arms popping out of their sockets after trying to wrangle Fearne." 

Imogen stifles her laugh, her dimples drawing in shadows. 

"There is a lot of her." 

she quiets as from a few feet away, Fearne gently snores. 

the scoff Imogen's throat gives is affectionate, a reverberation of rumble travelled between them sympathetic and synchronised.

"mm." Laudna shortly hums. She can't disagree. 

She returns her hand to lay ontop of Imogen's upturned, though it is hard for her eyes to ignore the only source of light in the room, despite her dark vision. 

Imogen's fingers thread between her own; squeeze tentatively, questioningly. 

Laudna's head is rested over Imogen's shoulder, sunken into the crook of her neck, her soft lilac hair pillowing her white castle ruin cheek

their line of sight can't be too dissimilar, surely Imogen can't ignore the spectral tightrope illuminating between herself and the faun. 

(Laudna hadn't done a good job of making it across the one over the river.)

Imogen can most likely feel it, even if her eyes are closed. 

Thinking. 

How much of that is her own? 

The gold of her circlet a juxtaposition of hot flesh meeting cold, a flux permanently balanced between their two body tempratures. 

"You have said before, that we're a lot..." 

"We are, but we wouldn't be us if we weren't. It's what makes us right, it's why we work." the hush to Imogen's voice doesn't dampen its affection. 

Laudna props herself up on her left elbow, right arm still draped over Imogen but now her head hovering over the other woman's, their hair a mass of wiry blacks and wavy lilacs covering the pillow

Laudna wonders how the two would look braided, 

of seafoam green-

"And Fearne?" 

Imogen's brow furrows.

Fearne? 

Imogen opens their mental connection to excuse the third woman from their conversation. 

The two of you…

Imogen's cheeks flush, imperceptible to anyone else within their nook or the neighbouring-nook ‘rooms’ (Laudna would know easily how to make a room of them), despite their sleeping, despite Orym’s perception. He can't see in the dark. He can't get to know everything. And Chet-

well, he'd probably argue he could smell the blood anyhow.

I am not jealous. I do not envy your posistion. I am glad you have someone-

Laudna, what you talkin’ about? I have you. 

You have both of us, and I really am thankful for that.

both- Imogen mirrors, a slightly confused crinkle still on her brow and a rosy flush under the peach fuzz. Laudna is inherently enamoured by it. 

I will always stand by the belief - my belief - that you should do what you want and you alone, but I am thankful-

Laudna leans down and kisses Imogen on her forehead just to right of the jewel embellishing her circlet; her lips feel the skin rise, in relief or surprise, maybe both, maybe something else. 

I am thankful that you are not alone in this, I am thankful that you have someone to share it with-

her grip tightens around Imogen’s, and she extends their arms by the hand from out of the confines of their bed roll, running just parralel to the tether between Imogen and Fearne. 

-and the ‘thing’ I should be directing that thanks towards is Fearne; because I certainly don't like the idea of directing it towards anyone or anything else that's involved. 

Imogen's lips part as if they mean to form words, but only a long and slightly shaken exhale departs from between them. 

No, certainly no thanks to her mother, nor Fearne’s father, not the gods, or their predator. 

Don't stunt yourself, don't close yourself off. What connects us is what gives us power. 

[fantasticsandwich]

yandere siren Neuvillette x reader (pt 2)

Your consciousness stirs as the first tender fingers of dawn caress the horizon. Half submerged in moon-warmed sand, salt and sea linger in your mouth. Framed by grey gorges, your eyelids reluctantly part. There is no immediate recollection of the night’s storm. Rather,  only fragments and lightning-flashes of memories flood your mind—fury, fear, and the visceral thrumming heart of the ocean. The bags beneath your eyes mirror the tumultuous gray of the storm-washed sky above as you exhale, hoping to dislodge the saltwater from your lips and lungs.

Wrestling the sand, you rise from your back onto your elbows. With your body aslant, a blanket of meticulously woven seaweed falls from your lap. Vestiges of brine trickling from your skin as you rise to survey the novel sight. The land slopes down, seaward to slip into blue. Further down the coast, gulls shriek and pluck at the remnants of a wrecked pier while chunks of driftwood clot at the tide-line, bobbeling in the harbor. A ship’s splintered timbers jut out into the water like the skeletal fingers of a drowned giant, grasping for salvation in the rising tide. It seems that after innumerable missions across the seas, the Waverider has at last ridden a storm to her demise. It pains you to look at, so your gaze is drawn to the chalky cliff sides across the bay. In the other direction, behind you a distance away, lies a clamoring village.

At first, there is no sound: your attention is only commanded from the village by a rippling disturbance in the waters. Cleaving through the ever-churning sea face, a series of clicks soon bubble from the waves. Your heart clenches with a primal panic when the sound reaches your ears. Memories of the storm’s wrath ignite within your veins. Yet there, amidst the undulating waves and through a cloak of seafoam and kelp, emerges not a harbinger of peril but the visage of an angel. Your senses, still shrouded in the fog of slumber and disorientation, sharpen as he surfaces from the silken depths, an apparition clothed in the palest light of morning. His skin glows alabaster against the shifting hues of the sea, and his white hair, caught by the nascent breeze, streams about him like threads spun from moonbeams. He moves with a casual serenity that seems at odds with the chaotic aftermath scattered along the shoreline, his form undulating with the subtle grace of the ocean’s pulse.

“Be… not… scared…” he intones, his voice fractured bits of language with odd, lilting sounds. With everything but his face submerged, you await his ascent, viewing as he breaches the water. He rouses slowly, digging into the sand with his forearms. Bared to the light, his skin shimmers with the kiss of the rising sun. Eyes dark as the fathomless deep gaze upon your with an intrinsically foreign interest tinged with a curious inclination as he draws nearer.

Likewise, his presence brings both mirth bewilderment for you, who grapples silently with the improbable reality of your savior. He hovers at the threshold where sea meets sand, an ethereal being drawn to the terrestrial realm by a fascination as relentless as the tides.

“Save… friend.”

“It’s you,” you say in awe. Your terror is overcome by intrigue. As a sailor, you cannot waste the opportunity of a lifetime. “You’re my saviour.”

He is moored on land now, elbows resting near your ankles. His flesh begins human, yet as your gaze follows down his torso, you discover a mottled patch of pale, luminescent scales. Crowning his image is the long tail flippantly lying in the sand.

Almost timid, you offer a smile. A pale mimicry, his lips contort into a grotesque expression. You would laugh at the innocence of it, but it is precisely that—grotesque, unfitting of his noble mien, terrifying. His mouth is like a cat’s: wide-mawed with a pink and a barbed tongue framed by rows of razor teeth.

“Touch,” he says, still smiling.

For a fretful moment, you fear he is requesting your hand in his mouth. You are not certain if his desire is less shocking: without warning, he seizes your ankle. Rather than fear, captivation grips you. His unfocused gaze houses a profound weightlessness as you hesitantly extend your legs towards him.

His touch is tentative at first, as if the texture of your skin is another language he is fearful to speak. His skin is moist, somewhat slimy, and certainly softer than yours. Webbed fingers trace the contours of your legs, sharp nails occasionally nicking. A chuckle escapes you, a sound that feels misplaced amidst the solemnity of the interaction, yet it blossoms into existence, as natural and necessary as breath itself. The siren, perturbed at first by the foreign mirth, chirps. Spurred by a mix of surprise and intrigue, you permit his wandering hands to ghost across your limbs. But when his hands cup the junctures beneath your calves and thighs, holding you in place as he presses his cheek against your knee, your breath hitches. Your lips part, ready to object to the actions that stir a strange sensation within you, when the intrusion of another presence pierces the sacred silence. The moment fractures, splintering under the weight of reality’s relentless march as the dunes give way to a figure descending its slope with the ease of nightfall upon the horizon.

“Miss!” A voice booms across the sands, its urgency underscored by the sloshing of waves against the shore. “Lady down by the shore! Are you alright?”

You turn, glimpsing the man as he descends the slope, lantern swinging wildly with his movements, casting erratic shadows that disrupts the serenity of dawn. The lantern’s sway mimics the pulse of your straining heart. Each swing feels like a metronome ticking away the precious seconds you have left in the company of the enigmatic being before you.

The siren’s form tenses. With the grace of a startled swan, he retreats into the safety of his domain, his departure swift and silent save for the gentle kiss of water lapping at his retreat. The arrival acts as the tide’s turn, pulling the siren back into the embrace of the sea. As if he had never been more than a figment of your muddled mind’s yearning, he vanishes, melding seamlessly with the water that birthed him. A whisper of white hair and the ghost of a melody are all that remain, hanging in the air like a dirge for a life dispelled too soon. Your gaze lingers upon the undisturbed water, searching for a sign, a ripple, anything that might suggest his return, his existence at all. Only the vast, unyielding expanse of sea stares back, indifferent to the tumult unfolding upon its shores.

“Miss!” The dune-treading man calls out again. His form ebbs in and out of light as he strides toward you, his lantern painting him in thunderbolts of amber. It casts a golden corona on the sand. The ornate patterns decorating the sides cause it to cast flame-like shadows. In his steady hold, it becomes a miniature sun.

Your pulse quickens, hotness creeping up your cheeks as he halts directly before you. You are not even granted a proper view before he draws closer. With your gaze lingering on the horizon, you see only his dark trousers and boots until he leans down. Raven strands, so dark they almost appear blue, fall across his face. Tickling your shoulder, you pull back. His face is visible now, but your attention is drawn to his eyepatch.

Without so much as a word, he shrugs off his coat. The sleeves slip down his arms, pooling near his waist, where he seizes it. A navy and gold ensemble clings to his form. The blouse beneath is partially unbuttoned, exposing a sliver of his well-defined chest. You could have done without the proximity, but at the very least, you are warm.

“It’s a cold morning,” he says, fastening the clasp around your neck. You quiver when the cold metal skims your tender, freezing flesh. “Let’s find you somewhere to stay.”

His hand extends toward you. Surrendering to the pull, you draw a steadying breath and reach forth, fingers brushing the calloused warmth of the stranger’s palm. The contact sparks warmth into your icy appendages. His grip is firm and secure. With the gentlest of tugs, he beckons you to rise, to turn your back on the siren’s call. Your feet shift, grains of sand slipping beneath them.

You halt, an inexplicable pull urging you to look back one last time. Your figure cuts a lonely figure against the sprawling dawn. Through the misty veil of morning, the ocean stretches before you, vast and inscrutable. And there, just beyond the frothy lacework of tide, two eyes like darkened sapphires gaze from beneath the surface. A smile graces your lips, gentle and knowing, as the siren dips beneath the waves, a spectral vision dissolving into the fathomless blue. In that fleeting moment, the lines between myth and reality blurs, and at last, you begin to grasp the essence of Fontaine’s fatal allure—the dance of the visible and the invisible, ever present in the susurrus of the sea. If your crew has perished for this, then you will exonerate this land of its treasures.

He glances over his shoulder. “What was that?”

“A seagull,” you find yourself saying.

“Those creatures get braver by the day,” says the man, squinting. Attention returning to you, he gently prompts, “Tell me, what swept you here? You don’t appear to be a local.”

“There was a storm,” you tell him, your voice warbling at the admission. “And before that, it had been the sea. You no longer know who you were before, but mostly recently, you were a captain. “It… It took everything and delivered me here.”

The knot in your stomach unfurls when he doesn’t press the matter. Instead, he hums, the lantern still swinging with each stride.

“People say we should do unto others as we wish,” he murmurs. “But somehow, I don’t imagine you’re deserving of a fate like this. The sea has such malice. It’s cruel how she gives and she takes just as swiftly. Unfortunately, that is merely the way of this world.”

“Indeed. It is cruel.”

As you crest the final slope, the village enters into full view. Sheltered by stone seawalls, its quaint cottages huddle in solidarity against the capricious moods of nature. The village burgeons before you, an intricate display of maritime life. Timbered houses nestled against the meandering embrace of the inland rivers parceling the land into different nooks. The hushed whispers of the ocean still cling to your skin, yet you are ensnared by the village’s rustic charm; its cobbled streets and woven nets. Billowing sails peek out from smaller docks in rocky-walled nooks. A mosaic of piers and posts carve channels through the town in which the river courses.

Amidst the symphony of awakening—a blacksmith’s hammer singing anvils into chorus, fishwives calling in melodic cadence, gulls echoing their own shrill hymns—your spirit wavers on the fulcrum of belonging. The cacophony of coastal life reaches your ears, but it digs deep gashes into your chest, piercing your heart. You should not be viewing these streets alone. A captain drowns with their ship. A captain should die for their crew, and yet, your heart beats as if to taunt. Each pulsebeat is a mariner’s knot, tying her to the tangible world even as your soul yearns to plunge into those cruel depths, to go under and not resurface until you are reunited with your crew.

Still, your resolve to thrive crystallizes like ice amidst a wintry brook. Decidedly, you will delve into the enigmatic depths of your encounter with the siren, that creature divine. To turn away now—when everything but your curiosity and rage is lost—would be to deny the inexorable whimsy of your soul.

“I’ll take you to someone who can house you tonight,” says the stranger. “He takes in all the strays, but if you’d rather not spend your days fishing in return, my doors are open.“

“Thank you,“ you mutter.

His words are filtered from your ears by the breeze. Only now does your throat constrict. You remain silent, chewing your tongue as you acquiesced to the mind-numbing guidance, complimented by the stranger’s commentary. Fontaine is not his home—if he had not already divulged such, then his foreign appearance and slight accent would certainly betray the fact—yet he speaks at length, with a scholar’s precision. Fortunately, the walk is short. Your destination is a ramshackle, single-story cottage. Stout and wind-battered, its shingles wobble and the windows rattle with the breeze. From here, you are granted a fine vantage point of the waters beneath.

“Here.” He gestures to the modest dwelling. “Luca, as I’ve come to know, is fond of taking in travelers.” Although the offer is kind, it rouses suspicion: no good deed is faultless. Fortunately, the offer of a roof is soon followed by the prospect of purpose. “But in return, he expects you to do a few hours of work aboard his fishing vessel. Luca!” He calls, rapping a fist against the wooden door. “I’ve brought another guest for you.”

A clatter from inside, then the sound of several latches sliding out of place. A few awkward moments pass, then you’re greeting a burly man with a halo of candle light. His voice is a gruff, rumbling sound. “You called?”

“Luca! Might I introduce you to the newest transient, the enigmatic…”

“Y/N,” you tiredly offer, suppressing a yawn.

“Y/N,” he repeats, turning the sounds over. “Such a lovely name.”

Luca squints, scrutinizing your form. Flexing your biceps, he nods in approval.

“Looks reliable and hardy. Will do,” is all he offers before retreating inside.

Incredulous, you splutter. All it takes to gain a man’s favor is brawn? This land is a wondrous place, filled with peculiar figures. And you, perhaps, might be the most curious of them all.

“And what may I call you?” you ask at last.

Smiling, he tilts his head. “Kaeya.”

Your posture slumps as you lean against the doorframe. Already, the coy act is nerve-rending. “And what is your business, Kaeya?”

“I’m here on official business between Fontaine and Mondstadt,” he coyly says. “I shall see you tomorrow, Y/N. Until then, I hope you have a good rest.“

Mumbling in response, you promptly turn away and join Luca inside. To your utter surprise, you see a table set for three. Two chairs are occupied by Luca, and a woman who can only be his wife. Strangely, the wood grain of the third, empty seat appears just as worn as theirs.

Neither says a word, but you slot yourself across from the pair, begrudgingly join the vivant of domesticity. The clink of silverware and the lack of conversation paints the image of an mundane, everyday life, threads you grasp at but cannot quite weave into your own disjointed narrative. Did you once have a treasure like this? If so, will you ever again?

Through the window, dusk paints the horizon with strokes of melancholy blue and fervent gold. You see something stirring in the water beyond. You see everything and nothing: the moon’s pale reflection, a shadow, a shimmer, a secret. Unfathomable secrets beckon, yet you turn away. For now, your odyssey lay here, amidst the clatter of dishes and the warmth of hearth fires. The siren's call, though potent, will not sway you this eve. There is much to unearth in Fontaine, and first to be discovered are the dinner rites.

Eagerly, you partake, your senses alive to the flavors and sounds, yet your mind still roams those boundless seas and that moonlit visage haunts the edges of your consciousness, plastered across your eyes like an apparition.

a/n: y'all this took too long 😭 the entire story ended up being around 20k, but I'm editing a bit and reworking some scenes, so I've split it into separate parts to keep people interested. just wanted to post this. more to come soon

[aamaranthiine]

3-5 THINGS YOUR MUSE CAN EASILY BE IDENTIFIED BY:

COLORS:

white: pure as freshly fallen snow or soft and bubbly like seafoam as it rolls over sand. a shiver of light over her contours.

violet: as dark as twilight seas, or as pale and pretty like the velvet of flower petals.

green: verdant and vibrant like a lush forest, trees thick with leaves and needles that never knew winter's bite. bushes dense with emerald shadows.

silver: moonlight reflecting on water, streams of sterling over the rippling surface or carried on a current. the unnatural mercurial shine of her blood.

SCENTS

muguet: lily of the valley; a hint of spice and sweetness, a whisper of spring.

lilacs: often woven into her hair, a soft floral and almondy aroma clinging to the ivory tresses.

mint: a hint of crispness, to offset the sweeter notes of her being.

fresh tilled soil: warm and earthy, a loamy scent that further inspires the springborne nature of her.

FASHION

a hand-sewn dress: layers of lavender silk and satin, beautiful in its simplicity for how it molds to her soft, slender frame. lace trimmed that is slightly worn and torn.

patterns: subtle hints of floral themes on her other clothes; delicate embroidery or dyed on the fabric.

braids: her hair spun and woven into long braided ropes, threaded with plant life or small precious trinkets and beads.

an old dark blue cloak: a wizard's garment, patched and well loved, with perhaps a hint of magic left in its weave.

OBJECTS

her alicorn: intrinsic to her being. the spiral horn upon her brow, seen only by those who search and trust. it wields its own seashell light.

a token: aged and faded, a handkerchief once held by a hero-prince; given to the woman he loved til his dying breath.

flowers: ever present blossoms of any variety; in her hair, coiled around a limb, tucked behind an ear. vibrant, never wilting.

BODY LANGUAGE

a stoic face; docile and almost impassive mask, thoughts and emotions kept closely guarded. but so, so lovely to admire.

eyes; why cant i see myself in your eyes?! dark like midnight seas, impossible to see oneself in. filled with forests and secret places. yet watchful and too perceptive.

stillness at times; weightless and motionless, not even a breeze would dare to stir the locks of her hair.

unmatched grace in all she does, her movements elegant, her presence as enchanting as it is elusive.

AESTHETICS

blooming lilac bushes; fragrant and thriving in shades of purple and blue, growing between boughs of old trees in an ancient wood.

the chiming of bells distant and echoing, the sound of her ethereal voice that haunts even those who hear a whisper.

ocean waves lapping at a ivory-white shore, the crashing tide bringing with it thousands of unicorns freed from their prison.

a full moon rising in a clear night sky, swollen and radiant reflecting against a clear pool of water.

stole this from @akagamiko ages ago.

[enigmagp]

-Chapter 1: The World Doesn’t End-

The world is coming to an end. It tries to do that a lot.

Overhead, the golden leaves and black branches of an endless living forest whipped by, the rumbling of an engine echoed amongst the field of trees. A flatbed truck raced along a dirt path, while on its back, the demon adventurer Serra Pyrreb fought for the fate of the world.

Serra was a towering demon, with a stature just over seven feet tall and a powerful build, snow white skin marked by countless scars and huge, vicious horns curving back from her forehead over long black curls. She wore a defaced military uniform, a seafoam overcoat cut above the midriff and worn open over a pink crop top, freeing the slitted vents in her sides, and decorated by simple white epaulets and a white fourragère on the right shoulder. She paired the coat with matching pants and a pair of fingerless white gloves.

Her opposition, the Knights of the Unending End, clad in shining white armor, all spikes and hard edges. Their blades, solid steel and dipped in silver, burned Serra’s skin as they struck at her, kept barely at bay by a furious whirlwind of claws, teeth and tail. For every knight she sent careening towards the edge, another two were always there to catch them, ringed in by a barrier of shields.

“Rally, men! A thousand apocalypses await us! We will-”

The slow, rising rumble of a bass guitar disrupted their fight. Music permeated the air like a strange energy, building to something higher. From amongst the trees, a rose red sports car ripped onto the path, swerving to trail behind the Knights’ truck. Standing in the backseats was Roxie Cass, musician and adventurer, playing a gorgeous black and gold bass guitar. At its wheel, the automaton chronomancer Autumn, eyes darting between the road, the truck and the sky.

Roxie was a fairy with pure black skin, mischievous scarlet eyes and dark red hair, cut to just above her shoulders. She wore a black jacket over a half-tucked red button-up and a pleated white skirt, clunky red shoes leaving mud on the seats. On her back, small, detached red wings fluttered to the rhythm as she strummed her bass guitar. The strings lit up white as she plucked them, and the shape of the instrument itself shifted in her hands, four strings became six as the low rumble of a bass was superseded by the roar of an electric guitar.

The upswing in musical energy surged through Serra’s body, the echoes of a bass blended with the electric guitar to create an impossible song that filled the demon with power. As the knights rushed forward, they were met with a renewed vigor that their shields could no longer ring in, tumbling into the dirt.

Autumn swerved to avoid their broken bodies, though one of them was caught under the tire with an alarming thump and crunch; it barely caught Autumn’s attention, glancing again to the skies above. A practiced chronomancer, Autumn could see the Threads of Fate, endless potential futures presented as countless black strings that weaved through the sky overhead.

But the Threads were wrong. Autumn could count only a handful, twisting between each other. The biggest disaster of all time loomed over them, an Apocalypse Trigger, one of a few dozen potential events foreseen by the countless diviners over the generations. That which spelled the end of the world, which could only be avoided or prevented lest certain doom arrive.

Their synthetic voice filled with alarm as they counted the Threads above, “we’re wasting time! We know where to go now, finish them!” Autumn took a hand off the wheel as the Threads diminished further, white magic swirled about their fingertips as they cast a spell into the ether.

The air shuddered. The winds began to pick up, and on it Autumn caught the whisper of distant voices, an incantation in a language they could not understand, but they knew its purpose. Autumn’s magic had stabilized the situation, but another force attempted to guide the future along a certain path, marching the world to an unpreventable doom.

Serra drew a pair of polished revolvers from holsters beneath her coat. She squeezed the triggers, but was met by disappointing clicks as they both managed to misfire.

“What the hell, Auts?!” she shouted. The momentary bad luck cost her a glancing blow across the cheek, answered by a flash of claws that sent the knight into the dirt.

“Leave nothing up to chance, someone is turning fate against us!”

Serra caught a knight with one hand as they leapt at her, slamming him repeatedly against the truck bed, leaving him in the resulting dent, “can you handle it?”

“I’m attempting to do just that!” A knight leapt from the truck onto the hood of the car, broadsword flashing out towards Autumn. The Chronomancer slid their seat back and, with a snap and flourish, summoned a rapier to their hand. Autumn jumped up, a foot on their seat and the other on the windshield, ducking a wild swing and driving their blade into the knight’s throat.

Autumn was a humanoid automaton, built of a series of intricately engineered titanium plates, whirring and clanking quietly with each shift. Their eyes, metal spheres with pinpoint white pupils, glowed dimly as they scanned every detail. The Chronomancer wore a deep cut, pale green shirt tucked into dark green rockabilly shorts, around their shoulders they wore a long brown coat and matching knee-high boots. On their left thigh was printed the letters, “A.T.U.M.” in black.

They pulled their rapier from the knight’s throat and swept them to one side, dropping back into their seat to regain control of the car, the rapier dissolving into thin air. Reaching into the passenger seat, they seized a pair of curved katana blades, tossing them to the truck with a shout, “Serra!”

The demon caught her blades, sliding the pink wood sheathes onto her hip, she drew them in one smooth motion. Her own willpower surged from her palms into the white wrapped handles, running down the tang of the blades, unleashing a wave of pure force that carved Knights into chunks and split the truck’s cab in half.

Its driver killed, Serra leapt from the truck onto the passenger seat of the sports car. Roxie’s song finished as the truck swerved, tumbling into a cloud of dirt and blood. The fairy heaved a heavy sigh and sat down on the trunk, flexing her fingers with a smile.

“How’s my new girl holding up?” she asked.

“Handling is excellent, durability and speed as well,” Autumn nodded, running a hand along the wheel, “how much?”

“You don’t wanna know,” Roxie smiled and leaned forward, crawling over Serra to get at the glove box, extracting a granola bar from within and passing Serra some bandages, “we’re on, what, nine hours? How’s my gas?”

“Roughly a quarter tank,”

“Not bad!” Roxie bit off a chunk of the granola bar, flashing a wide grin.

Serra hastily wrapped the worst of her wounds, guzzling a warm energy drink from the glove box, “fuck I’m tired,” she gasped.

“Fate of the world, just a little bit longer,” Autumn assured her.

“World oughtta save itself,” Serra wiped her blades clean and refocused on the road, “what’s it supposed to be? Buncha knights, and that King?”

“Don’t forgot the Harbinger,” Roxie chimed in, stuffing the other half of the granola bar in her cheeks, “fuck, my hair’s all fucked up now.”

“How many times do I have to say you’re perfectly capable of playing in your seat?” Autumn passed the fairy a comb from their pocket.

“I can’t get into it!” Roxie stuck her tongue out, gently combing her hair back.

Serra turned one of her swords over in her hand, thinking to herself for a moment. The light caught the blade, a white shine ran across its steel, revealing a few words at the base, inscribed in a demonic language by the hilt.

“Make it happen.”

-

In a clearing at the heart of the forest, a gorgeous arch of white stone had been erected amongst the white, iridescent grass. Beneath it stood a knight bigger than even Serra, clad in golden armor and a flowing blue fur cape, a greatsword on his back, and a force of armed knights behind him. The King, self-styled ruler of the Knights of Unending End, and at his feet lay a withered golden sapling, sliced in two.

“The end is nigh! The first of a thousand apocalypses, of which we shall be heralds of the endless death and rebirth! Worshipped and revered!” he raised his arms, the arch began to resonate, a harmonious, angelic sound like a choir that grew louder and louder, “we shall be as gods! I shall be a god-”

The roar of Roxie’s engine crashed onto the scene, Autumn swerved the car to smash sidefirst through the arch, screeching to a halt in a shower of splintered and shattered stone.

“I-”

“Shut the fuck up!” Serra stepped over the windshield, kicking the King in the chest with enough force to send him tumbling back. He landed on his feet and drew the greatsword from his back, stepping into a swing at Serra.

Pure willpower coalesced as energy across the blade, barely met by Serra’s own. Powerful white energy from the swings released as slashes that carved into the earth around them.

“Shit, the blade’s Oathsworn! Watch your fingers!” Serra called to the others as she clashed with the King, a series of slashes that carved deep gashes in the earth. Beneath their car, the remains of the stone arch continued to reverberate, growing stronger.

“Above,” Autumn leapt over both their heads, landing before the contingent of cultists, only now rousing themselves from shock. They summoned rapier to hand and flicked it to one side, a wall of pure scarlet flame erupting across the group.

“You cannot stop it! The first of a thousand ends is already here!” the King laughed.

Roxie stood up in the backseats, striking a chord on her guitar. A sonic burst caught the King across the face, and he staggered back. Serra slashed him across the chest with one blade, bringing the second down to take his arm clean off, whirling to smack him back with her tail. Autumn spun around his side, catching him under his helmet with their rapier and stepping back to join the others.

The King raised his greatsword with one arm, “volley!” he cried.

From behind Autumn’s wall of flames, a haphazard smattering of arrows whipped by the king. One of them caught a gap in Autumn’s shoulder plating, the horrible sound of groaning gears rewarding its effort, while another flew by Roxie’s head, nicking her ear.

“Ow! Fuckers!” Roxie returned a riff from her guitar, sonic blasts fired wildly into the wall of flames. Her ears perked up to the tune of groaning as at least a few shots found their marks, but another sound dropped her heart into her stomach.

One massive, echoing boom silenced everything. The trio whipped around and came face to massive face with the form of a living colossus, its ancient form rising higher and higher from below the trees. One long neck stretched up, rising to don a crown of clouds, as legs like tree trunks reached down to meet the earth, and shattered stone cascaded off its pitch black form. A long, whip-like tail swept across the ground, uprooting a hundred trees in the motion.

The sky turned dark, clouds rolled in faster than any they had seen before, thunder rumbling, the breeze turned to a gale, but no rain came. A single, glorious bolt of lightning split the sky in half, meeting the crest on the creature’s head, its body like the endless void lit up with a blood red bioluminescence, pinprick red eyes gazing down at the insignificant mortals it found at its feet.

“Harbinger’s up!” Autumn abandoned the fight and leapt into the driver’s seat.

“Is that a fucking dinosaur?!” Roxie dropped into her seat, “awesome!”

“Guess there’s no going brach now,” Serra clambered into the vehicle.

“We’ll bury you first, Serra!”

“The Primordial Reckoning, Terminus… its beauty…” The King’s eyes grew wide at the site of the beast, its ancient majesty overtaking him with joy, “now, my knights! The first of a thousand apocalypses begins! To your mounts, we ride! The whole world shall know of its coming by our hands!”

The King turned just in time to see the headlights of Roxie’s car bearing down on him, he tumbled over the hood and flew past the trio into the dirt. Roxie stuck her tongue out as he passed by.

Autumn’s eyes were drawn upwards, to the Threads of Fate. They were so few now, but far from singular. Opportunity yet existed to change the future.

“Serra! It must pay attention to us!”

“Let’s try this again…” Serra drew her revolvers, but Roxie stood up first, cranking the volume on her amp to max.

“This’ll wake ol’ Terminus up!” she launched into a feverish rock song, challenging the crashing heavens themselves for sound. The beast’s head turned, soulless eyes locking onto the little sports car as it ripped around to one side.

“You shall not prevent our apocalypse!” Serra glanced between Roxie’s legs, spotting what remained of the Knights of Unending End, speeding after them on a motley assortment of vehicles. The King stood, supported by a knight on either side, on the back of a buggy, shouting at the trio, “my knights! Strike down the blasphemers!”

“Go home!” Serra yelled back, taking a shot at the King that bounced off his helmet.

Autumn’s eyes were glued to the road ahead, fighting to control the vehicle with the arrow in their shoulder. Lightning cracked overhead, contending with Roxie’s music for control and the hulking form of the Primordial Reckoning watched as they sped around its side. Rain began to pound the group, sheets of water cascading down upon the forest, obscuring their vision.

Serra wiped the water from her face, to no avail, breathing heavily. She adjusted the pistols in her hands, watching as the Knights began to gain. Their vehicles were not as durable as Roxie’s sports car, but somehow, they were keeping up. Yet another question to add to the pile, but a different thought plagued Serra’s mind as certain doom approached.

“Man, I want to go home…”

[ufasher]

i don’t know if i’m real. part 1.

content warnings: night terror, blood, gore, murder, suffocation, buried alive, confusing reality

his dreams are usually filled with hues of blue and green, scented with salty sea air while seafoam splashes paint his face with new freckles. he hears the cries of the gulls as they circle the docks, looking for scraps as the fishermen start to gut and clean the day’s catches. it’s home, or at least the parts of it he was allowed to venture out to as a child, his chubby little hand clutched tightly in his mother’s more graceful fingers. they’d stand on the edge of the beach and stare out at the sea while she told him stories of his father, of a handsome, charming pirate who swept her off of her feet. they’d look over the horizon as if trying to spot the black masts of his ship.

no one ever came.

but still, asher’s dreams tended to be peaceful, idyllic. it was the good parts of home, of his childhood. his mother’s gentle touches, her kind words, stories of adventure and heroes and a world much larger than the one asher was ever allowed to know. he would relax into the feeling, allowing himself to indulge in a time before he knew any struggle, before he started to look less like a child and more like a man, before his grandfather’s indifference turned to dislike, to hate.

the cries of the gulls bleed into the sound of the cries of a woman. asher looks up and sees his mother’s shoulders shaking, her face turned from him. “mama?” he calls, wary already. this is not how his dreams usually go. “are you alright?”

when she turns to him, it’s with red streaks of blood running down her cheeks, tears. her golden hair has taken on a dull, coarse look, her face looks pale and thin. asher can’t help but jerk his hand out of hers and take a startled step back. he’s no longer a child in this dream, suddenly eye to eye with his mother who looks more like a ghost than the woman he knew and loved for so many years. “mama?” he questions again, wondering if this woman truly is the same. her eyes are lifeless, bloodshot and glassy. they remind him of the eyes of the fish that the men on the dock bring home with him. no sooner does the thought go through his mind then he feels a hot slash across his face. he flinches, and when his eyes open again he sees the glint of steel and the woman’s head hanging on only by a thread.

asher gasps and his mother’s body lurches forward, falling onto him, heavier than a load of stone as it pins him against the sand. she’s cold, so cold, but her blood is hot where it flows onto him. her head lay next to his own, those same eyes still open, the bloody tears still painting her face. he can’t look away. he can’t scream, he can barely catch a breath with the way her unnaturally heavy corpse holds him down. he’s sinking, he realizes belatedly. the sand is rising around him, swallowing him up. the splash of the sea suddenly sounds like an evil cackle, a familiar sound suddenly so unfriendly that it makes his own blood run as cold as the corpse pinning him. sand and saltwater spill into his face. he coughs, and when he tries to gasp he can hardly take in a breath for the weight on his chest. 

am i dying?

he sits up straight, suddenly the beach and his mother and the screaming gulls have vanished. he’s covered in a thin layer of sweat, his legs are tangled up in the sleeping roll, but he can breathe. it comes in panicked gasps as he looks around, taking in the familiar campsite he and finn had pitched for the night. it was just a dream, he tells himself, willing his heartbeat to stop pounding in his ears. for some reason, he looks for finn’s sleeping form, looking for the reflection of the last dying embers of their fire off of the other man’s body.

finn’s not there.

“finn?” asher calls out, voice hoarse and mouth unusually dry. silence answers him. he hears it then and it probably unnerves him more than anything else he could have heard: pure silence. no chirping of crickets, no rustling of wind in the trees, not the faint skitter scatter of small nocturnal animals going about their nightly business. nothing. a sense of dread overtakes asher; it feels like the whole world is holding its breath, hiding from some unknown predator that will bite, kill, destroy everything it can get its famished teeth on. asher feels like he should hide too, but as he looks around he realizes he has no where to go.

he’s going to kill you, you know.

the voice comes from somewhere inside his head, sounding eerily like his grandfather’s own words. asher freezes in place. “who’s there?” he whispers into the night. no one answers.

he’ll kill you. anyone would, for the right price.

he swears that he hears a chuckle in the voice in his head, he can feel his grandfather’s cold smile tickle the inside of his skull. asher suddenly feels cold, so cold that even crawling closer to the remnants of their fire could do nothing to drown it out. his instinct has never been to stand and fight. he never properly learned how, first of all. despite finn helping him to learn better swordsmanship recently, he knows he’s no match against anyone who knows what they’re doing. 

“who’s going to kill me?” asher plucks up his courage and calls out to the void.

finn knows what he’s doing. finn knows everything asher knows, all of his bad habits and preferred tendencies. if he truly is going to kill him, asher has no means of defending himself. the thoughts cross his mind without his own consent, seemingly of their own accord. is that the voice’s answer?

his breath catches as a sharp pain blossoms through his center, taking his breath away. he chokes on the one he was trying to take as he looks down, seeing the glint of steel poking through his own chest. a sword, he realizes distantly. he’s been stabbed entirely through, like a skewer of meat. he turns his head, looking for the owner of the blade forced through his back. finn’s face is there. but his eyes are as cold and dead as his mother’s had been in the dream. asher wants to ask, to plead despite it being too late: finn. why? but the other man’s hand turns, twisting the blade painfully in a way that makes asher wish that death had come to him sooner.

again, he wakes up with a gasp. again, he’s sitting upright at the campsite. he fumbles with the strings on his shirt, pulling open the top to see for himself that there’s no silver glint of a sword running through him. no new blemish marks his chest, though the phantom pain haunts him still. his chest heaves, taking in the breaths that he thought that he couldn’t just moments ago. he looks out through the darkness. finn is asleep where he is supposed to be. the noises of the woods titter on as if they hadn’t been completely silent for a moment.

“it was just a dream,” asher whispers to himself, closing up the front of his shirt again and reaching down for a blanket to wrap around himself, the cold night chill brushing against the panicked sweat on his skin and making him shiver. “it was just a dream,” he repeats again, the way his mother used to when he had nightmares as a child. it felt so real. it was just a dream.

he’s going to kill you, you know.

it’s just an echo, not like the voice that had been so loud in the dream. a memory. asher can’t help but stare at finn, asleep, unthreatening, and wonder for a moment if it would be true. no, he shakes his head as if banishing the thought. finn wouldn’t. he’s had plenty of opportunities to kill him if he wanted to. he asked him to come to etlia with him. they’re friends. they’re traveling companions. finn wouldn’t.

he repeats it to himself over and over again. but he’s never fully soothed by the thought, the dream lingering with him. is he even sure that he’s awake this time? asher can’t tell. he thinks he is, but he doesn’t care to test it. he stays like that, sitting upright huddled under a blanket, until the sun starts to creep over the horizon. only then, when the world is painted gold and red, does he believe that he’s truly awake.

[toconquerfate]

to rise from seafoam

Xander had seen her die. They all had. They’d seen her fade into bubbles that floated away, just out of reach as Shigure and Corrin desperately grasped for them, as if catching them would let them stitch her whole again.

He had seen her die.

So when he got the letter that a dead woman had risen from the grave, descended from the clouds to wash up like seafoam on the shore of a distant ocean, his blood ran cold. The only time he’d seen the dead walk was in Valla, under the thrall of the monstrosity of a god they’d killed- what if this was the last act of a dying dragon, to make another echo of the dead, one last desperate claw into their world to one day bring it back to life? 

What if they were still in danger?

So, he finally allowed Camilla to coerce him into a break, sent in an application to teach at the school “Azura” had mentioned in her letter, packed his bags, and set off for a land he’d only ever read about, leaving Nohr in his siblings’s hands.

(siegbert and mozu were there too, as were shigure and little kana and so many children, how could he leave them in the hands of a woman comprised only of echoed songs and seafoam, who would dissolve into nothing once she completed her purpose? how could he abandon his family, the children he and the others had no choice but to abandon during the war?

he couldn’t, he wouldn’t. he would be there to keep them safe if it was the last thing he did.)

So, he grit his teeth when the school immediately sent him off to fight their battles, sent him where Kana and Shigure were (good, he could keep them safe), sent the echo elsewhere (he couldn’t watch her and siegbert was with her, siegbert was with her-). He could do nothing besides clench his jaw and pray. He had to be patient.

So, it surprised him to see her in the library at the same time as him as he read up on Almyra, though all the books the library contained on the nation seemed heavily biased against the nation for no apparent reason, which he found very distasteful- a place of learning should have at least both sides of the argument, if neutral readings did not yet exist. But that was besides the point.

The echo was in the room, looking at him with a strange mix of surprise and intrigue. He coughs awkwardly.

“Lady Azura, so you are alive, as your letter claimed,” he says simply, carefully examining her for any trace of that disgusting miasma that emanated from the dead, from those the monster-god pulled under his thrall. Gunther could hide it, and so could she, surely, but he would look and watch.

He would catch a misstep eventually.

“Has this land been treating you well?”

                                                                                                 @aqura

[cloverque]

[5:06 AM] - for @misora-msby

the crashing of waves is one of the few things you hear at the beach. the hissing seafoam drowns out the crickets hidden within the reeds on the shore. you can also taste and smell the essence of the sea– a heavy tang rests on the roof of your mouth whilst the scent of sea salt has long infiltrated your lungs and made claim since your arrival.

a boundless blanket of stars hang overhead, winking in salutations whilst the straw-thin stalks lining the sandy beach sway in the early morning breeze. you shiver when a cold wind brushes past.

“here,” the faux blonde drapes a blanket over your shoulders, one that is thick and wooly and beige that he always packs in his convertible.

you gratefully wrap yourself around it like a burrito and snuggle into its warmth. “thanks tsumu,” your last syllable leaves your lips with foggy vapour. a wispy one that dances briefly before disappearing into the darkness.

atsumu adjusts his seat so that he can comfortably stretch his legs. he removes his shoes and puts his feet up on the dash. wriggling his toes, he has a similar blanket splayed over his front.

“sorry for wakin’ and draggin’ ya out here,” he says as a cloud of smoke leaves his cherry tinted lips. his honey visage is set on the dark horizon stretching over the rolling waves. “‘s pretty early too.”

“it’s alright,” you wriggle in your seat. your butt is a little numb from sitting for the past half an hour. gazing at him from your peripheral vision, you breathe, “you said you had something to tell me?”

the man turns his whole body to you, leaning against the window behind him as he stares straight at you. into your eyes the way he always does when he is deep in thought. you wait for him to speak but he stalls. then he smiles. the kind where both corners of his lips are upturn and his brows slacken.

“a tried ta wait. a really did. but everytime a–” his hand grips the steering wheel harder, his knuckles red under the moonlight. he swallows and you see his orbs shaking, “everytime a see ya when a wake up, when a see ya there when i’m home… well, i– i… ugh– dammit!”

he headbutts himself into the wheel, steam rising from his flushed ears as he mumbles incoherently. you unravel the blanket around you and tug on his hoodie’s sleeve.

“umm, i’m really confused but is everything okay?” you release his sleeve when he finally peers up from the wheel. atsumu sports a growing bruise on his forehead. his bottom lip juts out in a pout as he sighs.

“damn, a didn’t think it’d be this hard.”

“this hard to what?” you thread slowly, hoping your boyfriend would not try to bash his head in again.

atsumu’s resolve seems to have faltered after his outburst but he still looks you in the eye. he ponders for a moment then sits upright again. scratching the back of his head, he shoves his hand into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a small box.

sheepishly, he opens it and shows you its content. you gasp and cover your mouth.

“a tried ta wait, a really did,” he repeats again, but this time his bottom lip wobbles, “but yer’ve been so busy and a wasn’t sure when and how ta do this. samu said a should plan a date and everything and a wanted ta bring it up last week during our picnic date but ya were down with the cold and–”

“miya atsumu–” you inhale sharply, hands still clasp over your mouth in shock. eyes wide, your voice trembles, “–are you… are you proposing to me?”

the male nods slowly, then he brings the box closer to you. “a wanna be with ya for ta rest of my life, (y/n),” he tenses as he waits for your answer, blazing, golden eyes searching yours. “yer the one a truly love and cherish.”

something wet slides down your cheek. you brush it away and look up at the sky, but there are no clouds above. another drop of water trails down your face and atsumu reaches out for your face. his slender fingers brushes away the countless drops cascading down your cheeks.

“oi babe, yer not supposed ta be crying! ya should be happy!” he chides, but the softness in his voice and gentleness in his actions betray him. he caresses your cheek and you hold his wrist, burying your face into his palm.

“i am happy, silly,” you manage between sniffles. you give him a lidded eye smile. “i’m so happy right now!”

“so… it’s a yes?” he blinks. you nod enthusiastically and atsumu breathes a huge sigh of relief. you giggle and kiss his palm and he pats your cheek affectionately. then he pulls away and carefully takes out the ring from the box. wordlessly, he slides it onto your ring finger, and you have to bite your lip to hold back the urge to cry again.

your fiancé gingerly takes your hand in his. kissing your knuckles tenderly, he looks up at you. only to see you bawling once again.

“b-babe! i told ya not ta cry– dammit! seeing ya like this makes me wanna cry too, yaknow?!”

he rips out tens of tissues from the mini box on the dash and frantically dries your tears. a mixture of happy snorts and sobs reverberate in the once quiet beach. rolling waves lap at the shore and crickets compete with your cries, all the while the car starts to flood with both your tears and soggy, used tissue paper.

under the gentle moon light, the silver band on your finger shines.

text © cloverque 2021. please do not plagiarise, edit or repost. character belongs to haikyū!! by furudate haruichi.

[spookygarmr-fr]

It Came From Zone #128... [12/8]

[would a forum thread be more visible? still a noob with hatchery stuff ;w;]

Availability: first come, first serve

Holds/Requests/Reservations: not currently

Currency: as listed or minimum 8g/8kt; no trade offers please

Sales: via private auction only unless currently listed

~view the [HATCHERY] for all available babies~

Blogdreg Discount: If buying from this ad, you are more than welcome to ask for the minimum bid on any active listing that is higher than 8kt. Please send a PM on Flight Rising titled "Blogdreg" with the id of the dragon you'd like to buy so I know you saw them on tumblr!

>>> CURRENTLY AVAILABLE IN THE HATCHERY<<<

Veilspun | Male | Plague: Unusual

Pumpkin | Cinnamon | Sunset

Shell | Vivid | Flecks

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Gaoler | Female | Plague: Common

Midnight | Splash | Cerulean

Basic | Basic | Ghost

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Gaoler | Male | Plague: Common

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Aberration | Male | Plague: Unusual

Shamrock | Peacock | Fern

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Pearlcatcher | Female | Plague: Rare

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Mirror | Male | Plague: Rare

Stonewash | Denim | Aqua

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[heli0s-writes]

all in the weight (gentle, we fall)

Summary: A stretched night in Wakanda with you, Bucky, and the truth.

A/N: Smut, angst, & soft White Wolf Bucky. 1.8k words.

Written for @the-omni-princess​‘s 1k writing challenge! Congratulations again and thank you so much for hosting!  My prompt was: “The real lover is the man who can thrill you just by touching your head or smiling into your eyes — or just by staring into space.” -Marilyn Monroe

The title is a lyric from Justin Nozuka’s All I Need.

It’s these moments that enchant you the most. When your heart quivers, all pumped full-- one single hair of a stretch away from bursting, blood rushing too hard and fast, chest unwilling to compromise with the swell.

Galvanized by him.

His warm right hand and fingertips. His pulse steadying itself in measured breaths. His pretty, pretty, eyes, staring into some unknown expanse.

It's in these moments-- when he’s suspended, weightless and floating with his back against the bed, lost in the sweet drift of a comedown-- that you meet the truth.

Grey-blue casts over his features, allowing you only slivers of piercing eyelashes, cuts of his cheek’s sharp terrain, that blessed dip in his chin, a reprieve. Haloed in a fleeting corona when the light surfaces again and smatters through the curtain, his long shadow falls on you, touched with quiet. You trace his outline with a finger, igniting the silver streak of his body. It stirs him back to you.

“Yes, lover?”

Lover. What a word.

Bucky smiles, lips still slick with impatient kisses, licked just on this side of red and raw. Hungry again and changing course, curving into the way you reflexively press against him. A roguish, lingering look before he asks,

“What do you want of me?”

Your palm pursues a dip of muscle, marble carved into man, unmade and made again at long last. 

“What will you give me?”

A quick and lambent glance of that tepid ocean as he ponders. Playful tides lap each other in delay, lap your feet and ankles, seafoam mist cool and sweet just like him.

“Everything.”

Tidal waves crash upon his admission. Electricity and salt and moonlight breaking on their crests, moment turning quick and hot. Bucky moves into a better position, rocking the mat beneath as he shifts, one leg hooking over you, forearm skimming down your sternum. The two of you slick in a sheen of sweat, skin gliding over skin.

You laugh, a sharp breath of disbelief sheltering unspoken joy, hand swatting uselessly at his head.

“Can’t help it. Want you to have it all,” hastened breath on your bare shoulder followed by caresses from that noble nose at the incline of your collarbone. Then his strong brow, willow-wisps of hair a little damp at the roots in pursuit for more of you—grazing the gradual slope of your breast, kissing a nipple, then lower to where your very heartbeat springs forward to find him, too.

Protests evaporate like ocean spray.

Your hands are back on him when he gets to your belly. Sultry and kiss-bruised lips on fire as he presses them your waist and hips, and it’s a wonder how he still can.

You quake a little, pre-trembling with anticipation when he maps a roadway down your thigh, following veins and silver lines of a stretched surface. He twists from your hold, pushes your hands away until you’re grasping at the bed.  

He loves it like this most. Your whimpers, his attention. Doting. Slow. Stretched.

It’s been midnight all day, feels like. A perpetual polar night, permissive of a time when eternity lies tucked inside the thin cotton sheet currently gathered over his back, dropping low.

Bucky hums between your knees, bristled jaw agonizing sensitive skin and your toes curl tightly at the thought of his tickling fingertips. A shuddering breath takes flight when you whine. So, he relents and rises, blanket falling away completely and the both of you are open in the dim inky blue—chilled, until he brackets you in with his right arm on the other side of your shoulder.

“If you let me,” Raspy and low, whispered into your ear and your very soul trembles with the hanging promise of his words. “I’ll love you, honey,” a kiss to the hinge of your jaw. “Love you good,” a kiss to your neck where the pulse jumps along, “Love you best.”

A flick of his tongue to the hollow of your collarbones, knee spreading your thighs open. Bucky smiles when he looks at you, “Love you again and again.”

The vibration of his voice tumbles into your ears and down the length of your spine, spinning the weight in your stomach into a typhoon.

Silent permission in the form of your repositioning, facing him fully now, chest to chest on your side, admiring each other with adjusted night vision eyes, kept safe from the world beyond this carapace of his body over yours.

Fingers make their way between your thighs, above his knee, sinking slow and soft into the swollen flesh well-loved many times this morning—afternoon, evening—by him. You’re tender, shuddering, sore. Toeing the edge of breaking completely into pieces.

Soft moans and damp gasps, he works his way into you, fingers first. One, then two, then three because he’s captivated by the way you unravel for him so quickly. Doesn’t even care about himself most times, even though you plead with me, Bucky, come with me. It’s too sweet to simply watch you.

He moves them cleverly-- ring over middle while his pointer gently strokes. Then, they shuffle like tumblers in a lock, spreading and retreating, and your fists clench against his chest, knuckles rapping on his collar.

“Yeah?” Bucky asks, “Feel good, honey?”

You do. Oh, you do, and he knows. He knows everything about you. Your eyes ask again for his length—the feeling of him inside of you. The sacred moment when two yield into one and Bucky dissolves you completely.

“This what you want?” He sighs, moving on top now, pushing himself between your legs, his half-knotted hair falling apart and caging your faces together with their soft strands. You lean your cheek against them, bite your lip just a little at him, keep at bay all the words you really want to say.

Strong and velvet, easily slick with wet from how he’s coaxed you open, he slides in. All the way. All the way and you feel it up to your chest. That swell. That hurt. That consummate loving. Water and blood, and the throb of him rubbing, rubbing, rubbing. His voice, quaking just a little bit, simmering low and then broken, shattered with love.

“God. Baby,” he pleads, “Christ. Fuck. Honey,” the ramblings of a man far gone. Hips rolling this way and that, bucking slow but steady, and hard, too, his pelvis flush against yours with each contact. Your fingertips dig gently to anchor yourself inside his sea, raging hot.

You swallow his voice, his rhythm, let the saltwater sear your lungs, still greedy for more because you need him just the same way—open, taken, devastated, crawled inside your ribcage, nesting within your heartbeat, branded onto your soul.

“Take all of me, lover,” Bucky whispers, “Want you to have it all.”

Lover.

And what a lover he is.

As instantaneous as it arrived, there is submergence. Drowning. Unforgiving tides plunging you into the deep—frantic pockets of what’s left of your breath bubbling overhead and encasing his name. He holds fast one final time, kissing your crumbling mouth, quivering, worrying, lips plump and ripe with overwork—red and receptive and ready. All of you and all of him folding in over each other, dashing yourselves onto the rocks of an undoing so complete you burst apart. And then, Bucky plummets, too, shuddering and wrecked and entirely yours just like he wanted.

-

The long spell of interrupted time strikes some unknown hour. Both of you have purposely lost count of the minutes, yet it still chimes an insolent reminder with every exhale he breathes into the dark. Bucky blinks slowly at the ceiling, tallies the reedy scores of thatch and chews on the skin of his lip.

It’s these moment that hurt the most. When he does nothing but exist unwaveringly on the shoreline edge of your reality and fantasy, blue and unhurried. You, enraptured. Him, endless. There is nothing to do but stare, watching his eyes ebb and flow, adrift in the increasingly tangible tomorrow.

“You said I could have everything,” you lament against his cold left side, against that frigid alien metal, flint grey and threaded with gold. Reinforced and strong like how he feels again with its attachment. You wish you could care for it the way he does, but you know its arrival summons his departure. So there is only righteous spite.

Bucky presses his lips to your shoulder before he tugs the curtain aside, letting the evening dusk pour in with cricket song and briny lake mist. Up now, he sits face turned out toward the field, his bare back lined with the imprint of laid-in sheets, creases tracing cracked webbed patterns of peach flesh.

His silence breaks you anew, heavy chest pulsating with terrors only imagination can conjure about the unknown. Rivers flood wide paths down your cheeks, depositing heavy droplets along your jaw, collecting unsaid sorrows.

“Stay with me,” you cry, “Let me keep you.”

He steers the torrent with that horrible left arm, a poor impostor compared to the phantom space you loved even in absence. Bucky tangles his legs with yours, pulls you halfway into his lap, kisses you until your tears find a new home along the generous line of his mouth. He soothes you with his touch, but his eyes are far away.

And it is here where you suffer the truth.

As you’ve always known about him-- ever since first meeting him in the Golden City where the sunlight turned threads of his burnished chestnut hair amber; ever since touching him, tracing the arteries of his pale right arm up to his shoulder like following a pathway home; ever since loving him, engraving a space for him, recovering him from what he believes of himself—the truth, is this:

You don’t care about what he is made of, what he is made for, or what he will be made to do.

But, you are not Bucky, who wants a place carved on the battlefield because he holds onto the notion of repentance and duty. You are not the King, you are not Steve Rogers. You are not the world that broke him or the world that wants him broken again.

And, you know, as you’ve always known.

You cannot keep him.

 “Bucky,” you follow his gaze out into the field beneath a waning moon’s light, “Come back to me.”

Silver beams outline his face as he turns. Lashes so pretty you could trace them one by one. Cheeks holding onto a few final rosy blooms from when he came apart in your arms. Lips parted, chafed by the most desperate love. Eyes in a gentle fall, downwelling with fatigue and the weight of your trembling heart.

He smiles and the entire world could weep.

He knows. He knows everything.

“I will,” Bucky says, calm and endless and blue like the Pacific itself, “I will.”

-

perm tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes @crist1216 @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @infinity-saga @jamesbarnesthighs @pinknerdpanda @xoxabs88xox @imsoft-barnes @momc95 @typicalangel @wretchedgoddess @readeity​ @iwannasail @ya-lyublu-tebya @geeksareunique @wildefire @satanxklaus @jhangelface0523 @wkemeup @ixcantxdecidexwhosxmyxfave​

[patchwork-fr]

Sales Tab // Art Sales Tab // Dressing Shop

Flight Rising: patchworkdx #227693

21, they/them

please tag 'clouded gene' , 'polkadot gene' and ‘octopus gene’

About Patchwork 🍃

follow/reply from @sodareaper

our lore is.. Wind But Haunted

often trapped on mobile

if you catch us using the royal we.. mind your business 🤭🤫 (/lh)

we also play sky: children of the light!

Lore • Badges

Misc Posts • Outfits • Sales Tag

Dragon search colour list

More details in our dragon search thread

Ivory/Buttercup/Cream

Brown/Sable/Tan

White/Black/Radioactive [ICE]

Orca/Black/Ice [ICE]

Moon/Moon/White [LIGHT]

Raspberry/Eggplant/Splash

---

Copper/Robin/Peridot

Copper/Phthalo/Buttercup

Robin/Seafoam/Peridot

Oilslick/Cantaloupe/Gold

post i dont want to lose

[quixlebug]

Actually wrote these for a thread on Flight Rising- the idea was to name a color you want added to the game without actually using colors to describe it, and I let it get a little bit away from me haha. But, I like how they came out, so I'm just gonna toss them over here in case any of you guys enjoy them as well

Fright

It's 3AM and you're wide awake. Is that a spider on the ceiling or just your imagination? Is that a wing flapping in the corner, or just the curtain? The shadows shift, impossibly deep. Darkness obscures the silver sliver of light leaking underneath the door. Dark, darker, yet darker, you close your eyes and there is no difference.

Insomnia

The sun isn't up yet but the world is washed pale and cold, yet to be warmed by her bright rays. Washed-out colors flit across the sky, memories of a rainbow that will breathe again. Shadowy hues, ghosts so faint they can't yet be named, shimmer through the window onto the wall across from you and dance a silent song. 

Curiosity

Tropical fish dart through shallow water. The sun warms the waves and they sparkle and splash like the dolphins that dance in the seafoam. Coral lingers beneath, bright, bold sculptures decades in the making. The current is strong and yet gentle, guiding inquisitive souls into the welcoming warmth of the reef. 

Solitude

Think of the deepest, hottest jungle ever to exist. You are standing in it. The trees are closing in from every side, walls of leaf and vine and thorn and moss. The bamboo grows quickly, you can hear the slithery-softness of leaves unfurling and roots burrowing beneath the dark soil. A snake, vibrant as the jungle around it, coils around a branch and watches you with blazing emerald eyes. 

[bodytoflame-ao3]

the world keeps turning – part 5

aka the ‘oh my god they were roommates’ fem!percy fic prompted from @percyyoulittleshit and turned into a disaster by me

subtitle: the thrilling conclusion of my week-long mental breakdown

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

AO3 Link

five // july

“Thanks, by the way. I needed this.” Annabeth says, gathering the playing cards back into a stack and dropping them into the case, which she tosses into the drawer of her bedside table.

“Anything for the birthday girl.”

“You remembered.”

“Yeah, I uh... I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to get you anything.” Birthdays were never a big affair for Annabeth, so she's not offended. She'd actually almost forgotten today was her birthday.

She vaguely gestures to the scene around them, “This is enough.” She really means it. She would take a quiet day with Percy over the chaos Camp could be any day.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” It wasn’t like Annabeth to skip out on archery, let alone be the one to suggest it. Percy had managed to convince her to play hooky with her once or twice, but it had never been out of Annabeth’s own volition. She wasn't the type.

Annabeth weighs her options. It's irrational, she knows, but the fear of losing Percy is too much to bear; she made a promise to herself that she would never be left behind again. The other half of her  wants to tell Percy how her smile makes her stomach turn and her heart beat out of her chest; how she wants to kiss her until she forgets her own name. “Do you remember when... in the Labyrinth. Mount St. Helens.” She treads carefully, not wanting to be too direct.

Percy’s internal monologue runs about a million words a minute: She can’t be talking about that, can she? “I— uh.” she stutters.

Annabeth takes another steady, deep breath. She needs to know, and that means she's about to either have the best or worst birthday ever. “Right before I left. I—”

Despite her misgivings, Percy thought about that moment a lot. More than she should, really. “You kissed me.” She lets the words hang in the air for a second, “Why did you do that?”

It’s something she’s struggled with since it happened. She initially had no clue why Annabeth did it, because she thought she was straight, so she justified it as some heat-of-the-moment instinct that she'd never really understand, but ever since she told Percy otherwise... she wondered — hoped — that maybe, she liked her too. No matter how unrealistic that was; Percy hadn’t exactly been subtle with her attraction to her. If Annabeth felt the same way, she would’ve said something by now, right? Unfortunately for Percy, Annabeth's mind worked a lot different than hers did.

“Well,” she looks down into her lap, “I didn’t know, and that’s what I’ve been thinking about. For a while.”

Percy doesn’t respond, letting the silence hang in the air for a moment before Annabeth breaks it: “Thinking about... what that meant for me.” She hates this tension. The idea of just... leaving crosses her mind briefly. She could just run out of the cabin. Act like it never happened. She pushes the thought away (1. because she's stronger than that, and 2. she doesn't ever want to leave anyone feeling like she's felt half her life), quickly blurting out, “Did you think about it? About me?”

“Annabeth I...” Is she asking what Percy thinks she's asking? She’s too stunned to answer, and she considers pinching herself to make sure it's real. She’s thought and over-thought that kiss more times than she can count. “I mean, I have thought about... us.”

“Us?” Annabeth inquires, pushing the topic (she hopes not too far). As desperate as she is to talk about this — them — with Percy, she can't bring herself to be the one to say it. If she does, then it's her fault if something goes wrong.

After a moment of contemplation, Percy seemingly changes direction: “Annabeth, I scare myself sometimes. Some of the things that I can do? They scare me. Someday I’m going to hurt someone, and I don’t want that to be you.” For Percy, the thought of this actually being real is terrifying. It was one thing to daydream and pine over Annabeth, to imagine how soft her skin would feel against hers; what kissing her would be like; how she might lace her fingers into Percy's; wondering if holding her in her arms would be like home. The real thing? It makes her sick to her stomach, because that means she has to face the reality of herself — the things that eat away at her confidence and tell her she's dangerous; the things she's starting to believe. Annabeth thinks about what Sally said to her at the end of the school year, and it’s never been as evident as it is now. Percy's state is delicate, and she can't risk upsetting her right now, so she lets her talk. “When I was up on Olympus... when they wanted to make me a god,” she starts, “I thought about it. I really did.” She feels horrible saying it out loud. “Because I wondered if everyone would be better off without me putting them in danger all the time.”

“Percy.” It’s not like Annabeth didn’t know this was how Percy felt. She could see it in her eyes at times, just how tired she was. It was different hearing it from directly from her, and it sunk deep into the pit of her stomach.

If it was possible to hear pain, Percy was sure that’s what it would sound like. She doubles back, fighting off tears, “But I couldn’t do that to—“ She breathes deeply, trying to regain composure. Without thinking, Annabeth takes her hand, tracing small circles around her knuckles with her thumb. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here.

“And at the River Styx,” Percy pivots again, “Nico said I had to focus on something that kept me tethered to the mortal world.” She tries to continue, tries to tell Annabeth that she’s the one person she can’t leave behind, but her voice is paralyzed. Percy practically prays that Annabeth saves her from this embarrassment and takes the reins of the conversation. She doesn't, mostly because she has no clue what to say; doesn't know how to process the fact that she's Percy's anchor — but also because she’s holding Percy’s hand and wow, she could just kiss her right now.

“You know, you’re not making this easy for me,” Percy forces a laugh through her now-scratchy voice.

Annabeth smiles, some of her confidence returning, though her stomach continues doing flips. She tilts her head towards Percy, “Did you think I would ever make things easy for you?” Her voice, soft and light, flows through Percy’s ears like a song she knows every single word to.

It’s then that her eyes meet Percy’s for the first time in a few minutes, their avoidance becoming clear. The smile falls from Annabeth’s face; letting go of her hand, she tentatively reaches out to sweep Percy’s hair behind her ear, lingering on her chin as she traces down her freckled face. Percy desperately wants to — despite Annabeth’s insistence she not mess with it — run her fingers through her hair and close the gap between them but she’s frozen in place with the new, intimate way her fingers are trailing along her jaw. She studies Annabeth's parted lips and curious gaze; she's looking at Percy like she would one of her architecture books: wonder, and infinite thought.

And she is — thinking, that is, but the only thing she seems to be able to think about is kissing Percy. Screw it. Her lips meet Percy’s, slowly, but only briefly, before she pulls away, not sure if it's okay. She soon realizes it is, and mentally scolds herself for not doing this sooner, when Percy kisses her again, like it’s all she’s ever wanted (it is); like she could kiss her forever and never stop (she could). Percy threads her fingers through her curls, and for once, she doesn't mind.

Her lips are soft, and salty like the sea; Annabeth almost laughs, because she feels like she should’ve expected that from the daughter of Poseidon. Percy, hesitating for only a moment, takes a hold of Annabeth’s waist and easily pulls her into her lap. For once, Annabeth isn't irked with their size difference, because they fit perfectly together. She drapes her arms over Percy’s shoulders without breaking away. Annabeth kisses her, softly, not quite sure of herself or what to do, only confident in the fact that she doesn’t want it to end anytime soon. Her mind races; because gods, she’s kissing Percy Jackson — and Percy Jackson is kissing her. With that thought, her body betrays her; and she mentally berates the smile involuntarily spreading across her face.

“What?” Percy laughs, leaning back to get a clearer picture of her. She's never been more beautiful, she thinks, than she looks right now.

Annabeth, at the sight of Percy's disheveled bangs and flushed face, feels a blush rising to her cheeks. Instead of answering her question, she takes her thumb to wipe off her tinted lip balm, now smeared on the side of Percy’s mouth. “Sorry.”

“Do I look like I’m complaining?” To be perfectly clear, she's absolutely not; if a little bit of lip gloss is the price she has to pay for kissing Annabeth, so be it.

“I don’t think so.”

“So can I kiss you again?” 

Annabeth nods. Percy’s eyes, all crystalline seafoam, look into hers, and she swears she can see the entire ocean in them. 

“Jackson! Chase! You two better be in here, ‘cause I did not just haul ass halfway across camp to—” Clarisse’s booming voice comes from around the corner into Cabin 6. Annabeth tries to pull herself off of Percy’s lap; she's only half-successful, bumping her head on the bunk bed and falling back into her pillow, because her legs are entwined with Percy's. Judging by the smirk now plastered on Clarisse’s face, it’s clear she managed a pretty good picture of what was going on. “About time,” she mutters, crossing her arms and turning on her heels to leave the cabin. “If you're not at dueling, I’m telling Mr. D! One hour!”

“Did that really just...” Annabeth untangles herself from Percy, and buries her head in her palms.

“That happened.”

Clarisse will never let them live this down, that much is evident, but Percy figures she better get used to it, because she knows they're going to be one of those couples. Mostly because Percy never wants to stop kissing her — and she doesn't think Annabeth has any objections to that, because she responds to the silence by practically flinging herself into her arms (and Percy feels so lucky for it).

“Why didn't you tell me?” Annabeth asks as soon as their collective laughter dies down, even though she knows the answer.

“We’ve been through so much together, and you’re one of the most important people in my life... I couldn’t mess that up.”

“Seaweed Brain, you’re never getting rid of me.” Maybe falling, Annabeth thinks, is okay, as long as she can get back up at the end.

She kisses Percy again. Because she can.

[cookiecuttercritter]

Live Action

In this tribute to artists, dreamers and anime, an autistic daydreamer and a disillusioned baker have a falling out once it’s revealed that the latter has been stealing the former’s art.

Word count: ~3000 (15 screenplay pages)

AN: Happy Autism Acceptance Month, everyone!! Nat is a Japanese-American middle-grader who’s special interest is character art. I’m still learning so please don’t hesitate to let me know if I got anything wrong!

FADE IN:

EXT. REVERIE

Grainy paper and granite-dust fingerprints. A line darts across the frame -- a horizon.

Bits of debris and rubble materialize, populating the landscape. They're partially formed and crude, as if scrawled with an impatient hand.

AURORA, 14, reluctant yet stalwart, stands with her eyes glued to the top of an off-kilter skyscraper. She casts off a tattered seafoam fur-lined coat, raises her hands, conjures ethereal snowflakes between her palms -

She's HIT in the shoulder! She gasps, her ice magic dissipates. She jumps back -- a burnt yellow, amorphous projectile plunges itself into her winter boot, CEMENTING HER TO THE SIDEWALK. It's superheated, she's burned. She screams. Aurora looks back up at the tower, all dismay and pleading eyes now.

               AURORA    Vanilla, please! -

Atop the slanted skyscraper, VANILLA, 13, stands proud, her face hidden in shadow. Her magical girl outfit is decked out with yellow ribbons. She's pulling amber hot sugar with her bare hands, stretching and twisting the strands into a thin baton, which she holds out to cool in the falling snow.

               AURORA    You don't have to -

Vanilla snaps the candy cane over her knee, producing two spear-tipped halves. She levitates the shards to either side of her, takes aim...

Vanilla turns and walks away, leaving the broken shards to JAVELIN toward a defenseless, wide-eyed Aurora -

               AURORA      VANI -

           SMASH CUT TO:

INT. NAT'S BEDROOM - MORNING

NAT's eyes snap open. Soft mint bed sheets rustle in the morning light.

AMANDA, 40, Nat's mother, hollers from beyond the door.

               AMANDA (O.S.)    Nat! Get up already, you're gonna be late again!

Nat just whines in response.

MONTAGE:

- She shoves a sketchbook in her backpack.

- Zips her bag up.

- She pulls on a pastel turquoise sweater.

- She kicks unfinished sketches under her bed, where they join a slew of coloring pencils, markers, gel pens, and old sketchbooks brimming with stick people.

               NAT (V.O.)    My name is Nat Okura. I'm 14 years old. I'm in the 8th grade. And there's something about me that no one -- and I mean, no one -- can know about.

- She stands in her doorway adjusting the straps of her backpack. Her room is plastered wall-to-wall in drawings of cartoons, lined and colored, crude yet dynamic, the very style that came alive in her Reverie. She shuts the door.

- TOAST! She tries to pluck it fresh from the toaster, drops it, hisses with pain.

- Spreads jam on toast.

- Jams toast in her mouth.

MONTAGE END.

INT. FRONT DOOR - MORNING

Nat slips into her shoes at the front door, toast between her teeth.

Amanda descends upon the scene. She's firm but well-meaning. She plucks the bread from Nat's mouth.

               AMANDA    Don't do things in parts or people will get confused. You have to commit.

She pulls Nat in for a hug. Nat stiffens at the sudden contact, she waits out the hug rather than reciprocating.

               AMANDA    Have fun, darling.

EXT. CITY STREET - DAY

Nat speedwalks down the street, making anxious faces and whispering to herself under her breath.

               NAT    "I just wanted to be... somebody..." "I know you did, but one of these days, you're gonna have to learn to be happy with the hand you're dealt..." "One of these..." "One of these days -

An L train RUSHES by, rumbling noisily.

A sound effect bubble RIPS across her path in tandem with the speeding train, 'TAK-TAK-TAK-TAK-TAK' etc.

Nat shutters to a stop, takes a step back, narrowly dodging the bubble. It vanishes once the train's passed.

She's tapped on the shoulder. It's MELODY, 13, playing the tap-the-opposite-shoulder prank. Nat falls for it. Melody beams.

               MELODY    See you in class, Aoi-chan!

She zips away, light on her feet, small yet assured in her oversized yellow hoodie. She threads under the L tracks.

FLASHBACK:

INT. L STATION - NIGHT

Amanda pulls a YOUNG NAT, 8, along. College students chatter, music blares from an unseen source, trains pull up and jet off. Text bubbles pops up with each cacophonous addition. They crowd out the already-stifling space. No one else senses them.

Nat wrenches her hands from her mother's and covers her ears, screws her eyes shut. Amanda urges her on, it doesn't work. Amanda grows frustrated, people are starting to look.

Suddenly, Nat is GRABBED from behind and pulled into a hug. She SHRIEKS. It's just a YOUNG MELODY, who lets go immediately.

               YOUNG MELODY    I'm sorry! I'm sorry!

PREEYA, Melody's mom, pulls her away.

               PREEYA    Apologies, she has so much energy...

Nat peers at Melody.

FLASHBACK END.

               NAT    "Tch. You're gonna be late."

Nat forges on toward school. The real world and her Reverie mesh together. Melody, receding into the distance, resembles Vanilla without any of the magical girl embellishments.

A colossal Beast with an untamed mane hidden in shadow rises above the school.

Nat -- Aoi -- transforms into Aurora with a wave of her hand and a burst of light. She parkours effortlessly up to the L, sticking a three-point landing on top of the moving train.

New tracks materialize, redirecting Aurora toward the school, straight toward the monster.

She brandishes a blade, seemingly out of thin air. She leaps off the train, rising impossibly high, swings her sword with a flurry of conjured snowflakes -

INT. CLASSROOM - DAY

Nat blinks. She's back at her desk and she doesn't like it one bit. Her knee bounces restlessly.

Down one side of her lined notebook, there's some 8th grade biology nonsense about the freezing point of water. On the opposite page, she's doodled a katana and written under it, 'SLICICLE?!' and, 'SNOWDROP' and finally, 'SILVER STORM', which is underlined and circled several times.

She sighs, ignoring the lecture, slides her notebook aside, revealing her sketchbook underneath. She starts sketching Aurora posing with her blade.

INT. SCHOOL HALLWAY - DAY

Nat sits on the ground, leaning against her locker, sketchbook propped upright against her knees so as to hide the contents from milling extras. She sketches frantically, head bowed, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

Wispy shadows lash out at her from under the lockers. She glares at them and they scatter.

Melody approaches from the other end of the hall. She chats up other students as she passes, tackle-hugs a few, shares a secret fistbump with one, plays tap-the-opposite-shoulder with free abandon. She pulls to a stop before Nat.

               MELODY    'Sup.

Nat shuts her sketchbook sharply, looks up briefly, then breaks eye contact like it burned.

FLASHBACK:

INT. FRONT DOOR - NIGHT

Amanda answers the front door. Young Melody shoves a tray of brownies in her face. Preeya is there too.

INT. NAT'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Young Nat sits on the floor of her room fidgeting and doodling stick people. Melody creeps over, fully intent on watching. The door's been left open, and Preeya and Amanda are sat in the living room beyond.

               PREEYA    She made those herself, you know? It was all her idea.

               AMANDA    Such a sweet girl.

Melody offers Nat a brownie.

               YOUNG MELODY    Sorry for trying to hug you. I should've asked first.

Nat merely slides her sketchbook back and away.

Melody blinks, bemused, stuffs the brownie in her own mouth.

               AMANDA        (sighing)    Sometimes she doesn't understand what peoples' words mean. Takes things literally. She can be so cold sometimes.

Nat looks up slightly at this, registering it, goes back to drawing. Melody scoots right up to Nat, points at a teal-haired pencil-sketched girl.

               YOUNG MELODY    Is that you?

Nat tries to withdraw but Melody holds the sketchbook fast. Nat squirms as she answers.

               YOUNG NAT    It's Aoi.

               YOUNG MELODY    Aoi?

Nat writes it out in English then in hiragana. Melody watches raptly. And then:

               YOUNG MELODY    Can you draw me?

FLASHBACK END.

Back to the school hallway.

               NAT    Hey.

               MELODY    You good? Wanna head to class?

Nat stands, her open backpack tips upside down, spilling colorful stationary and loose papers EVERYWHERE.

Melody calmly helps pick stuff up but Nat scrambles to shove everything back in her bag, hating every passing second. Text bubbles pop up to accompany her halfhearted mutterings: 'PEOPLE ARE WATCHING...', 'EVERYONE'S STARING AT ME', etc.

She shoulders her bag and speedwalks away.

In her haste, she'd forgotten her sketchbook, which Melody holds up.

               MELODY    Hey Natty -

But it's too late. She's vanished.

Melody's puzzled expression morphs to one of determination. She alone understands the power of the artifact in her hand.

INT. MELODY'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

She rushes over to her desk, switches on the desk lamp, flips open the sketchbook, whips out her phone, snaps off a few photos.

INT. SCHOOL HALLWAY - DAY

Melody mills about a water fountain with JUNE and ANNA, two other students. They're flipping through Nat's sketchbook.

               ANNA    Mel, you drew all of these?

               MELODY    Um. Yup.

               JUNE    What? I had no idea you were a drawer!

Nat marches up to greet Melody, small and skittish. She takes one look at the sketchbook in Melody's hands, stops dead in her tracks. Her mouth falls open. She turns tail and storms back the way she came.

Melody traces Nat's wake as if shocked out of a trance.

EXT. CITY STREET - DAY

Nat marches home, under the L and back.

               NAT    "How could you betray me like that?! I trusted you!"... "I trusted you..."

Behind her, a shadow grows. She glances back. The beast engulfing the school SPROUTS ABOUT A MILLION EYES. They blink in unsettling syncrony. They turn on Nat.

With an assured flick of her wrist, she disappears in a flash of light and reemerges as Aurora, bringing her Reverie to the waking world.

The Beast advances, sluggish yet chilling. Aurora ICE-BLASTS IT IN THE FACE, but to no avail. The amorphous shadows SWAMP HER, blotting out the screen.

Aurora BURSTS from the darkness, gasping for air! She hacks uselessly with Silver Storm before being pulled under again.

INT. MELODY'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

It's dark. Melody flips through the sketchbook. Nat's drawn Aurora and Vanilla in the same poses and situations over and over again. She frowns.

Light washes in from the living room through the open door. Suddenly, a silhouette. Hand-drawn and grainy. Yellow ribbons.

               VANILLA    What were you thinking? You know she doesn't like it when people look at her art before it's done.

Melody looks up briefly, then back to the sketches

               VANILLA    What're you gonna say to her? How are you gonna look her in eye and say, what? That you're sorry?

               MELODY    You -- they're my characters too.

           CUT TO:

OVER BLACK;

The satisfying rustle of pages flipping in rapid succession.

               YOUNG MELODY (V.O)    What happens after they beat the Beast?

               YOUNG NAT (V.O.)    They go back and they do it again the next day.

           SMASH CUT IN:

INT. MELODY'S BEDROOM - MORNING

Yellow morning light floods Melody's bedroom. Her eyes snap open.

               MELODY (V.O.)    Let's take it from the top. My name is Melody Kumar and I'm 13 years old.

INT. LIVING ROOM - MORNING

Melody yawns, stepping into the living room, pulling on her yellow hoodie. She sneaks by her brother, SHIVAM, 17, who's passed out on the couch, game controller in hand. She sidles up to the front door, dejected.

MONTAGE:

- Preeya clicks her tongue.

               PREEYA    My sweet little girl, why can’t you be more like your brother?

- Melody glowers at her homework. Behind her, Shivam plays a game, headphones on, shouting occasionally.

               MELODY (V.O.)    What’s so great about him?

- She glances up from a tin of cupcakes to catch her brother and mother hugging. She pays them no mind, goes back to piping frosting.

               MELODY (V.O.)    I was never gonna be the favorite child. So whatever, I found people who would like me the way I am.

- Young Melody hands out homemade cookies at school.

- Snap to earlier in the week: Melody chatting up multiple cliques, stopping before Nat.

               MELODY (V.O.)    But they don't give medals for being nice.

MONTAGE END.

Standing framed by the front door, she stuffs Nat's sketchbook in her bag.

               MELODY (V.O.)    I needed a real talent. I know I can be more than -

Voices echo in her head:

               AMANDA (V.O.)    ... Such a sweet girl.

               PREEYA (V.O.)    My sweet little girl...

Her face falls just as she’s pulling back the door.

               MELODY (V.O.)    And yet...

FLASHBACK:

INT. NAT'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Young Nat lies on the floor penciling in eyes, hair, a skirt. Young Melody inches closer to look. Nat pulls the notebook away. Moments later, she lays the book flat, revealing a candy-themed magical girl in a yellow costume. She points.

               YOUNG NAT    It’s you.

               YOUNG MELODY    Oh, I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a magical girl.

               YOUNG NAT    Are you kidding me? You’re the nicest person I know. Everyone wants to be friends with you and you put others before yourself. You’re the perfect magical girl.

               YOUNG MELODY    I guess. If you say so.

Nat spins the book back around, chews on the end of her pencil.

               YOUNG NAT    ... "Vanilla."

FLASHBACK END.

INT. NAT'S BEDROOM - DAY

Nat's scrunched up in a corner of her room, hugging a plush polar bear to her chest. She nudges a half-finished drawing of Vanilla, back turned and lording atop a spire, away with her foot.

She's been drawing lots. Her room is covered classic crumpled paper balls and doodles spanning at least three different kinds of paper, some half-colored, half-inked, half-baked.

               NAT (V.O.)    "Don't do things in parts or people will get confused. You have to commit." I don't think this is what she meant, but what do I know? Sometimes I don't understand what peoples’ words mean.

Knock-knock. She pushes the bubbles away. Knock-knock. There it is again. Bubbles fill the room. Nat shrinks in on herself until the congestion becomes unbearable. She stands.

INT. OKURAS' APARTMENT - DAY

NAOKI, Nat's father, 45, stands before Nat's bedroom door with Melody by his side. He's a fidgety sort of fellow, bursting with nervous energy. He speaks as if picking each word with great deliberation.

               NAOKI    She’s been like this for 3 days. She won't talk to us.

Melody raps on the door. Nothing.

               MELODY    Can I try talk to her alone?

Naoki leaves.

               MELODY    Thank you, Mr. Okura!        (leaning toward door)    Nat, are you there? Nat, I'm sorry -

           INTERCUT WITH:

INT. NAT'S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS

Nat, inches from the door, starts to back down.

               MELODY (O.S.)    ... Aoi-chan?

Nat stops, inhales sharply -

           INTERCUT WITH:

EXT. REVERIE

Close on Aurora's face. She's silhouetted, shrouded in darkness.

               AURORA    I fight every day to live in this world that's not meant for me. And still, you feel the need to make it harder for me.

               MELODY    It's not like that! I-I wasn't thinking straight. I deleted everything, set the record straight -- I told everyone who really drew the art! Look, I brought your book! It'll never happen again -- Nat, are you still there? Nat?!

She puts a hand to Nat's door, rests her head against the wood. She sighs.

               MELODY (V.O.)    Vanilla turns back. She can't believe her eyes, can't believe she ever did that.

Vanilla does just that. She descends the tilted skyscraper bit by bit.

               VANILLA    I'm ...sorry? I can't say I know how you feel, but... I know why you fight the Beast.

Nat's eyes snap open at this. She's leaning against her side of the door, exhausted.

               MELODY (O.S.)    The Beast isn't there to remind you there's bad in the world. You already know that

It's revealed that Vanilla's sugar spears missed Aurora by mere inches. Aurora is unharmed but infuriated nonetheless.

Vanilla vanishes the pulled sugar with a wave of her hand. Aurora stumbles, her foot having suddenly been freed. Vanilla catches her.

               VANILLA    You fight the beast so that you know that you can. Over and over again. Every day. And I don't wanna watch you fight alone anymore. Melody leans against her side of the door.

               AURORA        (too quiet for Vanilla to hear)    So it turns out we both have a little sugar and ice in us.

               MELODY    What was that? Na -- Aoi-chan, are you still with me?

Nat silently nods.

Melody takes a deep breath. The Reverie overtakes them both. Vanilla and Aurora stand back-to-back, as if preparing for battle. They're done this a thousand times before but this time, it's devoid of the fanfare. They're both tired.

               VANILLA    You let me into your world.

The Reverie recedes.

           MATCH CUT TO:

Melody and Nat standing back to back with the bedroom door separating them.

               MELODY    Won't you let me stay? Even if we both know the live action will never be as good?

Nat cracks her door open.

           END INTERCUT.

Melody holds her arms open wide.

               MELODY    Permission?

Nat nods and Melody goes in for the hug. This time, Nat reciprocates.

               MELODY    Nakama?

               NAT    ... Nakama.

They breathe again.

           SMASH CUT TO:

INT. NAT'S BEDROOM - MORNING

Nat's eyes snap open.

MONTAGE:

- Nat kicks unfinished art under her bed where it joins a mass of other unpolished pieces, including but not limited to comic pages of Vanilla turning against Aurora.

- Melody puts yellow ribbons in her hair

- Nat pulls on her signature green sweatshirt.

- Melody snaps pictures of her homemade breakfast scones.

- Nat slips into her shoes. Amanda comes up from behind and shoves her sketchbook in her backpack. She asks Nat if she's okay with a hug today and Nat nods. They embrace.

MONTAGE END.

EXT. CITY STREET - DAY

Melody darts to catch up with Nat on the way to school. She's got a jam-slathered slice of scone sticking out of her mouth, which Nat appraises, then -

               NAT    You're kidding me, right?

Melody shrugs, takes a bite, holds the scone in her hand.

               MELODY    Are we gonna do this or what?

A monstrous shadow creeps toward them.

Nat nods. She flicks her wrist, she and Melody vanish in a burst of light -

Grainy paper scenery. Aurora and Vanilla pose back-to-back, smirking. Vanilla pulls molten sugar into a whip and Aurora swings Silver Storm at the screen -

           CUT TO BLACK.

[stillsolo]

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

do not reblog. tagging: @recklcsshope @techniiciian @tatooinelight @unlegacied @chasiingfreedom @sithshadow @watcherandshield @tachiisms @onlyhopc @blvderunnvr @stayedlight @willnotfightyou @mcsterskywclker @craveschallenges @excltedblade @mynameisanakin & anyone else!  just say I tagged you!

[fightfearwithfun]

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS.  

repost, don’t reblog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CALL ME BY YOUR NAME.        heartbreak.  unbuttoned shirts. fields of flowers. having to say goodbye. cobblestone streets. rendezvous at midnight.  battling temptation. academic paperwork.  peeling an orange.  80’s nostalgia. classical music. long walks. ancient artifacts. abundant orchards. shoulder massages.  expressive sexuality. remembering everything. staring into a fireplace. dipping your feet in cool water. uncertainty. villa vacations. curly hair. longing gazes. riding a bicycle around. mystery of love. balconies. swimming naked.  first times.  bathing suits. roman statues. secret sensuality.  peaches. piano music. sun-soaked summer. having your nose in a book.  just rooms apart.  crystal blue water. growing attractions.  changing your name. intimacy beyond physical. love affairs. rich wines. finding pleasure in grief.  daring to desire.  european lyricism. loving father figures.  dancing to disco.  laying in green grass. awkward adolescence.  hands interlinked. sentimental jewelry. connection through identity.

Tagged by: @notalone-butfree Tagging: EVERYONE

[skullkceper-archived-blog]

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS.  

repost, don’t reblog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CALL ME BY YOUR NAME.        heartbreak.  unbuttoned shirts. fields of flowers. having to say goodbye.  cobblestone streets.  rendezvous at midnight.  battling temptation.  academic paperwork.  peeling an orange.  80’s nostalgia.  classical music. long walks. ancient artifacts.  abundant orchards.  shoulder massages.  expressive sexuality.remembering everything.  staring into a fireplace.  dipping your feet in cool water. uncertainty. villa vacations.  curly hair.  longing gazes. riding a bicycle around. mystery of love. balconies.  swimming naked.  first times.  bathing suits.  roman statues.  secret sensuality.  peaches.  piano music.  sun-soaked summer.  having your nose in a book.  just rooms apart.  crystal blue water. growing attractions.  changing your name.  intimacy beyond physical.  love affairs.  rich wines.  finding pleasure in grief.  daring to desire.  european lyricism. loving father figures.  dancing to disco.  laying in green grass.  awkward adolescence.  hands interlinked. sentimental jewelry. connection through identity. the magen david.

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