#trenchcoat museum

[square-braxket]

YARD ACT

my favourite most blurriest photos i took whilst dancing terribly at the gig last night ‼️💥

[puppetmaster13u]

Hear Me Out

Yokai Amity. What are yokai? Japanese spirits. And not just ghosts, a majority of mythical creatures? Yokai.

So how did this happen? Well, like most things, it can be blamed on the ghost portal in the Fenton Basement. And a lot of ecto contamination. Because while they're a small city? They're also in the middle of nowhere, meaning a lot of their foods and crops, they grow themselves. And the ectoplasm? Started sinking into the ground first. Y'know, where every plant grows and then both humans and animals proceed to eat it? Made even worse when those like Overgrowth or Vortex came through? Yeaah, it'd be a miracle if they didn't get contaminated and no surprise that most don't notice their humanity slipping with time with how it's happening to everyone.

Which kind of makes the situation Danny has found himself kind of hilarious? At least to him. The trenchcoat dude seems to be having an aneurism or something similar.

"So... not a meta?" the tiny vigilante child clarified again, head tilting from where he stood at the head of his group. Honestly Danny was enjoying this from his place sprawled across the park bench Honestly Amity had spoiled him with benches designed for extra limbs.

The blonde man seemed absolutely done with everything, hands twitching as though about to cradle his head in his hands or grab something. "No," he wasn't shouting but it was close. "For fuck's sake- your all lucky not to be cursed or worse-" He turned towards Danny. "Why the fuck didn't you?"

The hainu shrugged, wings doing more of the motion than the rest of him. "They're babies-" Or at least one of them was, borderline liminal as they were. "You play along with toddlers." Honestly he saw why his old rogues found this fun, even if he'd never go as far as they did.

The entire team of vigilante children bristled, one opening their mouth to protest before trenchcoat-soul-dude glared at them all before turning back towards him.

"Though what the fuck do you need that for that you'd steal it- not that any artifact like that should be in a bloody museum and not locked away where idiots can't get to it."

He snorted, the sound more dog-like. Or really more yeti-like, what with how he was taking lessons from Frostbite which meant large chunks of time in the Far Frozen.

"Technically I don't need it, my kid does," Danny held up a finger, marveling slightly at the clouds. It was quite different compared to Amity, what with how everywhere was so ecto-infused that the sky was effected.

"And what does a hainu need with-" the trenchcoat man motioned to the cursed object, which honestly wasn't that bad. But...

"Oh no, he's not a hainu, he's furaribi." Danny honestly wasn't surprised that Jordan wouldn't turn out the same as he, de-aged or not. Not that he was memory-less or anything, cores didn't lose that easily, but he did still have the physical brain of a child.

"Adopted?"

"Nope," he hummed, going over the list of things he still had to do today before returning to Amity. Sam had asked him to get a few more flowers to test how ecto would effect them and he had to pick up some computer parts for Tuck.

"How the fuck."

"My sister's a kitsune, my other sister is a shirouneri, my mom is a shishi, my dad a baku, godfather's an itachi, my boyfriend a raiju, my girlfriend a kirin, and my other girlfriend a yosuzume," he ticked off his fingers, not seeing anything wrong with it. Not like people could get into Amity easily after the whole GIW thing.

"... what the fuck does your family tree look like, mate, because that should be bloody impossible."

Danny shrugged, giving a sharp toothed smile. Yeah, the realms didn't care about that with how malleable ecto was.

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(In case it's not clear: Hainu Danny, Furaribi Dan, Kitsune Jazz, Shirouneri Danny, Lion Dog Maddie, Baku Jack, Itachi Vlad, Raiju Tucker, Kirin Sam & Yosuzume Valerie) (Also feel free to come up with what everyone else might be) (Highly recommend yokai.com for a quick summary of each creature)

[hoseoksluna]

BERRIES | jjk ft. jhs

pairing: ex-boyfriend!jungkook x oc (feat. hobi)

genre: angst, tiny fluff, itty bitty smut

word count: 6.0k

summary: your ex-boyfriend shouldn't have this much influence over you when you have a new man, should he?

playlist: berries / pinterest board: berries

warnings: depression, daddy issues, use of titles, oc has dirty thoughts about hobi (do we blame her? no, we do not), slowburn, implied sex, dd/lg, soft argument

note: this took every last bit of my strength, so i had to split it up. i'm sorry if this is a piece of absolute shit, but as you all know work this week squeezed everything out of me and i'm so exhausted that i'm not even sure if this is worth posting. i struggled a lot with this fic, rewrote it multiple times, and i'm so very happy that it's finished. i hope you all enjoy the start of a new series, this time a slowburn that will have more parts, more depth and everything. and surprise! it features hobi, my beautiful husband. it was my first time writing about him and he's missing so terribly from my soul that it was one of the reasons why i struggled so much. i wish it weren't like this for my first time with him, but oh well. i hope you, guys, enjoy. please, let me know what you think. <3

The satiny material of your cream-colored dress must be the one and the same that these sculptures had worn centuries ago. You can almost imagine the softness kissing your fingerprint instead of the cool stone as you graze your touch against each and every immortalized angel of loveliness. You’re stirred by a sense of poignancy—that you’re alive and they’re not and yet you believe that as you stare at them, feel what they’ve been through the more you study their eternal expressions, they stare right back with their eternally tender eyes, see right through you, through your heart, know its contents. You wish you were in their place instead; you’re sure they would’ve handled your cursed life better than you can. 

Or you wish you were as stony as them. 

But you’re an opulent fountain of emotions that are anything but gentle. 

This thought distracts your attention from the way your feet ache in the boots you chose to wear to impress your date. Thigh high, with black knee socks underneath to keep you warm from the cruel breath of autumn. Hoseok is carrying your trenchcoat as you’re adventuring on your own in this art museum and that’s the only sliver of kindness he’s shown you this very morning. 

The only compliment you’ve received from him was a nonverbal one. An up and down look with a smirk creeping in when he picked you up at your apartment. No hug, no caress. You felt so small—and awkward a little bit, comparison rushing in. Not in the form of a wave of the sea, but in the form of a snake, its thick body tightening around your throat. An ouroboros, which made you regret going out on a date so soon. 

It hasn’t even been a month since you’ve become a single girl again, learning how to walk in this new, harsh reality, your legs wobbly, weak and too, too heavy. And the lack of comfortable physical contact made you see your ex-boyfriend before your own eyes, the memory of how he acted at the beginning of your first date. The way he picked you up into his arms due to his excitement of being with you and carried you inside his car. He put on your seatbelt for you. Drove carefully. Held your hand as he led you to the restaurant he picked for you. Even during the walk after while you talked about the stars and you couldn’t help but tell him that his eyes were filled with them. 

Hoseok did neither of those things. He had asked you where you wanted to go and you’ve wanted to visit the museum for quite a while, so you suggested it. He had agreed, no sort of enthusiasm evident in his voice muffled by the phone call. And you’ve barely exchanged a few words during the half an hour of your time spent here, let alone led an entire conversation. You should’ve heeded the warning when it was right in front of you.

Hoseok is certainly not of the artistic kind. 

Looks quite bored as you turn your head to look at him, your coat dangling from his arm so terribly devastatingly. And when you focus your gaze to your right, where a dark wine-tinged room, with golden frames of paintings, awaits you and where you’ve longed to go the moment you stepped a foot inside this grand building, a distaste pools on your tongue, your former aesthetic elation ruined. 

You’re surprised he didn’t stand you up. 

You don’t even want to take pictures. As a matter of fact, you want to go home. But you can’t. Can’t ravage your only possibility and means of forgetting the person you still love. Can’t really encourage Hoseok to leave your life, not when you’re the type of person that doesn’t find love upon every corner you turn to. 

This is your only chance. And he’s the only man you’ll conceivably have in your life for quite some time. 

You walk up to him and take your coat from his arm. His eyes deepen on you, in fact they haven’t strayed from you during the entire half an hour—and that bothers you. If your ex-boyfriend were here, he’d share the beauty with you. Make you laugh so hard that the sound would echo around the vast room. Perhaps give life to the sculptures and they would laugh along, too. 

Your heart hangs heavy in your chest, sinks ever so slowly and you can’t bear it. You need to leave. Take this date elsewhere, hope for betterment to grace you—to have but a fragment of pity for you. 

“You hungry?” you ask, softly, willing your voice to be smooth and not divulge the brassy storm of your emotions to him. Hoseok doesn’t know anything about you. Doesn’t know that you yearn for another person to be standing in his place. “Did you have breakfast?” 

Hoseok needed the date to be in the early hours. Said he had a meeting in the afternoon. Would be working on a project with his colleagues until the late hours. You didn’t mind, not really, in fact it animated you—brought briskness into the sadness of your headspace, knowing it was rainy and cloudy outside. Perfect weather for the influence of the arts. That is, until you realized that it was a grave mistake to take a businessman to a museum; that you dragged a heathen to a church.

Hoseok shifts his weight on each foot, his shoulders swaying with the movement, and he licks his lip, bringing your attention to them. Small, but full—you wonder what they would feel like against yours. Wonder if he’d be gentle with you or violent. If he’d stroke your hair or grip it; fondle the ribbon you’re wearing in a half up do or untie it, entirely. Use it for another means like your ex-boyfriend invariably did. 

Your distaste grows, but not for Hoseok. It grows like poison ivy for yourself and your tendency to compare him with someone he doesn’t deserve to be juxtaposed with. 

Guilt blossoms in your sternum, the leaves of that poison ivy. Pretty to the eye, but deadly for the body. Just like you. You’re too baneful for such a pretty man like Hoseok. You’d do well to respect his boundaries and abstain from physical contact, prevent red rashes from marring his skin.

“I haven’t eaten yet,” Hoseok says, just as softly, rubbing the nape of his neck, the black cloth of his dress shirt taut over his arms—a pretty sight, one that could be hanging in the wine-tinged room for generations to gawk upon. “Truth be told, I was too nervous.” 

A brief smile adorns his slender face and you melt, the poison ivy scratching you raw. Your heart picks up its rhythm, flattery clothing it in a protective layer and you pout, your hand itching to graze his forearm. But a hidden fight rises in you, an army of darkness ready with their bows, their arrows shooting thoughts into your brain about how little you’re worthy of such kindness and favor. 

Though when Hoseok blushes upon seeing your tender expression, it gives you some sort of strength to stand tall against those demons. Despite the fact you don’t understand it, you don’t question it either and you cling to it, sensing its freedom speaking to you in a foreign language. A yearning forms in you, one you haven’t yet had the possibility of meeting. A yearning to learn its syntax and vocabulary. And when you give in to it, the poison ivy in you lessens. 

This is good. 

You reciprocate his smile and you coo. Find it the easiest thing in the world. And because you’re so grateful for what he’s unwittingly done for you, you decide to share your truth with him as well. 

“Let’s go eat, then.” Your eyes crinkle and you’d bet light flickers in them, for your whole body does, you sense it. A warm light enlarges on its axis, taking a hold of the heaviness you felt. “There’s no need to be nervous. It’s what I told myself when I was getting ready. My stomach hurt and believe it or not when I told myself these words, it stopped.” 

Hoseok chuckles, his arm slapping back to his side, but you notice that it trembles. You’re so touched by it that you become angry at yourself, self-hatred clashing with that warmth. You misinterpreted him so unfairly and what’s more, you wallowed in your brokenness and your heartbreak, when Hoseok had been nervous and timid the whole time, which now sheds light on his lack of closeness with you. 

You’re despicable. And the awareness of it transforms into that snake tightening around your throat again. Only this time, you welcome it. Long for it to take your life. It’s the least you deserve. 

But you’re not letting yourself loll in the bed of your horrendous emotions. No, you lift your hand and you caress his arm, the one that quakes. And amidst the sepulchral attention of the sculptures, you’re a witness to that trembling’s halt, to Hoseok’s visible tranquility, and you want to weep. 

You know if you were to gaze at the eternal angels of beauty, you’d see stony tears appear on their ivory cheeks, too. 

“I’m sorry,” Hoseok mumbles and you curl your brows in confusion, not knowing what he’s apologizing for. Hoseok opens his mouth again to speak, but he pauses, sloshing the words in his mouth. You feel so bad that a craving to better yourself overcomes your entire being. “I’m sorry for being such a buzzkill. If you wanna explore this place more, we can. I saw you looking at the room with the paintings.” 

He tilts his head in the direction of the aforementioned room, but you care very little about it as of now. You’d much rather take this elsewhere and get to know him better, so you don’t make the mistake of distorting him again. You’re not very keen on forcing a heathen to pray, either, however you do appreciate his willingness and attentiveness. Carry those things into your jarred heart, fold them inside its chambers, the edge pieces to the puzzle of his personality. 

“Don’t worry,” you murmur, taking it one step further and hooking your arm around his. Hoseok sighs, his shyness slowly breaking apart as he clasps his hand over yours and if you could dissolve any more, now would be the perfect time for it. His hold is strong and steady—and it creates something stable within you, an orchard of fruit trees, pink and green, and bushes of berries, a safe place you want to rest in; lay down your brokenness and woes in. “You’re good. No need to apologize.”

His blush deepens at the reassurance and he smiles, softly, running his thumb over your knuckles. And the gratefulness you feel due to the fact he’s touching you, it is the rain that freshens up the apples and cherries hanging on the twigs of those trees, guiding it into full bloom. You focus on it—focus on the thick, cottony material of his dress shirt as you rub his forearm in response. You want to acknowledge yourself with the unspoken parts of him like these, remember them, allow them to heal you and crack the plaster over your heart. 

And there you hear it. The crumble as Hoseok leans in and presses a chaste peck onto your cheek, lingering there for a second more, inhaling your sandalwood scent. And his smile widens as he looks down on you at such close proximity, erasing your touch-starvation once and for all. It’s your turn to blush now and you feel an inkling to shy away from his gaze, but you stifle it back. Curl your mouth in a smile—your heart thumping louder amidst the orchard now that it has more space to function in. 

“No, I really want to apologize. It’s been too long since I’ve been on a date and you’re so stunning that I’ve forgotten my game, so I can’t help but to be nervous. I don’t know how to act around you,” he says, mutedly, punctuating his sentence with a breathy laugh, glimmering eyes flicking to the lining of your silky neckline just below your collarbones, tracing the miniature cherub hung up on your dainty necklace plated in gold, motionless against your dress. Your own heart grows wings and momentum in its place, fluttering in haste to move closer to him. He bores his gaze back into yours, letting it stay there. “Art isn’t really my thing, but you look like you belong here. Look like all those angels around.” He nods at your necklace. “And like that angel, too. Can I take a picture of you?”

You’re so taken aback that you don’t have time to respond. Pulling out his phone from the pocket of his dress pants, he withdraws from you and gently ushers you in the direction of the closest angel, your trenchcoat slung over his arm again, vibrating with life. He positions you how he likes—right in front of the immense sculpture, your head turned slightly to the side so the wisps of your white ribbon in your hair can be seen. His touch grounds you, tells your bloodstream, your organs that everything is okay, repeats it a little louder to your headspace—all before war could be declared with you. 

Hoseok, the prince of peace. 

The prince that crouches to the dirty floor so the vastness of the angel’s wings can fit in the shot. Yours, too. You think you’ve grown a pair of your own, alongside your heart, now that your shared honesty brought you closer.

You struggle to hold back your sob, to stop the corners of your mouth from rounding, your chin from quivering—all because the lightness that you sense wrapping over your heart is one you haven’t felt in a really long time. You feel taken care of, feel like you can depend on him, and while you can’t explain why you feel that way, you consider that such an immense blessing, regardless. So much that your eyes wet for the camera, but you don’t mind. Let that be captured in the memory—the mending that occurred. And let that be safe with him. 

You smile and the flash goes off, which causes you to burst into giggles, your liquid softness forgotten, and run to him, your palm covering his phone camera so nobody sees his defiance. You look around to make sure no employee is in sight before you face him, cheeks warm, heart warm, wings warm, body warm. Hoseok quirks a brow, confused, gaping up at you from his position, and you take a deep breath to halt another inrush of laughter.

“You can’t take pictures with flash here. They’ll throw us out,” you whisper-shout, your giggles escaping your tightened mouth. His own forms into an ‘O’, fingers clicking on his screen, presumably turning off the automatic flash.

“I didn’t know,” he whisper-shouts back, mouth stretched in a lopsided grin. “I haven’t been here since I was a kid.” You shake your head, shoulders still shaking with the last of your giggles. He probably didn’t have a phone back then, which makes it even funnier. He inspects his settings again to make sure it’s all good before his hand finds your thigh and pushes you back. “Okay, I turned it off. Go back to the angel.” 

It’s your whole body that flutters now, not just your heart, both pairs of wings unfurling, and when you retrace your steps, you still feel the heat of his touch—half on the fabric of your dress, half on your bare skin. And as you smile more naturally for the picture this time, greed kisses your core. A greed for more of his touch; on the same place as well as elsewhere. 

A twinkle of where he could possibly touch you flashes before your eyes and it’s all your focal point consists of when you turn your head to your former position the way he wanted it and he praises you for it: “Good, good.” 

Your muscles clench as you imagine his hand going underneath the fabric, exploring what’s hidden in there for him. The words of praise he would utter at the discovery of your private flesh. Your ears must be red. Such a twist of events you didn’t expect. A meek form of demureness creeps in, enveloping you in a feminine sensuality and you’ve missed feeling this way. Missed feeling pretty and alluring for yourself first, then for a man second. Missed being the center of your attention like this, of someone else’s as well. 

You’ve always loved it. Perhaps due to the fact that you very seldom have it—so when it does come, it changes your life and you attach your being to it. 

You didn’t anticipate going home with Hoseok, especially not on the first date. But because you’re being fed, you don’t really care about being proper. You want to go home with him and so you simply shall. 

Can’t let the opportunity run away from you. 

And so you arch your back a little bit more, look up at the angel and give her your silent thanks, your hair flowing around your form when you flick your gaze back to Hoseok to see him concentrated on the task, his smooth features gravely serious. Your stomach flips. 

“Now from the back,” he instructs without lifting his eyes off of the screen of his phone. “Just like you were.” 

A breath lodges in your throat, the double meaning burning the poison ivy down to ashes and you swallow it, let your stomach acid consume it until there’s nothing left of it, until all that your body carries is nothing but the lightness and the seductiveness that Hoseok gracefully gave you, the comfortable heft of the wings that grew because of him. 

It’s those things that drive forth your following words with the world’s ease, unabashedly. 

“You want it from the back?” 

Hoseok’s mouth parts and the look he exchanges with you should chill your blood, but it doesn’t. If anything, it boils it. The heat that wafts off it pools in your core before ascending to your imaginary wings, leaving them dripping with sweat and the dew of titillation. Hoseok’s eyes narrow, shadowed by the furrow of his brows, encouraging it all the more. 

There is it—the heady energy shift, permeated with the sweetest of berry juices, stemming from lust, from the orchard he planted in you. Strengthening your allure, steeling you from head to toe. You submit to it; kneel into it, notionally. Your elation raises from the dead—and you grin. 

“Behave.”

A pulse in your private parts. The lengthening of your expression of delight. Your wings, your muscles clench and the same winged creatures soar to your heart from your stomach, squeezing the beating flesh. You swivel on your heels, the hem of your dress rippling, exposing more of your tender skin, the ribbon in your hair following suit. 

Hoseok sucks in a breath. Your cheeks ache from the joy’s strain and it is utterly exhilarating to you. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Hoseok coos his approval and you can’t take it anymore. You let him take a few more pictures as you move around, dancing in your own way, running your fingers through your hair, trying to distract yourself from the throbbing between your legs, but to no avail. And when you sigh and face him head-on, Hoseok is already on his feet, walking towards you with a reappearing lopsided grin that forces the butterflies gnawing at your heart to go absolutely rampant. 

You’re done for. You need to take him home. You’re not even curious about how the pictures came out—you can always look at them later. 

Hoseok seems to know about your neediness because when he crosses the distance, he cups your chin. Makes you look up at him. And his smirk deepens while your heart increases in size, wings flitting at the special attention. 

“Such a pretty girl,” he murmurs, caressing your skin with his thumb. Your eyes round and the heat you feel is sweltering underneath your clothes. All the more reason for him to take them off. “The pictures are great. Wanna see?” 

Biting your lip, you shake your head, briefly. “What I want is to make you breakfast,” you say, mirroring his tone, hoping he gets the hint. 

Hoseok waggles your chin, humming. “Oh, yeah?” 

Fuck. If his scolding already didn’t make you submissive, then his response and his actions have. You wet your mouth, teeth instinctively sinking back in, and only nod. Hoseok opens your coat and covers your shoulders in its warmth, pressing the cotton twill fabric against your sternum. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

A fond sound pours out of him and the fact that he likes to be called by that title heightens the pulse between your legs. “Let’s go.” 

He leads you towards the exit with a hand on the small of your back and you’re so happy to be touched at last that with a final look at the angels, you send out your silent love and goodbye to them, thank them one last time for the kindness you received because of them, one that you so ferociously sought after and longed for. 

They seem to bow to you, happy to be of service, and you smile so profoundly that you feel as though nothing could stain your joy and mar it all over again. They wouldn’t allow that to happen—and a tendril of hope burst open within you like sunlight tearing through clouds, one that is suffused with the notion that Hoseok would stand in the way, side by side with those sculptures, too.

And he does when you swivel your head back and catch a glance of someone you know. 

A piercing on the side of his brow, unchanged from the last time you saw him. Round eyes, murky. Ashen complexion that used to bloom with vibrant tints. Full, soft-toned mouth, ever so stuck in that pout, one you used to kiss until it bruised. 

Your bloodstream doesn’t cease its flow. Not until you notice the person beside him. 

A girl with an aura so cataclysmic that it forces you to stop dead in your tracks. An August night storm personified, obnoxiously sweet-smelling of the past summer that you spent with her companion. The hollow, funereal scent of a meadow doused in petrichor—she walks with it, her hands intertwined before her in a clasp. 

You wished for him to be in Hoseok’s place so ardently that he appeared. And now that you contemplate him, the lack of distance between him and the girl, it makes you regret that you ever did. 

Because, unknowingly, it drenched you in gasoline and his presence is a lighter, hers the hand that has flicked it to life and now serenely holds it against your skin, waiting until the flames, little by little, devour you whole. 

And the job is finished when both of their heads whirl, meeting your livid stare. 

And Jungkook, too, stops dead in his tracks. 

“Do you know him?” Hoseok asks and you find it strange that you can hear him when all you can see is red. 

And the red fades into the matching black shirt that Jungkook is wearing, into his bluntly pained mien; into the strands of his date’s short hair and her scrunched up brows as she regards you with a strong aversion that makes you scoff. And the same red weakens when Hoseok turns your attention to him by playing with the ends of your ribbon, grazing them before twirling them around his finger. 

A breath of fresh air, he is. 

You don’t know what to say. Don’t know whether to tell him the truth or come up with something that won’t devastate what you have currently going on with him. But if you lie to him, you’ll stumble into a dead end you’d much rather stay clear of. You’d see it before your eyes once you do take him home and it would ruin the newness he brought up with you, preventing it from taking root in you. 

Devastation awaits you in either case. Both you and Hoseok. 

Cursed, your life is. Doomed, absolutely fucking doomed. 

What would the angels do in your place? 

Seeking their wisdom behind you, it is not in them that you find your answer, but in the passing pair dressed in black, making their way over to the dark-wined room. He’s pretending he didn’t see you at all, walking away from you without saying a word, despite the fact you broke up on good terms. 

You worshiped him in this very building almost on your knees and he dismissed you as if you meant nothing to him, caring for the feelings of his date, instead. 

Peculiarly, the sentiments Hoseok installed in you, both of the passionate and the soft kind, turn that fire blue and it becomes the driving force that guides you to act without a single thought spared. 

“Yeah, I do know him. Do you mind if I quickly say hi to him?”

The corner of Hoseok’s mouth curls and he caresses your hair down your back one last time.  “Go, I’ll get the car ready.” 

Such a confident, strong man, broken out of the confines of his former timidness. Not possessive, nor insecure—letting you do what you want. Respectful of your personal life that doesn’t include him just yet. And for that very reason it will—as soon as you’re done putting out that fire in you. 

It’s not only you that has gone through a change upon this hour and it strikes your awe, enough for you to lean in and peck his cheek, just like he did to you. 

Hoseok makes a sound of endearment, pivots on his feet to leave you to it, but you grab a hold of his hand. Have a need to say something to him. 

His brows rise at the attention and you brush your hand across his knuckles, mimicking his previous actions, having learned them, intimately. 

“Thank you, Hoseok. Really,” you say with a smile that could magnetically pull the sunlight out of its hiding place behind the clouds and bathe this bizarre room in light. You squeeze his hand. 

A swirl of shyness flushes his face in rose pink and he shakes his head. “No need to thank me,” he assures, reciprocating the smile. “And call me Hobi. You can save Hoseok for later.” 

Your jaw falls open and Hoseok chuckles, warmly, deepening the pulse between your legs until a wet spot adorns your panties beneath your dress, one that you look forward to showing him at the aforementioned time. 

He pivots again and you watch his tall, lean figure leave. Back muscles clothed in black, straining against the fabric. He must’ve undergone his military service. 

A beautiful man. You can’t wait to taste him. Taste that manliness. 

Loosening a breath, you turn around to search for your ex-boyfriend. And much to your dismay, he’s appreciating the angel sculpture—the very one and only Hoseok took your pictures with. Fire licks at your every nerve ending, but then you notice that his date is nowhere in sight. 

A perfect opportunity to do what you want to do. 

Pulling out your phone out of your little purse, you look for his name in the history of your calls and tap on it, placing the device against your ear, your hoop earrings clashing against the screen. You watch him palm his pocket as the vibration disturbs his aesthetic pleasure and he casts a long glance at your name filling up his screen. Doesn’t comb his gaze through his surroundings. No, he seems to be transfixed by the twist of events and when he swipes his finger to accept the call, his stare begins to dig a hole into the dirty, marble floor. 

Doesn’t say anything. 

You scoff, fury grazing your fire. “You’re pretending not to know me? That’s low.” His pout rounds and the tip of his shoe traces the edges of the ruination he’s caused. Remains silent. “Who’s your little girlfriend? I thought you’d introduce me. Where is she, anyways?” 

It’s him who scoffs now and he flicks his gaze towards the face of the angel. It’s like he’s staring right at you. “You shouldn’t be doing this, little one.” 

The too familiar pet name brings agony to your heart and you would break had Hoseok not given you his strength, if the dependability of him waiting for you outside wasn’t real. And the allure and the lightness in you, perhaps the very love of the sculptures encompassing you—all of those things only vivify your solidity. You have no reason to break, you’re safe. 

“Well, I think you should be a good Daddy and meet me right there in the red room,” you seethe, glad for the anger to be lingering in you, for the utterance of the title leaving you unscathed. You’re just giving him a taste of his own poison, nothing else. 

Jungkook runs a hand through his hair and sighs, clenching his jaw. “Don’t call me that.” 

You chuckle, enlivened by the provocation. “I can do whatever I want. Besides, you started it.” 

He grits his teeth. “Not when you’re talking to me, you can’t.” 

Your fire rises in overwhelming waves, your curt response ready on your tongue, but Jungkook hangs up, making you shut your mouth, instantly. 

You hate him for that; hate him with the entirety of your being. 

What has happened to your friendship? To the sweet, weeping Jungkook who broke up with you because he didn’t want to cause you any more pain with the state of his mental health, who has been dealing with depression for so long that he’s reached a point of no return, a lightless room with no windows, where all he saw was you, and he didn’t want you to be a victim of such unhealthy attachment. So he bid you goodbye, hugged you until you couldn’t breathe and let you go. 

Three weeks ago. 

You haven’t seen him or heard from him since until now. Until you’ve found someone else and moved on with your life. That’s just your luck. 

And now the person you’re gazing at, it’s not the same one that wept against your chest. Yes, he might have been strict with you during intimate times, teased you with his fatherliness during the day even—but that invariably was imbued with the mellowness of love. 

Try as you may while his words ring in your headspace, you cannot unearth any trace of that same mellowness in it. Only bitterness, coldness and a profound darkness. 

Jungkook pockets his phone and, leaving both of his hands there, sunk deeply, he walks over to the wine-tinged room, his frown obscuring the place in gloom. Murky clouds, personified. A perfect match to the storm of his companion. Bile lodges inside your throat. 

You follow after him, your feet aching terribly in your boots, but it serves as some kind of alleviation to the tautness of your emotions, of your confusion, disgust and offence. Makes you feel better—because once you see Jungkook ogling a certain painting of a woman beaming at him softly, dressed in flowers, blues and greens as the redness akin to your fire burns in her background, the agony tries to slither its way inside your heart, but fails.

You’re a locked orchard. 

Jungkook senses your presence and he swivels, biting the inside of his cheek, pierced brow quirking. There’s a strain to his shoulders and his Adam’s apple bobbles as he takes in your appearance. The creaminess of your short, silky dress, the darker shade of the same color of your trenchcoat slung loosely over your shoulders, exposing your brown, leather, high-heeled boots, your matching purse clutched in both of your hands as you strut towards him. Calm, all of a sudden. It does nothing to you, nothing whatsoever—your heart momentarily attached to Hoseok.

“I thought you’d already left,” he murmurs, tipping up his chin. Begins to sway back and forth on the balls of his feet, the carmine hues of the room swathing him in a deeper shade of darkness. “Isn’t your boyfriend waiting for you?” 

You don’t bother to correct him. It’s none of his business who Hobi is to you, not when he treated you like a stranger.

“We were about to leave, but then I saw your actions,” you say, quite monotonously, your calmness as disturbing as it is triumphant. You yourself even wonder at it. “What the fuck was that?” 

A smirk. “Glad to know I still have some kind of effect on you.” 

You scrunch up your brows, distaste once again pooling in your mouth. “Trust me, I would’ve done this with anyone I know. You’re not special.” 

His smirk widens. “So, you’re not jealous?” He rubs the side of his jaw, staring at you, intently, and disgust comes over you like a splash of a wave, soaking you in cold sweat. 

He did it for that very reason—to make you jealous. Walked right past you, just to get a rise out of you. As much as you loved him half an hour ago, that affection turns into dust within you, sprinkling the fruit trees and the berry brushes with its gray smithereens, poisoning them. 

Ouroboros, all over again. Full circle. Anger covers your disgust. 

A voice echoes within the room. Airy and light, as feminine as it is otherworldly, and you know, without a doubt, who it belongs to. It doesn’t suit her, not in the slightest. 

“There you are,” your ex-boyfriend’s companion trails off, the clapping of her flat shoes halting. “Who are you?” 

You only turn your head to the side, signaling to her that you’ve heard her question, because you fix your stare back at Jungkook as you answer it. “It’s not something you should trouble yourself with. Can you give us a minute?” 

You don’t hear any movement, so she must be stubbornly staying where she is. All right, she can join the conversation for all you care. 

When you turn your head back around, you catch stars oozing from Jungkook’s eyes, a conveyance of adornment painting his face in gentle colors that could never be associated with this room. There it is, the face you know, so resplendent of the one you last saw. And it grazes your anger, whispers to it that it was a mistake, a game of pretense, because you’re reverently acknowledged with his soul—you know who he is. While it may explain his fucked-up behavior, you don’t soften. Not at the hint of familiarity. Not even at the hushed hint of your deduction telling you that the reason why he unmasked himself was because you chose him and didn’t run away when his companion spoiled your short time together. 

You don’t soften because you simply don’t want to. 

You don’t want to give in to any means of getting close to him. 

The chapter is finished. You shouldn’t have called him. You should’ve left with Hobi. 

You don’t wish to keep him waiting long, nor do you wish to keep sprawling in your mistake. You pivot, ready to leave, but Jungkook captures your hand. Desirousness palpitates in his eyes as if he, too, needed to tell you something of urgency. 

You’ll hear him out, but that’s the end of it. 

“Can I see you later?” he asks, pupils growing in size until they absorb his chocolate irises, his grip over your hand tight and heated. A wind blows in your orchard, sweeping away all the darkened smithereens left by the bane, freshening you up. 

You don’t really think that’s a good idea. 

“I won’t have time for you later, I’ll be with Hoseok.” 

To Hobi, you won’t lie, but the same can’t be applied to Jungkook. 

His breath hitches in his throat, disappointment weighing him down, the thought of you being intimate with someone who is not him causing his posture to slouch even more. 

But he surprises you with the words he says next. 

“I’ll wait, then. Let me know when you’re alone.” 

And you surprise yourself even more when you nod, turning on your heel and scurrying off to meet Hobi outside. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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[the-mpreg-guy]

My head canon is that Cas' coat pockets are full of little bits of garbage that remind him of Dean. He's still hanging onto faded receipts from dinner dates, museum ticket stubs, shopping lists, beer bottle caps, licked coffee sticks, a button that came loose from one of Dean's shirts...

He even has that one beaded bracelet that Dean used to wear. Dean thinks he lost it but Cas actually swiped it while he was showering.

Cas going around collecting little objects that remind him of the person he holds affection for like he's a crow is something that I personally find adorable and sweet for sooo many reasons. Like first of all I love it when we lean into bird or insect mannerisms for angels, but also there's just something so very Cas about the concept of him never having physical objects ever (he doesn't have a home or anything to his name but that trenchcoat), but starting to collect trickets and small things just because they remind him of someone who could be home to him.

Any/every mention of Dean's jewelry from earlier seasons is also always wanted, and I think Cas deserves a little keepsake from his beloved (whether Dean knows or not).

[nerdwholikesnerdythings]

In the museum of flight and I saw like three people in tam/beige trenchcoats/overcoats one of them I kept on seeing, and it was that person who had the most Cas like trenchcoat.

It was so hard to not walk up to them and say "heya Cas!" They nailed the autism look too (I'm not sure if it was intentional or not, but they had the blankest expression that I only see on autistic people.) I also wanted to ask them where they got their coat but I'm too socially awkward...

So, if you're a female looking person with dark hair and was in a museum of flight around noon and was wearing a trenchcoat/overcoat, heya Cas!

[nerdyenby]

Do you see the vision

Alt ID below the cut

Callum: freaking weirdo, not even good at blending in (literally just collects fox plushies)

FWhip: normal dude, very into engineering (holy crap this planet is so advanced *in 1800s museum*)

Gem: ah yes, normal botanist (actually is just a bunch of bees in a trenchcoat)

Jimmy: literally just the origin of The Spot from atsv

Joel: himbo (hippo)

Joey: he’s so good with kids (magics them into shutting up)

Katherine: works at local craft store, knows too much, probably telepathic (literally just good at reading people)

Lizzie: can definitely communicate with animals (nah, she’s just cool)

Martyn: the man has an emotional support sweater and I respect it (“conceal it, don’t feel it, don’t let it show” /ref)

Meghan: no one is convinced she’s an actual person (she’s merely vibing, guys)

Oli: he’s such a good entertainer (guys he’s an actual magician)

Owen: what a weirdo (is in journalism)

Pearl: this woman has zero impulse control and I love that for her (was programmed that way, don’t worry about it)

Pix: oh this guy’s definitely like me, why else would he be so interested in human culture (legit just an archeologist)

Sausage: bartender who’s oddly calm about how many fires break out on his shifts (he starts more when he’s off the clock tbh)

Scar: oh hey that guy’s definitely an alien, I should talk to him! Oh crap he didn’t know

Scott: wow this guy is everywhere, he must have great time management (nope)

Shelby: she’s so quirky and sheltered haha (will shrivel up an die if deprived of natural light for more than ten hours)

Stacy: wow I haven’t seen her in a while (has been trapped in hell for seven years)

[roscvcins]

Also: opens my trenchcoat to reveal a museum full of fake arranged or otherwise contracted marriage tropes

[velmatv]

Peter Gabriel - ‘Sledgehammer’ - live in Athens in 1987.

I love the monochrome minimalism of their outfits - and their guitars, noting Tony Levin’s silver and black Stingray and David Rhodes’ Steinberger headless guitar, and also this peak version of the 80s trenchcoat / duster trend.

Peter’s jacket was by Montreal-based fashion design studio Parachute, and it was in an exhibition at the McCord Museum not too long ago.

[ircngrip]

(   jack o ' connell  .  cismale  .  he / him  )       —       blasting  notre dame by  paris paloma  down  main  street,  we’ve  spotted  FINN RILEY  sporting  their  woolen trenchcoat frayed with age.  the  thirty-three / eighty-six  year  old  VAMPIRE  who’s  been  in  town  for  two months  often  can  be  seen  getting a drink like clockwork at the old haunt, feeding the stray cat that looms around the museum, tucking himself away in the bookshop for hours,  or  working  as  a  CURATOR at THE PORTUM ART MUSEUM.  people  say  they  display  compassionate  and  antisocial  traits,  but  we  rather  trust  their  vibes:  the echo of rain slipping past pine leaves, the subtle weight of mist that hangs in the air, and the smell of cheap aftershave & iron.  also,  we’ve  heard  they  love  THE OCEAN.  

‒‒‒‒‒‒ tw; themes of violence, police brutality, injury, death, and suicide.

‒‒‒ 01.

full name: finn declan riley nickname:  ??? age:  thirty-three / eighty-six date of birth:  july 22, 1939 place of birth:  lahinch, ireland religion:  prior practicing catholic ‒‒ current agnostic languages spoken: english, irish gaeilge, latin, french gender + pronouns:   cis  man ;  he ╱ him sexual orientation:   pansexual + demiromantic profession:  art historian + curator at the portum art museum marital status:  single

‒‒‒ 02.

height: five foot eleven physical build: mesomorphic ; lean yet toned and stocky in some regard hair color: dark brown eye color: grey-blue complexion: pale and freckled, borderline sickly piercings: lobe(s) which he can't be bothered to fill tattoos: n / a markings: a multitude of smaller nicks and scars across his face and torso personal style: scholarly and worn ; lots of sweaters, woolen clothes, and flat caps. prefers neutral tones, blending in with the grey of the salt and sea distinguishing characteristics: a particularly nasty amalgamation of scarring upon the expanse of his back.

‒‒‒ 03.

1939. finn is eight years old, the only surviving son of a farmhand couple along the sea-smoked town of lahinch. six pregnancies, stress to boot for them all, and hard work caking beneath the lines in his mother's face ― one day, when the first speckles of a midnight storm batter their cottage window, his father leaves. blank eyes and empty stares, the battering of cold, rubber boots as the front door clatters shut. no note, no explanation. yet, nothing changes; the work doubles, though he can see the grief painting the portrait of his home, his mind is beyond his years. two weeks later, they find the patriarch's body floating belly-up amongst the rocks, sea-battered and eyes gorged by the fish that linger. he remembers watching from a cliff overlooking as they pull his body free ― too much effort for a man who gave none. it is finn's first lesson in disappointment, and distrust in the merits of others. 1942. the farm is razed for a surf-shop, his mother grabbing his hand and peering into his storm-grey eyes; his father's eyes. she mutters, hums, and haws, pulling him along... he isn't allowed to be in the room while they speak, of course, though he hears the echo of raw voices and desperation easily enough through the walls. an hour later, his cousin appears ― a ruffle on the head, the flash of a guilt-ridden glance, and two black pocket-books are handed over. passports. he didn't even know he had one of those, the material too soft and ridged beneath the callouses forming on his hands. he'd never been beyond the hills of heather, either, catching the anxious sear of his mother's gaze. a glance of his face within the ticket, his name... seamus riley. his cousin. fancy that. it never shows any use, however ‒‒ battered bruises beaten by fists of cold iron, pale skin set alight by red flooding his senses. . . such is what awaits him by prim and pressed soldiers, one lick of an accent and violence to regard. the booklets follow next, his mother's touch ripped from his own, before he finds himself pressed against the sternum of someone unknown. mutt. mistake. the terms clatter in his ears like church bells, british lilt slipping like a noose around his throat. it would not take long for him to understand why he was called such, however, though far longer to understand how.

1954. brows knitted by an understanding far beyond his years, finn is passed like a whisper from home to home. hardly due to rambunctiousness like the other boys, god no. . . but rather the lack of being. there was nothing there left to fix, or rather nothing he allowed to be. finn was a silent, embarking presence ‒‒ like wind brushing against wild grass, or the scent of rain in the air. he was constant, a quiet reminder to all of their transgressions. . . even without saying a word. he haunted them, stood silent and bearing like a cliff against a storm. neither pity, nor understanding ever pierced the veil ‒‒ after all, it would simply take a sharp glance, and most would silence. most. . .

1963. student. scholar. martyr. the texture of worn novels and the acrid scent of iodine cling to the skin of a boy turned man. silver eyes turn northward, barred only by the fringe of salt-swept hair ‒‒ against all odds, and the machinations of those who'd press beneath their thumb, finn finds solace in the overwhelming silence of history. it clatters in his mind like glass, exasperation shedding like sheets of rain from his skin. only when the wrong eyes peer upon him does he realize the full extent of how loud his profession might be. voices shudder in his ear like a devil beyond his shoulder. . . though it isn't until a few years later, the smell of revolution at his fingertips, that he realizes how sincere learning from the past would influence his future.

1972.

his life ends in the lingering scent of powder and iron. in the silence that consumes. the swell of a wave ‒‒ all-consuming, all-enticing, ripples through him in a shockwave. his world slows as he draws from his body. . . hovers beyond the precipice, like a fine knife twisting in the wind. he watches. . . flames? yes. . . flames. they crest as though the world once held its breath, enveloping finn's form in a soft blanket of overwhelming heat. skin bubbling, muscles simmering ‒‒ where had it come from? a car, perhaps? he remembers the click of a door lock, the smell of mist upon his tongue, before it all went wrong. truly, where had it? was it when he first opened the vehicle? or years prior, when he published against the empire? it lingers in his thoughts as he watches ‒‒ yes, watches. he hovers, pulled by an invisible string, watching as the cacophony of sound and silt floods his burst eardrums. he awaits the final string, the plucking of something. . . constant. it never comes. not in the way he expects it, at least.

he remembers fire. not that which wrapped him within its searing kiss. . . but the kind that raptures a man's soul from his body. the kind that sits within your sternum, building like a swell, before it burns through your veins like acid. the kind that is all wrong, that knits your skin together like a memory and undoes you all the same. when he awakens, it isn't the heat of a hundred burns that sits within his memory ‒‒ but the hunger. only when it is quelled, when the body of a man is torn in two at his feet, does everything else follow. hands ‒‒ grasping, clawing, sinking into his flesh like needlepoints. it was not simply flame and fury that took him, but arms. the dragging, the tossing, the rapture of his throat against the lips of another. now, the silence. it fills him in the void where his heart dwells silent, where the skin blisters at his back all wrong. where another's actions wrenched him from the peace such a folly of violence would have followed. it was simply him, and the scent of guilt and iron that corroded his bones. 2025. when he closes his eyes, thin slits of silver light slipping through thickly-bound curtains, he searches. he listens for the call. for the voice. any voice. all that follows is the same ‒‒ a monotonous song of sorrow and salt that clings to his brow and the scars upon his skin. the paintings on the wall peer at him as though they know him; as though, at any moment, they might flail a truth he has yet to admit to himself. trial and error ‒‒ the folly of whoever had endeavored to ruin him. to ruin the sanctity of life in itself, and the way it sifted through his fingers like sand. he isn't sure why, then; perhaps it was the desperation, a last act following an understanding of god. why would god follow him here, he wonders? through the mist and the scent of rain, through the manner of his skin sticking to his soul like a tightly drawn curtain? like a wolf in sheep's clothing? perhaps he would have kept walking. . . perhaps, until an immovable object might endeavor to meet an unstoppable force. he places a finger upon the map, and allows his feet to carry him ‒‒ that is, until something else takes him. until he finds it. perhaps he is still trying to discover what it is.

[heavenisahandtohold]

2-when’s the last time you went on a date

4-What type of shoes do you wear?

5-what colour are the walls of your room

7-would you consider yourself good at art?

9-do you still sleep with stuffed animals?

10-what’s your favourite piece of clothing you own?

12-what’s your favourite store to shop at? (online or irl)

13-if you had to choose one POSITIVE word to describe yourself, what would it be?

14- do you collect anything?

17-what’s one thing you want to buy, but don’t have the money or resources to get?

18-Who’s the first person you can think of?

19- how old were you when you found out santa wasn’t real?

20- If you could revive one tv show that has been cancelled, what show would it be?

22-who was your childhood favourite music artist?

23-CDs or record players?

24-Do you believe in any conspiracy theories

26-favourite kid’s show character?

29-what’s the last outfit you wore?

31-least favourite clothing style that is currently popular

33-do you prefer silver or gold jewelry?

34- what’s your book/movie/tv guilty pleasure?

35- if you could change your hair however you want, how would you change it?

37-what’s an uncommon/specific /obscure topic you’re interested in?

38-what’s the name of your first pet/what would you name your first pet if you had one?

39-what’s one feature you would change on tumblr?

40-what’s the most interesting item you own?

41- would you rather go on a date at a museum or a concert?

42- what’s one regret you have?

oops thats nearly like. all of them-

-fairy

2- it was round 1 and a half years ago with our old psys… I do believe

4- boots like docs or sneakers depending on the season

5- blue

7- I get told so but I tend to not believe in it

9- oh yeah a shit ton too

10- any of our band shirts, the trenchcoat or an army shirt

12- uh we like random thrifts or one called sunshine something something

13- uhhh… not any ill admit

14- erasers with different shapes, plushies, figurines, books, medals

17- more clothing we actually like, more figurines too, tickets to some bands

18- most of the time our psys always and when not them some of iur closer

19- like 7 maybe? 20- the imperfects

22- katy perry or the imagine dragons

23- is both an option? 24- not really, not that I know of anyways

26- shit uhhhh mackenzie from bluey

29- currently wearing a nirvana tshirt and some jean shorts

31- idk if its a style but the way teen boys just put their pants real fucking low so you see their boxers and shit

33- silver

34- ahs, himym, gotham or like glee (glee 100%)

35- way shorter and dyed a diff color

37- murder, torture, killing, hiding bodies, tcc, dissections, more

38- it was lilo I think

39- uhh it cutting off my music when I answer dms

40-fish bones prolly

41- concert 100% 42- i dont know, I dont think I want to think about it ill admit

[doodles-with-noodles]

*I hiss and scamper up a tree and throw rocks with my questions painted on them through your window*

Songs you associate with any of your characters? You know like the thing where you listen to a song and make up an animatic in your head?

What's everyone's favourite colour?

What do the museum archives people do in their free time?

Are any of your characters scared of storms? For no reason in particular.

Opinions on tea? (From the characters) (I mean you can say yours too if you want)

Are there any other metaphors?

What would happen if the main character(s) from all your stories met each other?

Is there anyone in specific the mind burglars are working for or is it just, like, highest bidder?

Similarly, what happens to the stolen memories? Do the victims still have them? How difficult is it do steal a memory? What makes one memory different from the one that happens after it? How many can you steal at once? (This one is like 5 questions badly concealed in a way too small trenchcoat)

Cats?

Alas!

AHHHHHH anyways

Some have more soundtrack feel but:

Jules: Mayonaka no Door/ stay with me, Charlie: Murder on the dancefloor by Sophie Ellis-Bextor, Malik: Good-old-fashioned lover boy by Queen

Ed: Got my mind set on you by George Harrison, Anthony: Rocket Man by Elton John, Norna: You’re my best friend by Queen, Cecil: Long Away also by Queen, Maura: Killer Queen ALSO BY Queen, Roscoe: Don’t bring me down by ELO

Mathildis: Rowing, Cavendish Lab, Collapsing Inwards and A Spacetime Singularity by Jóhann Jóhannsson. All have a very nice science feel and kinda follow in the tone how Mathildis changes I think.

Treeve: Restless by Abel Korzeniowski and The Moon Will Sing by the Crane Wives

They both also have a song together ig? which is Your Blood by Aurora

The Kilmoores have I‘m Dying Mother, Cian has a more soundtracky song named QKThr by Aphex Twin which I think kinda fits (although it sounds a little more peaceful) because it sounds kinda disjointed and heavy. I had a really weird thought recently where I thought that sound design from Cian’s pov like in cinematic format would sound super neat.

2. I don’t know everyone‘s. I think Norna likes orange, Cecil blue, Ed purple, Jules like a burgundy red and Mathildis green.

3. They live in a city so. city stuff I guess. But they also hang out with each other and go pet animals at a shelter. Stuff I‘d like to do ig. They also listen to music a lot?

4. Malik maybe because he can’t hear that well when it’s stormy. It’s a little scary to him.

5. Tea‘s good with milk and honey (mine). The museum archive guys are indifferent. Roscoe is trying to push tea because it’s a little less strong than coffee that has his team all jittery (looking at Norna and Cecil). The science guys drink it if they want to be fancy. The Kilmoores drink tea like, all the time even if in crisis it’s only little ugly dried leaves. Maybe with a shot in it or smth.

6. Huh, idk honestly. The mind burglars have kinda this thing about how abuse (even if only emotionally) fucks you up. The museum archives look a lot at death and grief. Baldur‘s death is how people were manipulated and trained by politics during the war and what that leads to. Kilmoore is about how the war fucks people up directly. Yanno.

7. They‘d probably be confused as hell and try to stick together. Especially Cecil, Mathildis and Cian would be puzzled as hell at each other because weren’t they in different situations, they’d probably think the same. Roscoe wouldn’t like Treeve probably. Ed would try to explain communism to the Baldur’s death and the Kilmoore guys which is a bad idea because they’re alternate universe wartime people.

8. The highest bidder. They be doing it for the cash. Usually it’s corporate shitheads.

9. „Steal“ is more like „we remember the information and submit it.” There’s also overwriting, where you alter a memory to influence a person, but if done wrong, it can cause the person’s sense of self to deravel. Victims do still have them. Complete removal is impossible.

It’s difficult as heck, not only do you have to get past the person’s brain and manipulate them without noticing, you also sometimes come across some pretty fucked up shit in their minds and have to get through to get deeper, and you have to go deep a lot of times. A lot of times you need to keep the person unaware and make them feel as if they’re still conscious, which is why you need a team to tweak stuff. It’s not like you’re rifling through records; it’s like you’re in a place. Steal at once is difficult- the distinction between individual memories is not black and white, and as you go through you see and “steal” a lot of stuff. Fun fact: Cecil has trouble with his memories deraveling later in the story. Say Yipeee to traumatizing slow memory loss!

10. Cats are great. Most of them probably lovee cats.

[sourtroubadour]

Killing two birds with one stone by purchasing a trenchcoat to fit the aesthetic of a band I'm seeing live next month AND get some Gregory Edgeworth vibes

[thinkragelive]

2023 : When Life Becomes Art [Europe Trip Day 05 Paris]  

Trenchcoat, combat boots, thick black rimmed glasses. This guy moved back and forth between both pieces, struck a poses, studied. Repeat. Performance art.

“Blue ciel et noir ciel”, Marie Bourget (1987), Paris Museum of Modern Art (MAM Paris)

[spidermanifested]

well if you insist. here is my pitch for an alternate version of transformers rise of the beasts featuring 200% more rattrap (except not because no percentage of zero equals any more than zero)

imagine, if you will: on his way to the interview noah is stopped by a man in a trenchcoat offering "big bucks" in exchange for a nebulous "job". he brushes him off. he in turn gets brushed off at the interview. he comes back.

the shady figure tells him he needs his help. he knows a guy whos willing to pay big for an assortment of curios from the museum. noah finds this ridiculous but he has nowhere else to turn. mystery man sets him up with an earpiece and sends him in. unbeknownst to noah hes being followed. by something that makes the camera go on the floor for the occasional pov shot.

noah asks the man in the radio what he should be stealing. the man is like "oh uh. that one?" and noah is like "how do you know what im looking at" and the man is like "dont ask questions kid" and then elena runs into him and shes about to call for security but shes holding the transwarp key which was NOT the plan and noah finally spots the GIANT ROBOT RAT creeping around and they all scream and point at each other and then the museum explodes and they all have to escape from the predacons (NOT scourge).

they follow rattrap back to the maximal (NOT autobot) hideout because the cops are coming. some kind of joke about noah knowing he smelled a rat and being mad at him for setting him up (because he was 100% just using him as a distraction so he could steal the key and there was never going to be any money) but then the other maximals show up and elena goes awooga over airazor like normal. optimus primal explains theyre here from the future due to a spacetime anomaly, theyve been trapped on earth and cant go home until they find the other half of the mcguffin, which was ALSO thrown through time and space but separately. noah has no reason to care about this and goes home. ...except cheetor follows him and makes friends with his brother (Gotta Go Fast) and maybe the aliens arent so bad..........?

im not writing the whole rest of the plot but noah eventually comes back to help, rattrap and him grow to respect one another (bonding moments over their shared love of tinkering and noah seeing him and his brothers relationship in rattrap and cheetor). elena helps the whole time with her archaeology expertise because her workplace exploded and she doesnt have anything better to do. possibly partway through the vok become involved as opposed to unicron, they get ahold of the key instead of the predacons OR maximals and try to use it to terraform earth and thats why noah comes back to help? elena and airazor get combined instead of noah and mirage with the suit thing (because airazor has a history of having that happen)? some of the predacons (dinobot and blackarachnia and possibly waspinator) switch sides against the new threat???? i could do it i could make this the beast wars movie i could do it. let me do it im begging you. Please

[ask-carmenpondiego]

Chapter 5: Storage crates, little glass vials and hallucinations, oh my!

Soon they had gathered everything the needed to leave the island, M shut off all the lights and opened a dark room, the floor was pitch black. “I can’t do this often but it will get us where we need to go a few times. Having a passenger tends to wear me out. Keep a hold of me or you’ll get lost.” Carmen gulps and looks at the darkness, from what he had explained, he walks through and they come out the other end at the location that was thought about. She grips his coat and steps with him, both thinking about the storage locker Carmen had when she disbanded her original VILE henchmen. They stepped into a large storage unit, in the shadows. M flipped the lightswitch, and boxes and crates of loot were illuminated. He gave a low whistle, “Babe, you really are loaded..” Carmen went for a trunk on the opposite side of the room, “Dont call me babe, I’m not your lover, I’m your sister in law.” She bent and riffled through the clothes, picking out what extras she needed into a small travel pack. The changeling slinked up behind her and pressed himself against her bent frame, leaning his elbows along her back, head in his hands. “Doncha mean Ex-sister in law? If you’re widowed, doesnt that make you single?” She froze, bracing herself by gripping the sides of the trunk, her face flushing a bright red. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! Your brother is dead and you’re grinding against his wife, what the hell kind of coping are you failing at?!” She growled at him, her voice shaking a little. She felt her skin get sweaty, as she tries to focus on the contents of the trunk.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” His voice seemed to have suddenly gotten quite farther away. She stands and looks around, seeing him poke around a stone statue. She narrows her eyes, knowing that he can be quite speedy, “W-what do you mean? You were just grinding me!” He genuinely looked confused, “Ah no? I’ve been looking around at all the shit you got here. I only did that once when we were at the safe house. You obviously weren’t comfortable with it. I’m an asshole but not that kind of asshole..” she furrows her brow, rubbing her arm a bit as she sank into her thoughts. “We need to head back to the asylum, I need to get into the files there.” She stepped behind an ancient chinese room screen and started changing into her own leather pants and a corseted shirt, though a bit tight in the bust. She swept her long red trenchcoat on and grabbed her wide brimmed red hat, placing it on her head. She puts on her purple glasses and shut the trunk.

“What fuckin files? We should see about Wally’s body first.” He stood, looking her up and down with his glowing green eyes, arms crossed. His horns today looked more like a young bucks antlers, just in pure black with a slightly toxic green sheen. She finished tying her yellow ascot around her neck, “If we find out why they directed me to that building out in nowhere, then it may lead us to why the museum was set ablaze. Its the only real lead I have.” She adjusted her black riding gloves and picked up the travel bag. “When we’re done, I’m thinking I’ll just give this all back to the proper owners. Not to any museums, like the British Museum, they already stole enough, I dont need to add to that in particular.” She walks closer to him, getting a sudden shiver. “Ok, ready.. lets go.” Marehem frowns, tilting his head, “Are you feelin alright? You look a bit clammy..” she grumped and walked to the area where they stepped into the shadow, “I’m fine, just itching to get going! So lets go!” She reached out her hand impatiently to take hold of his coat, her other hand already to shut the lights off. He groaned and followed her, letting her hold his arm, a few tentacles wrapped around her waist protectively as the lights went out.

They stepped out into a destroyed laboratory room from the darkest corner, she tried to remember the layout and started rifling through papers she saw on desks and tables. She caught sight of the electricity device and shivered. M wandered around, kicking debris rather boredly. He admired his handiwork as he came across a large dried bloodsplatter upon the wall, chuckling as he sees a silhouette of another victim as a blank space in the splatter. There had been a few flies buzzing about the remains of whatever was organically left. “Hey Red, Look! Aaahhh!” He called for her attention standing next to the blank space, mimicking it like he was the screaming victim, ending in him cackling at himself. She looked up and gave a slight disgusted look, “So I see. You sure didnt leave much for the forensics, did you?” She went back to taking photos of the documents she found, gagging slightly. “Remind me never to join you on your heists, you’re no fun.” He mutters, picking a few scalpels and tossing them at a poster on the wall of a simplified body shape with simplified organ shapes, each scalpel skewering a vital organ. “Oh I’m plenty fun, I’m just focused right now! You could help me instead of.. of..” she bumped into something and looked up. Looming over her was a battered and angry looking figure of Dr Ravidel Soltek. He grabbed her by the throat and tossed her across the table, knocking it over. He leapt at her pinning her down as she cried out, trying to pry him off of her. He held a needle of glowing blue zydrate to her leg, growling, “You could never stay away, could you, pequeña ladrona? You just wanted more.” She shrieked out in protest, and clenched her eyes shut, preparing herself to feel the drug rush. Her shoulders were suddenly held and shaken hard, his voice faded as M’s voice came clearer.

“Red! Hey, snap out of it! What’s going on? What happened?” She blinked and looked around in a panicked state, panting hard. “Where is he? Where did he go?” M crouched to her level, visibly confused and concerned, “Where did who go? No one has been here other than us. I already checked.” She looked up at him with tears in her eyes, “Ravidel was here.. he tossed me and tried to.. the blue, where’s the blue?” She sat up on her knees and started looking all over the debris on the floor. Frantically she searched drawers and cabinets until she found some blue glass vials and started stuffing them into her pockets. “He cant drug me if I have his whole supply!” M watched her and rubbed his face as he realized why she acted the way she has for the past few days. “Shit, it was in-front of me the whole fuckin time. He got you hooked on somethin and now you’re in withdrawal..” He took her arm and turned her towards him, pinning her arms down against her sides. “Red, stop that. He’s not here, he was never here. You’re tweaking like a druggie. You gotta stop and ride it out. Here lets put these back, you dont need them.” He starts taking the vials out of her pockets as she tries to put them back in, “No, he’ll just use them on me, I need to take them away, I need to.. need to..” she started looking for the syringe gun as M took it away before she could reach for it, roaring at her, “Carm! Stop! You ain’t taking another goddamn hit! Fuck! Get your fuckin head straight! You know, I told myself that if I ever met you, that you were gonna be so cool. But look at you. Strung out. I know its not your fault but shit.. Never meet your heroes.” He whipped the syringe gun out the broken window and stormed off. Carmen stood there, letting his words sink in. She looked down at a broken mirror and hardly recognized herself. “He’s right.. what am I even doing?” She looked at a vial in her hand and looked at it before popping the stopper. She put a drop on her fingertip and placed it under her tongue. The taste was horrible but the calming sensation instantly flowed over her and her mind got more clear. Obviously not as euphoric in such a tiny drop but enough to clear the clouds. “Maybe I can overcome this if I micro-dose and ween myself off. I just.. I can’t let him know. I need to be better than this.” She moved the small stash to different inner pockets. She then ran after him, a few papers flew off the desk, a watermark barely visible as they flew past a light and onto the ground.

[spring-lxcked]

@florietiae asked:

valentines day application.

your name: raven roth.

romantic or platonic?: romantic.

a night in or dinner out or an activity?: i enjoy a nice night in as much as the next girl, but i like going out too. we could go to that café you like ? or we could have a picnic ? go to a museum, maybe?

ice cream or chocolate covered strawberries?: is that even a question? both. although, the strawberries would be fun to feed each other with.

what's your perfect date?: not to possibly sound boring, but i'm gonna have to go with the 'just spending time together' answer. it does not matter what we are doing; if we're working on a puzzle together, or dining out, going to a movie, or some other fourth thing ... as long as we do it together, it's a perfect date in my books.

would you cook for me?: of course!

would you let me cook for you?: absolutely.

can we make-out?: yup!

make out in private or in public?: preferably private, but i'm not opposed to a semi-public makeout session, sure.

do you like to cuddle?: definitely.

blankets or no blankets for cuddling?: the cozier the better.

couch or bed?: both are fine, but just in case things get a little frisky, well, whichever option is uh. sturdier.

what are at least 3 hobbies of yours?: i like long nature walks. helps me relax. feel more connected to the earth that way. i quilt, too, and i read tea leaves for fun sometimes. you should let me read yours! could be funny.

tell me something about you no else knows: alright, you caught me. i'm actually 55 ferrets in a trenchcoat. she's kidding, obviously.

why do you want to be my valentine?: because i love you, duh!

what makes you a good valentine?: i think you know by now that you're special to me. i care about you a lot, and you wouldn't go a day without knowing that. the love i have for you is near boundless. and i know you love me too. that's all that matters, right?

"The idea that you even need to apply is amusing." It wasn't as if he had a long list of potential valentines—Raven was the only he'd consider. "A picnic and a night in sounds perfect, pretty bird. And I'm sure our bed and couch are both much sturdier than that poor, poor dorm bed." Here he grinned, half amused with himself, half with the memory. Leave it to William to feel absolutely shameless about it.

"Of course, I accept. I just hope you have more. . . experience with the holiday than I do." Consider William had precisely none. ( But he could certainly learn. )