#ugly capsule collection

[gcnpeachbeachmoved]

there are 2 flavors of western mario merch its either those retina destroying overly busy stock art collages slapped against a generic background meant for 8yos or the smb1 8bit designs pasted on a black background with a dumb slogan meant to appeal to millennials with weird nostalgia complexes

[godesssiri]

10 Thrifting Tips – Part ? I lost count just check my thrifting tag

1) Make friends with the staff. If you go into a particular thrift store frequently it’s well worth it to get friendly with the staff. Ask them about their day, chat with them about what you’re buying, infodump if you’ve found something exciting and unusual. When the staff get to know you and know what you buy they’ll start pointing out things in the store that have come in since the last time you were there, that fit your interests. They may even start putting things aside for you. Recently I walked into my favorite thrift store and had 2 separate staff members say ‘Oh I’ve got something for you’. Plus having the staff greet you by name and having little inside jokes with them just makes the whole experience more fun.

2) Brita jugs turn up at the thrift store frequently. If tap water in your area is safe but has A Taste, keep an eye out at the thrift store.

3) Coffee making equipment. Capsule coffee makers, the wire racks that hold the capsules, French presses, these all get donated frequently. The occasional espresso machine comes in – and goes out very quickly. Now and then you’ll find pour-over coffee equipment. If you like your bean juice you can get the equipment you need to make fancy bean juice at the thrift store.

4) Handmade pottery mugs. Story time: About 6 or 7 years ago I went into a thrift store and someone had obviously just cleaned out their mug cupboard and donated a pile of handmade pottery. I bought 4 because I thought they were cool, very tactile, nice to hold. This AWOKE something in me. Humans have used handmade pottery for thousands of years and there’s something about holding a handmade mug that sparks a genetic memory of warmth and comfort. Pottery also has much better thermal properties than mass produced ceramic, hot stays hot longer and vice versa with cold. Build up a little collection of handmade pottery mugs from the thrift store, each one has its own personality and it brings joy using them.

5) In the same vein: teaspoons. Build up a collection of fun teaspoons and take joy from using different ones depending on your mood. I have one with an owl on the end and another with a rose, a brass one with a wiggly handle in the shape of a snake, one that has the branding of an airline that now only uses wooden stirrers - probably because people kept pocketing the stainless-steel teaspoons (I always wanted to steal one as a child but never had the nerve). Whenever I need a teaspoon it’s always a little endorphin boost to open the drawer and select the perfect one for today.

6) If you need something to do a specific job, be patient, you will find the perfect thing eventually. I switched to solid shampoo and my old soap dish wasn’t big enough to hold my shampoo bar and my regular soap, so I waited and watched and found the perfect little glass tray that was exactly the right size and fits perfectly on the shelf in my shower. I could have bought a brand new made-for-that-purpose multi soap holder, but it wouldn’t have been as cool looking and when I’m done with it, it wouldn’t necessarily get another life.

7) Gift supplies. Thrift stores often have a selection of unused gift wrap, bags, bows, cards. It’s worth it to sift through what they’ve got and buy any you think you might use – even if you don’t have an immediate use for it. That stuff can get expensive so if you can create a small stash then, when you need it, you won’t have to shell out $$.

8) Look for things that can be made over – or thrift flipped as the DIY content creators like to say. There’s so much satisfaction from looking at something that was plain ugly when you bought it and you’ve turned it into something pretty. It doesn’t need to be a major transformation that requires 5 different power-tools and 100 bucks worth of supplies. It can be as simple as a lick of paint, but every time you look at you will feel good about it.

9) Sometimes it’s worth buying something that’s just really cool and figuring out a use for it later. I bought the coolest little silver plated mustard pot; it has 3 legs and at the top of each leg is a lion head. Do I eat mustard much? No. Did I know what the heck I would use it for? No. I get bad indigestion and keep antacids on hand, I hate how once you tear open the roll, they tend to spill everywhere so I like to put them in something. Guess what holds exactly one roll of antacids? If something is just freaking awesome but you don’t know what you’d use it for, you will find a use (and it will be so much cooler than anything else you might have bought for that purpose).

10) Use the fancy stuff. Don’t ever look at something in a thrift store and think: that’s too fancy, I’ll never use it. If it’s not bought and used it ends up in landfill. Save it from the landfill and use it. Today I bought the most OTT fancy silver pepper shaker to sit next to my stove and hold ground pepper for cooking with, one of my housemates never puts the damn pepper back in the cupboard when he’s finished with it, so now we have this ostentatious silver shaker next to the stove top. One of my dogs can be relied upon to get half of his food on the floor before he hoovers it up, I could have got a plastic mat to feed him on but I had a spare thrifted marble cutting/serving board (I have a problem, I own 3, I have so much trouble resisting them), and another plus - he can’t destroy it like he would a plastic mat. I keep my toothbrush in a crystal bud vase. I decant my micellar water into a bottle shaped like a seahorse. I eat off pretty vintage pink glass plates. Using the fancy stuff from thrift stores both helps you romanticize your own life and it gives these items another life. Do be sensible though, some items made before the early 1970s including glassware and dinnerware contain lead in the decoration so do your due diligence and be safe.

[oh-its-souichi]

Orochimaru x Reader

- I had this idea and typed it in a rush, its pretty vague but 😅 hope ya'll like it-

Losing you was agony.

Watching you die was torment

The way you bled out before him, you gentle eyes never once leaving his face. You were smiling at him, you werent happy, though. It wasn't a smile of joy but one of pity. Pity because you knew what was going to happen once you left him.

Orochimaru stared down at you with baited breaths and a searing pain in his chest. "What can I do!" He yelled for the first time since he was a child feeling true panic, true fear. "Y/N what do I do!" He screamed. You tenderly reached your hand to him, collecting what little strength you had left for the gesture. He turned his head and slammed his fist on the wall. "You were always weak, it disgusting how fucking weak you are!" He screamed involuntary tears flooding out of his eyes, he felt intoxicated, things around him becoming less and less real with each slow breath you took. He flipped around to look at you, to continue beraitment, but your hand was dropped and your eyes empty, inanimate.

He sighed, the breath shakey and unsure like the reality he now inhabited now that the frame of his life had gone. He collapsed down onto his kness and brought his hands to his head, twisting his fingers into his long black hair, gripping the strands tightly to somehow elevate the overwhelming pain washing over him.

He stared at your dead face and sobbed. He didn't want to love you. Never intended to lean on you so heavily, but he did. The two of you had met as children. At a spring festival, you were prancing around admiring all of the flowers. He came across you and was revolted by your happiness, disgusted by the pure smile you flashed him. He fell for it though, and you snaked your way closer to him, sinking your fangs into his neck. He loved you. He wanted to protect you. You were the fiber that made up the last string of his humanity.

Now you lie dead before him, your beautiful hair spilled out around you, and that gracious smile gone, replaced by the ugly stench of death. He started dragging himself towards you. "I'll fix you," he sniffled. "I'll fix you." Collecting your limp body into his arms he walked off deeper into the dark forest.

....

That was ten years ago. He was a grown adult now. A different person. Orochimaru walked calmly down the stone hallway to the room at the end of it, closing the door gently behind him.

This room, in comparison to the rest, was dauntingly beautiful. There were flowers and plants everywhere, the smell of life in the air. It was more vegetation than structure, and at the center of it all was you, floating gracefully in a preservation capsule.

He approached the tank and painfully smiled. "My love," he seethed. "It will work this time, i know it." There was hesitation in his voice, and he lowered his eyebrows in pain. "Will you still look at me as you did once you realize what I am?" he said, wondering for a second if he was making the right decision.

A knock sounded at the door, and he no longer held that thought. Kabuto opened the door carrying a girl into the room. "Where would you like her, my lord?" He asked, and Orochimaru gestured to the table at the far side of the room, and he complied, laying her gently down.

"I am going to merge them in the tank, a gusion of such." Orochimaru and Kabuto turned his head curious at his masters sudden willingness to share. "Oh?" Kabuto replied "This girl is still living, wont the fusion bring about a hybrid of the two?"

Orochimaru flashed his eyes at him, shaking his head. "No, to simplify, I'll remove the parts of that girls brain that involves emotions of personality, so it does not interact with hers." He said, looking again back to you. Kabuto nodded. "I suppose we should get started then, if I may, my lord." Kabuto slid open the drawers attached to the operating table, admiring the blade of the scalpel he removed. Orochimaru did not stop him, noticing an anxiousness blossoming in his chest.

....

After the operation, Orochimaru turned off the lights to your room and closed the door. Locking it behind him. He would not know how the fusion worked for a year. Your body needed time to regulate and get used to its own amenities. The months that proceeded left like a slow march through the desert. He busied himself with a side quest, finding news things and people to occupy his mind, but when the day came, he found himself running down the hallway and throwing open the door.

He flicked the lights on and rushed to your tank. He placed his hands on the glass and looked anxiously to you. Your eyes were open, and you were looking around, your eyes finally meeting his after moments of searching.

A gentle smile came to your face, and you reached out to him. He found himself returning the expression. "Welcome back, my love," he hissed, typing the coordinates in to unlock you from your cage.

[awesomesauce2929]

Goku introduces Zenon to various earthly things (you just look at this guy, he made time for the little god)

Like "this is a frog environment, my dudes". Goku brings a frog to Zenon's house, specifically on Wednesday. And basically just to show Zenon the creature (Zenon eats the frog when Goku is distracted, Saiyan thinks it escaped)

HUGE PILES OF DRY AUTUMN LEAVES. Goku rakes the leaves into big piles and Zenon watches people jump into those leaves and have fun, and participates too. (Now I'm thinking about Whis being introduced to this once, and now he periodically comes to Earth for more than just food)

Maybe introductions to holidays and food (Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Halloween, and etc)

Fishing with rods???

Maybe Zenon meets Goku's family and Chichi tells him about Goku's adventures and how they got married. (Daishinkan asks Chichi about her food recipes and she is happy to share them with him)

All of this, please someone make this into an slice of life anime of the Adventures of Goku and Zeno (alternative title: DBS: Make Zeno happy saves the Earth, haha)

Goku loves his little friend and personification of destruction - giving him a Earth tour, Zeno-sama will enjoy this very much, considering his interest of that planet may have peaked as most fighters in the tournament were from Earth.  Earth got numerous cultures, traditions and whatever Goku shows would cover a small percentage what the Earth offers but it's a good start introducing Earth to Zeno, navigating through the goods, the bads and often the ugly of humanity. I see Goku being a guide and teacher to Zeno in this.

I like to think that Zeno love to swim in the sea, so I can imagine Goku and others go to the beach, have ice cream or fish and chips or crack a coconut and drink the coconut water.  Then Zeno seeing people surfing on the wave and want to get lessons on it. Beerus and Whis is always with them because Beerus does not trust Goku alone with Zeno-sama, he still fears for another universal tournament of erasure. Zeno had a problem at first with the god following them around but Goku would ease this, making sure this tour would be enjoyable for all.

How I imagine Goku introducing Earth to Zeno, is similar how Goku was introduced to Earth, by humble environment and technology (Capsule Corps). Yes I can imagine Bulma would give Zeno a capsule to put his stuff away if he wants. Ah Goku and Zeno fishing with fishing rods and getting fishes, yes to that a lot. Why not Zeno wants to collect the seven dragon balls with Goku and Bulma, later meeting the earthlings during this adventure, what kind of wish Zeno wants to make, the earthlings wonders? (actually Zeno wants to see Shenron, and ride on him, that would be fun to see)

Zeno likes to stay Earth for much longer, but the Grand Minister picks him for his duty but there's always a next time, especially Goku invited Zeno and Grand Minister for the supper/an event, maybe, hanabi, the fireworks and Zeno and Grand Minister in yukata, so so cute.

Chi-Chi will be more than happy to share recipes with Daishinkan, I can see them making food together under Chi-Chi's direction, a feast fit for the gods. Why not they bond over kids and gossip, they can have couple of teas over this.

""Maybe introductions to holidays and food (Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Halloween, and etc)"" chef's kiss to this idea, yes yes, especially they come to visit, please imagine Zeno having fun during the easter egg hunting around the field finding the eggs, or Zeno wearing a cute costume during Halloween.

Thank you for this ask, I had so much fun answering this (thanks for waiting)

[munchboxart]

My Re-ment MK collection... almost complete....

The only one I really need left is the Final War Terrarium one. Ok I do need that one with him on the tree as well but it's mad ugly I HATE that figure because it means I have to get the Kirby one as well to complete it, otherwise, the rest are pretty much from the gachapon capsules which are a lot lower quality to be honest. And the MK paper lantern but I can honestly put a bunch of the rest in the back burner for now

[goongiveusnothing]

what does he do at pleasing? Is he the owner or is he just the face? Could it be true that it is a money laundering front? Also, what happened to his Gucci capsule? Did the Ha Ha collection sell well? Alessandro left Gucci and there is tension between the new creative director and Harris reed, so is he still with them? Wonder what Ana Wintour thinks about him now? And why doesn't he attend Met and fashion events more often?

The Pleasing Company Executive Team (2)

Shaun Kearney: Chief Executive Officer

Harry Styles: Founder

so he's the founder and is more than just the face.

not sure what you mean by money laundering front, but i'm game to believe everything this man does is to launder money lol.

i didn't keep up with any of the gucci ha ha ha stuff so i'm not sure how well it did.

also not sure if harry is still with gucci but i assume he probably is. guess we'll have to see who designs his next ugly tour clothes collection.

harry thinks he's too exclusive to attend the Met and other events more often. he only does things if he can be the main attraction, not the side one. but that may change now that he's losing steam.

[bubblepopsims]

An: "so you are telling me... you guys went on vacation and it just so happened to come over to you to ask my daughter to marry you." Izzi shrugged looking down for a moment to collect themselves an face the large man in front of them. when they finally summed up their courage. Izzi lifted their head and locked eyes with Andres. I: "Yes. that is exactly what happened... i love your daughter very much. From the moment I met her, i knew she was the one for me."

Andres took a moment to look at his staring wife. she was still, very still in fact and usually that was her processing what was being told to her. until she turned towards them and stare directly at Izzi. Mama bear was active and juju already knew what her mother was going to say next. A: "if you hurt my baby. i will kill you." J: "yep there it is.." Izzi looks like she almost shit their pants XD

after some more small talk all four of them called it a night. Deciding to put the conversation to rest for the night. J: "come on we can finally go hide."

I: "oh thank god... also this view... is a plus plus." Juju laughed and kept moving up the stairs "keeping your eyes on the prize." J: "wow it still looks the same up here.."

the second Izzi made it to the top of the stairs, their eyes went directly to the play pen. I: "was this yours?" juju glanced at the play pen and chuckled "yes but Conrad used it too plus it was easy to babysit him, he was right there. now lets see." juju opened the door to her old bedroom feeling a sense of nostaliga wash over her. "this is like a time capsule and a half.. Oh mom left ugly sweaters and towels for us."

previous - next

[lgcmedia]

Tommy Hilfiger x Richard Quinn pop-up store in Seoul invites CRYSTALLIS’ Yura

Joining various other celebrities and stars, CRYSTALLIS’ YURA attended the Tommy Hilfiger x Richard Quinn pop-up store in Seoul on February 27!

The event was to celebrate the opening of a new pop-up store featuring items from the limited-edition capsule collection that the two designers collaborated on together.

YURA's outfit consisted of one such piece--a bold and loud oversized jacket with contrasting patterns--worn as a dress and paired with thigh-high boots to complete the look. Although the style is not often seen on the idol as her image within CRYSTALLIS is usually the opposite, YURA still pulls the look off!

CRYSTALLIS last made a comeback in July so fans were very excited to see the idol’s appearance at the event!

[ + / - ] even an ugly outfit like THAT looks good on yura. with a pretty face like hers, anything will look pretty.

[ + / - ] ngl that hideous outfit made yura blend in with the backdrop ㅋㅋ and guess what? it suits her image because i never notice her during crystallis’ promotions.

#LGCENT #LGCGIRLS #CRYSTALLIS #SEOYURA

[thesinglesjukebox]

RAYE - "GENESIS"

And God the Jukebox said, "Let there be controversy"...

[6.00]

Dave Moore: A remarkable song suite -- one part Metropolis EP, one part "Bohemian Rhapsody," and a dash of Idlewild -- that's as good a time capsule of 2024 pop as I can imagine: screen spirals interrupted, bad vibes cleared, devils exorcised, livers detoxified, darkness driven out. It's more personal, more formally daring, and more just-plain-show-off impressive than any other major pop release I've heard in this year of big swings, and more than deserving of a great write-up from Marcello Carlin that is more effusive than I have the energy to be, even though I found myself nodding along. I can only pray that its defiantly celebratory finale translates from the UK (God bless the NHS indeed) to shake some other folks' collective national bummers, running the gamut from chronic gloom to sickening tragedy. Maybe we'll see the light eventually. [9]

Harlan Talib Ockey: It’s very hard to write an “everything sucks” song and pull it off. I’m not really sure this one does. The three distinct sections help separate the thoughts, but you still get lines like “fake democracy, killing overseas” not far from “I edit my pictures to make my waist look slimmer.” Are these related issues? Do they affect RAYE's narrator in the same way? The second section is the most vivid. “The devil works hard, like my liver” is a fantastically incisive line. The Rihanna-esque backing vocals add an ominous jolt to the song that the other sections shy away from. The other sections are still fairly strong -- I really appreciate RAYE's commitment to being a jazz and blues singer -- but her voice is doing almost all the heavy lifting. (Her vocal control at the end of the first section is showstopping.) I’m not eager to say “Genesis” should have been broken into three songs; for one thing, it already is on its digital release. There is a narrative through-line here. But it’s that through-line that makes me think this could have easily been more focused, and more powerful. [6]

Jonathan Bradley: An extravagant, luxurious suite of pop ideas, and every single one of them terrible, from the portentous spoken word about solipsism and phone addiction to the parade of zippy, overworked scatting that closes out the final few minutes in big-band retro kitsch. Between these two endpoints is a parade of Really Deep Thoughts about democracy and sex and self-esteem (though it makes this Self Esteem sound artful) and religion and pills and mental health and the NHS and government lies and yet more spoken word, with nothing more coherent than a rote boom-bap drum track acting as a thesis statement or organizing principle. It's not that ambition is awful, but it looks pretty ugly when it's this half-baked. [2]

Alfred Soto: The ambition -- the effrontery -- flattened me for a couple minutes. Writing a song around the tropes of therapyspeak is guaranteed to make me self-defenestrate. RAYE doesn't pull it off despite the range of her registers and rhythmic ideas: "Genesis" sounds flat despite the determination to avoid flatness even when she gets off decent lines like "anxiety is an index finger pressed against your lips." [4]

Katherine St. Asaph: Amy Winehouse doing The Wall is not unappealing; there's clearly ambition to this, vocally and conceptually. But while I don't believe that music has to make people comfortable or come from a healthy place, I worry how clear the lines are here between making art about trauma and just reliving that trauma. Also, even if the third act is meant as the cheery facade concealing the second act's rot, no one is going to interpret it that way; the narrative pull of salvation-via-Real-Music is too strong. [5]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: On her most recent appearance on the NYT Popcast discussing Charli XCX’s brat era, critic Meghan Garvey makes a powerful distinction between pop stars being vulnerable and honest. She argues that in the attention based economy in which pop stars now vie for attention, it’s easy for stars to perform relatability while rarely venturing to share truths that may be ugly or unpalatable. Thus, why Charli is so iconoclast: she never deigns to condescend that we are like her (in fact, she’d argue that she exists on a plane we can barely aspire to), but in the revealing of uncomfortable and taboo subjects like jealousy and fear and anxiety, she becomes more human than those who merely posture at it. RAYE has long existed at the intersection of vulnerable and honest, but she spent the first several years editing herself down to play industry games. “Genesis” is unedited. There’s something spiraling and masochistic about hearing about her ego, her drug addiction, her struggle for life, almost as though if there are some secrets and inner monologues too personal and desperate to be shared. Can honesty be a virtue in of itself when it’s so plain and barren? Giving Rated R Rihanna era vibes, RAYE herself says, “It’s too dark to see.” The last movement, a coda tacked on at the end, hints at something approximating a light at the end of the tunnel, something not just vulnerable and honest, but also potentially self-transformative.  [9]

Will Adams: I appreciate the effort RAYE has put into this multi-part self-examination that leaves no wound un-prodded -- the second act is my favorite, hitting the same brooding numbness of Rated R -- but there's a point at which it becomes Too Much. "Genesis" is almost twice the length of "Escapism" but delivers half the impact. [5]

Brad Shoup: The Project Pat flow is where I bailed, but if I'd just hung on a couple more hours I'd have gotten to the Nawlins-baked jump blues. (I can easily picture the Genius annotator mashing out "Genesis" begins with an adage about being in one's twenties, and the song literally ends with music from the Twenties.)  It's a misery porn speedrun that shamelessly lifts from 2010 Kanye to create import; any interesting art-pop poses end in bad jokes or non sequiturs. It's so fake deep Wile E. Coyote tried to run through it. [2]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: "Phones Bad" is perhaps the defining cultural critique of our time, yet few have ever expressed it in such gory detail. This is "Phones Bad" The Musical, a rock operatic sweeping history of pop that, even as it moves from style to style, remains hyper-focused on circling the online drain -- if it weren't such a British song I'd expect her to work "doomscrolling," but "let me in your algorithm" will have to do. "Genesis" succeeds on the strength of what should be its most obvious, clichéd moments, fully committing to its bit and never wavering. [8]

Oliver Maier: The best section of "Genesis" is the first one, where RAYE's voice slides deftly between half-rapping and theatrical Fiona Apple vibratos. Section ii is in the vein of expensive-sounding, post-MBDTF orchestral boom-bap that doesn't work for me at all, and section iii is endearing in concept but not a great listen. I get the sense from RAYE's lyrics that she has trouble jettisoning a line or idea once she's attached to it, but you have to hold your own pen to a higher standard to nail a seven-minute odyssey on the entirety of society's ills; the trite metaphors don't pass muster. [3]

Scott Mildenhall: Ambitions realised with barely a beat overstretched, RAYE reassures that her victories remain pyrrhic. From sprawling monologue into incisive emotional précis, she holds the steadiest hand over her own precariety. It's at times awesome: ornately claustrophobic under diamond-sharpened storm clouds. But then, from nowhere, a parallel universe PPB. The disjunction from part two to part three is such a left turn as to be bathetic. Intentionally or not, it has its own bittersweet sensation, as things flop out of the frying pan and into the fridge. When no light is promised, all she can do is command it. [8]

Taylor Alatorre: I too spent much of my twenties trying to flatten out my insecurities and shortcomings by putting them through the wringer of a larger political project. It didn't work out so well, the personal or the political. That doesn't mean it was all a waste of time, of course, as ineffective altruism is better than none at all. Likewise, the existence of RAYE's "Genesis." is undoubtedly a social good, even as I have next to no desire to re-listen to it. It's didacticism in search of a lesson plan, which might've earned some poignancy if that's where RAYE had decided to leave things: a generation fumbling around for answers, finding none, having to get up the next day despite that. As a recovering party animal, though, she just can't abide the silence, and so the Song About Nothing is in the end forced to become About Something, to strike up the band and clap for the NHS and belatedly point the camera somewhere other than the singer's navel. Part III is the best-sounding part of "Genesis," but its connection to the whole is the most tenuous, and it feels neither like a triumphant finish nor a new beginning, but an ill-fitting interlude to some phantom utopia, to which I hope the rough sketches here don't do justice. [4]

Mark Sinker: Spent a morning a couple of weeks back failing to persuade my cousin (83, serious Miles Davis fan) that present-day music isn’t as boring as the radios in the cabs to the hospital have convinced him it is. Perhaps I should send him a link to my old friend Marcello’s ecstatic piece on this very song, in which he calls 2024 a “quite remarkable year for songs” (with this at its centre-piece and validation)… Marcello is my age, or very nearly, and like my cousin loves jazz and knows it well; and jazz is the song’s unapologetic third section. As for me, I was certainly absolutely drawn into the sweet grim-dark of parts one and two, with their deft verbal asymmetries and their anecdotal frankness (if RAYE blanks out the metaphorical phrase “give a fuck,” she fully voices the graphic and literal verb “screwed”) (and of course it’s not just literal). All this I found strong and compelling, touching and boldly handled -- though maybe not (as an ageing industrial-culture post-punker who lived for years a stone’s throw from the Throbbing Gristle noise-factory) entirely unheard-of. But part three? That blast of cheerful big band celebration? On first hearing that’s where I maybe found myself bailing a bit. Is this still working? Is it working equally well? What exactly’s my damage? Here’s some of it: in the '80s when I was teaching myself about jazz soup-to-nuts, much of its history had become encased in a pitiless glaze of cool. I enjoyed its odder reaches, and getting my head round its histories and lineage and the reasons for its twists and turns -- but I was very often also flinching at the way it was then talked about; all the pedantry, all the reverenced great names, all the “iconic” photos on the LP sleeves, all the hand-me-downs from hipster’s hipsters glibly repackaged for reasons half-noble and half-valid; all the rhetorical tricks deployed to punch a little space for time in a very populated pop space. Plus I was doing that thing that writers often do when they find themselves in a big joyful throng and are anxious not to hand over the last element of their critical reserve to the collective. This is nice, I would think, this is fine — look at me applauding it, but also look at me not throwing myself into it. And then watching the video one further time through the sound and the idea and the third stretch came round again, as it switches from dance and darkness in the theatre to the band arrayed along a South London railway station platform, all these school kids of many shapes and sizes, none of them anywhere cinched for screen perfection, and all these even smaller kids happily dancing and smiling among the watching normie audience… and suddenly I was in floods of tears. Here RAYE was so unashamedly hymning to those who carry the national health service, overstretched and underpaid as they are, and here we were in daylight so far from the terror of the pandemic (which they had the handling of) and so far too from all the earlier art and dark glamour and drama… as small new people a tenth my age are coming upon and loving this supposed ancient frozen-iconic music (itself once the very height of art and dark glamour and drama), and it isn’t really about carrying something off at all. RAYE calls it “light” because she’s expressing it through a particular faith; I guess I’d call it “life”? It’s what my cousin -- who is semi-bereaved and not very well -- is reaching for; it’s the spine of the whole song. And I’m still not sure how much I like it, but I love what it’s doing.  [9]

Nortey Dowuona: The reality of being an artist means you have to leave everything you believe at the door. Once you have decided to become one, nothing else matters. Your ability to be useful politically puts you either in the margins if you're honest or in the grave if you're brave. The most frightening moments of your life become pored over by weirdo dimwits in countries you have barely seen or won't visit. Your personal relationships become mines you excavate until you are empty. You sign away your ability to live to a faceless corporation you barely know that clings to you long after you no longer remember why you even look out at a sea of other exploited, lonely souls who wish to be swept away from the crushing dread and despair they live inside once the lights are shut off, the speakers are packed away and the last roadie can sleep. When I heard "Genesis" I froze up. The millions who finished it and listened again know. They relate, they empathize, but now they know. And all the men know too. And so does her mother. And then we keep digging in. Now I know you're trying to kill herself with all the coping mechanisms we have justified for ourselves for years. Now I know you slim your pictures on instagram. The bridge could be a whole album, but it's a bridge and RAYE moves on. Then, to keep us from all keeling over she gives us the sterling recreation of 1920's jazz that came from black women in the United States that was brought over to the UK and Europe electrifying the Ghanaians and Jamaicans and the Senegalese and the Palestinians and Yemeni people and Lapita people. The devil works hard like our livers, but he is not real. Rachel Agatha Keen is. [10]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[agung-hartamurti]

[acemapleeh]

Arthur Home Headcanons

Minimalism? What’s that? This man has stuff everywhere in his home. Cluttercore

He is entirely guilty of reusing containers that don’t match what’s inside. Have you see English tea tins? He has a cabinet dedicated to them but it’s anyone’s guess as to what’s actually inside. He has a separate cabinet that has actual tea and the works. This tin was the limited edition Christmas English breakfast from 1962, of course I can’t get rid of it. That was a gift from Matthew in 2003, he’d be devastated if I tossed it in the bin. He may not even remember the reason for one but thinks if he holds onto it, it’ll eventually come to him.

I’m not even touching his collection of teacups and mugs.

His house is in good, clean condition. I want to make that clear. He just has trouble when it comes to change. If something breaks, it may stay that way for a while because the manufacturer who made it isn’t around anymore. Arthur will attempt to fix it himself but he’s no expert. He’s ruined things in his attempts so he’ll leave them to gather dust. He’s had a bread cutter from before World War II that’s rusted and the cutting board desperately needs a cleaning but he hasn’t gotten around to it.

If he absolutely must swallow his pride, he’ll ask Alistair to fix something he’s particularly found of.

His home in London isn’t his original one from a few hundred years back. The townhouse that was a relic of the Victorian/ Georgian era was all blown the rubble in the Blitz. He’s moved to East London to try to stay a little in the time capsule that’s formed there.

Really losing his home in the war was something that took years to get past but really, he hasn’t. He had saved what he could but the armchair from 1754 that he’d replaced the cushions of numerous times, the entirety of the library, and things one man alone just couldn’t pull from the flames were all silently mourned for.

The newer residence is honestly far less of a death trap and perhaps losing the old one was a blessing in disguise.

Still very much has the “nice” living room for guests and more formal affairs and the much more lived in one where the clutter really has gotten out of hand. Aside from his study that is.

His main residence is that townhome in Spitalfields.

He hates purging. He’ll constantly say he’s in the process of it whenever company is over to excuse any clutter or mess. Sorting through books, seeing if any the shops or museum will take. Going through clothes again that fill the closet even though he rotates the same handful of things.

Has the same spoon he’s been stirring his tea with for over seventy years. The bottom is completely flat. He’s been gifted a new one but he hasn’t taken it out of the drawer quite yet.

Similarly, he was gifted an electric kettle one year but in a drunken state on pure muscle memory, he put it on the stovetop. He’s been gifted a new one and is much more mindful on where he keeps it.

Please stop giving this man new things for his kitchen.

You want to talk museum, you go to his centuries old countryside manor. The land was gifted to him in the 14th century during the Hundred Years War in Suffolk. Perfectly isolated. He’s owned homes and land before, mind you, but this was his first private manor that he’s built upon and had full control over.

The clutter did get out of control during his early archaeology days and he’s been very carefully going through things so they go to the proper place. He has returned things and is trying to make amends.

Some rooms, not all, have those ugly, Victorian wallpaper ceilings.

It’s a hodgepodge of just, so many different eras.

You never know what you’re going to find when you open just about anything. Books? He uses just about whatever was near him at the time as a bookmark. Drawer? Funeral lockets from his children and lovers. Some things haven’t been touched in ages and look like they’ll fall apart if you do so much as breath on them.

There are a lot of rooms here and each one of them of themed to his design. The rooms his children lived in still very much reflect that they were once a part of his home.

Used to throw very elaborate parties here as well as a funeral or five.

Please be careful because this house is not child friendly. All of his weapons and armor are proudly on display in the halls.

There’s little projects scattered around the house that you’ll find pieces of.

This is the house that has the majority of his more precious items. Between the first Great Fire of London and the Blitz, he moved whatever he could fit in that home.

His third home I’ll mention is a smaller cottage in the North Midlands. It’s simple, really meant for one or two people at the most. This is his get away from it all. 

Stunning garden and his absolute pride and joy. The fae watch over this one since he’s unable to tend to it most of the year. They get to reside in the home and take care of it even when he’s present.

Least modernized than a majority of his homes. Still has electricity and running water but no television for example.

The Victorian era really defined what his home would be like going forward. Of course, things were deadly so in his newer versions of the home, the authentic arsenic soaked wallpaper has been replaced with replicas.

[itsskoll]

Personal hopes for Scarlet/Violet

-Changing modes/forms for the legendaries is automatic (depends on if there��s fall damage?) once you unlock them

-However they’ve changing the breeding mechanic (heard its different but idk how?) to make it so eggs are automatically collected/you can carry them separate? (Currently masuda method hunting n its annoying to have to switch out eggs n newly hatched failures)

-Keep the boxes like in PLA with mass releasing. Some kind of autosort system and being able to grab every pokemon of a specific type/mark/special label

-Overworld shinies PLEASE I CANNOT GO BACK TO SWSH STYLE HUNTING AFTER PLA

-I’m fine with being colour coded if we can variant the colour past the normal orange/purple. Give us some shades

-A better refresh system for raids. Nothing is more annoying then having the same 4 full/ended raids stuck on your stamps and not being able to refresh

-If smth liek raid adventures come back, to have a system where it hooks you up with people with similar goals (why do you assholes keep going for types that aren’t advantageous to the legendaryyy)

-linking cable and not needing trade for evos please

-kinda dumb but bring back ball capsule effects. for me please hsksk

-Similarly, LET US SWITCH THE BALL THE POKEMON IS IN. IT’S HAPPENED IN THE ANIME

-dont shiny lock the starters. the legends I can understand but why the starters

-also i hope pawmi isn’t an ugly shiny

[liebste-kleine-dame]

wilde jagd

Pairing: Enji Todoroki x Reader

Relationship: F/M

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: Implied kidnapping

Notes: Reader is in her 40s, to avoid any confusion

Tags: @mulier-indomita​

My entry for the bnharem Mythology & Folklore collab! Please check out all the other entries here!

I had some troubles with this piece, so constructive criticism is very welcome.

I picked something I grew up with: The Wild Hunt. My grandma really stuck to some things in this fic (no laundry during Twelvetide, no card games) - that said, this fic is set in middle Europe, because that’s where these customs are from. I hope it creeps you out a little, I love the days between Christmas and Epiphany a lot, they’re really timeless and weird!

The house is so quiet.

It’s like your childhood home lays dormant, buried under a thick blanket of snow, no fire to warm the old halls of the farmhouse, no busy hands to stir the pot that still sits on the stove. There isn’t even any dust on the dining table. The Jesus figurine that lords over the kitchen stares sadly into thick darkness, the shutters unopened for months.

What had been the bustling centre of your childhood once, filled with your parents, your brother, your aunts and uncles and all of your cousins every Sunday after church is now an empty husk full of stale air and sadness. The traces of your mother’s perfume (the terribly old-smelling eau de cologne¹ you had always hated, even after you had grown into an adult) still linger in the sheets of your parents’ bed, both sides tucked in neatly as if they’d return soon for a rest. Your cousin had suggested you sleep there, underneath scratchy sheets your mother had gotten as a dowry more than forty years ago, where she died in her sleep just a few weeks back.

Just the thought makes your eyes water.

You can’t resist but trace her childish face with your finger, those familiar eyes beaming up at you. 

Losing your mother has been the hardest thing in your life so far. Now that she and your father are gone, you and your brother are all alone. And although you’re a fully grown adult with your own apartment, a thriving career and great social life, you suddenly feel like a little child again. Sad and lonely.

It’s a strange feeling - to have no one to turn to, to be fully on your own now.

After her funeral, you and your brother had tried to reach an agreement regarding the house - an old, ugly thing in a village no one really wanted to live in. But it is your childhood home nonetheless - while neither of you was willing to move here, it is hard to let it go, to have someone buy up the property and bulldoze it to the ground.

You hadn’t been able to set a foot on the premises, the wound still too fresh, the pain too great. Now that it is December you don’t even feel a bit better, but the house calls to you with promises of snowy memories and familiar faces, with roast and a christmas tree from the yard. And so you had packed your bags on the 21st, to reminisce with your family,  to check up on the house and to heal.

It isn’t easy to be here, but wandering the halls and indulging in memories is weirdly cathartic. The old TV in the living room that is at least twenty years old, the odd porcelain figurines you had always admired as a child, the creaky stairs leading up to the attic… It’s as though every little thing sparks something in you. But the centerpiece of your memories is your old room.

It’s a weird mix of a storage room and time capsule. While none of your little knick-knacks you had accumulated during your child and teen years remain (either thrown away or safely tucked into a box at your apartment), your old furniture is still here. A couple of boxes are stowed away under your old desk, probably holiday decorations your mother loved to collect. Only a couple of framed photos sit on a dresser, you and your friends, you and your family and your cousins. Your mother had loved them too much for you to take them with you, so they watched over your room instead.

On top of your nightstand sits another picture, framed by green lacquered wood and with the colors so washed out it looks like it has been taken in shades of blue. You and your cousin, smiling and dressed in heavy winter clothes, standing somewhere in your yard, a sled right next to you.

You don’t need to check the back of the picture for the exact date: December 25th, 29 years ago. A day that has been branded into your soul, one of those defining childhood experiences that turned your whole life around.

Oh, your mother would be so mad. You’d probably be barred from reading the nice books she had gotten you for Christmas, but you were already too far down the beaten path, stumbling behind your excited cousin. You wordlessly followed her deeper into the woods, your little beechwood sled bumping along with every stone and wobble you stepped over.

The memory still haunts you. She was barely two years older than you, bored out of her mind during the long, eery days between Christmas Eve and Epiphany. As a whimpy pre-teen, you had felt the same but were still too shy to do anything adventurous on your own, so you stuck to her like glue.

She had been reading too many old books from the tiny library one village over, had gotten her head an inch too far into old fairy- and folktales and you as her baby cousin were the perfect chaperone, starry-eyed and naive.

With your sled in tow, the two of you had ventured out under the disguise of simply playing outside for a while.

The plan was to wait out until midnight, down by one of the crossings deep within the forest. According to a book she had read, girls could watch their future lovers pass by during the night of Twelvetide - but they couldn’t talk to them or watch them leave, or else he’d die an unruly death. As a child, this all sent shivers down your spine. You were torn between childish superstitions and a genuine trust in the supernatural, but when the twilight settled over the snowy landscape you damn well believed it. 

During the day, you knew the land well enough from the numerous times you had either spent exploring or hunting for mushrooms in the fall. But at night it was a whole other beast.

With the sun going down barren trees turned into imposing pillars of black ink, blocking your view of the starry sky. Every rustle and noise made you turn your head in fear, every motion in the underbrush had you inching closer to your cousin.

You got to the crossing way before midnight, with no soul in sight. It was just you, her and the waning light. Clinging to her hand as if it was a life or death situation, you stood right next to her, looking down the path to your left with bated breath and a racing heart.

The cold barely got to you, too full of adrenaline and worry. There was a rustle in the trees, their dark and the long branches clinked together from the force of the brisk winter winds. You didn’t dare to speak a single word, too afraid that something might hear you.

The hours leading up to midnight are a blur to you now, years later, but back then felt like an eternity. Sometime in between staring into the darkness and holding your cousin’s hand in an iron grip, your legs had given up and you had to sit on the hard wood of your sled instead, arms curled around your body in an attempt at soothing yourself.

A couple of heartbeats passed when it suddenly became eerily quiet around you.

Your cousin was gone. 

 One moment she stood next to you and the next she was gone, with no trace to be found.

Your heart jumped in your throat as you fell off the sled in your panic, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of her. The trees stood silently and dark on the gleaming snow, but there was no sign of her and her cherry red wool coat. No call of her name was met with an answer and no matter how many times you strained your eyes, there wasn’t a single footprint indicating which direction she might have gone.

The tears wouldn’t stop falling, no matter how hard you tried to gather yourself. You knew you had messed up badly and that you could be dead by the morning as a consequence. Nothing a child wanted to face.

It was all too much suddenly - the scary atmosphere, your tired mind and now your missing cousin. At twelve years old, there was nothing else on your mind other than falling to your knees and weeping your heart out.

For a moment you feared for your life - a justified fear, you’d known years later - all alone in freezing temperatures, in the dead of night, a head full of scary folktales. 

 But through your helpless sniveling, something else ran through the woods. Something that didn’t bode well at all. 

The scraping sound of hoofs galloping over frozen ground and the snorts of several horses echoed through the skeletal trees, moving into your direction at an alarming speed.

With them came an overbearing sense of dread that rolled over the land like a grey stormfront, the hollering of men and animals alike so loud you felt as though your head was about to burst. You tried to look around, to see whatever it was that pushed through the dark like a deranged hunting party, but you couldn’t even lift your head up anymore.

It felt like someone held your neck down with cold, clammy hands and you did nothing but stare at the ground with unshed tears in your eyes, praying for all of this to finally stop, to wake up and for this to be a nightmare.

When the ghostly cheering and shouting passed over your head the noise and dread came to a sickening crescendo, accompanied by your now loud, open wailing for anyone who could help. No one came.

The party moved forward with no regard for your presence, leaving you to bawl into your mittens. Although you could tell they had left, there was still an odd pressure close to you, akin to a ghost.

There was someone walking on the path. 

 Your sobs came to a grinding halt, reduced to hiccups instead.

You wanted to call out to them, but the strange pressure kept your mouth shut. So you sat with your knees in frozen dirt while you clutched the front of your coat for support, carefully peeking up to at least catch a glimpse of them.

It was a boy.

He was about your age, about the same height as you and even through the moonlight you could tell he had deep red hair. Bundled up in a dark coat, he almost floated down the path, taking the odd pressure with him.

He didn’t even spare you a glance as he stoically stared into the distance as though you two were passing each other on a busy street and not at midnight, all alone in a grotesque forest.

You didn’t dare to look at his face too hard, too stunned and too afraid to look closer, in fear of what might linger behind the harmless surface. Your cousin’s warnings played through your head, urging you to turn away, to run until you were back home.

You wanted to leave, but it was like his mere presence kept you in place. Although that eerie pressure was fading with each of his steps, he still commanded your attention.

You didn’t see him leave, but you knew when he was gone.

With him no longer present, the sounds of the forest returned with full force. Somewhere in the darkness a deer sprung back into the brush and the soft crowing of a magpie coaxed you out of your shell-shocked state. You were all alone again, having just experienced one of the scariest things of your whole life. 

When the magpie’s calls stopped, you broke down sobbing until you ran out of energy and simply rocked back and forth next to your little sled.

In the end, it was your uncle who pulled you out of the bushes, cold and shivering, your eyes wide open full of terror. They found your cousin just a few hundred meters away, lips blue and eyes closed as though she was sleeping, barely alive.

You both were terribly sick afterwards, her more so than you. Where you had a bad case of the flu, she developed pneumonia.

Your parents didn’t even scold you for your stupid adventure turned disaster. They were too afraid of your fever dreams and your manic babbling about death, horses and boys with red hair. 

You woke up your neighbors during your late 20s and early 30s with your chokes and screams from time to time, unable to remember what had happened but unable to shake that terrible sense of dread. You chalked it up to your pre-pubescent trauma - just like the memories, they grew weaker with age, but the oppressive sense of panic you felt as soon as the sun set during Twelvetide never really disappeared.

You could barely remember your sickness after it passed, but you saw how bad it had been on your mother’s face for weeks afterwards. You weren’t allowed to go outside without any supervision until the snowdrops slowly rose their heads above the thick snow and the sun made it sparkle like a million tiny stars until it melted away, leaving a cool March in its wake.

His dark, red hair has haunted you ever since then. It was around every corner, in every crowd, always in your field of vision, but always just out of reach. It was maddening.

You never met the mysterious man - part of you was glad you didn’t, part of you obsessed over your vision. As a teenager you had bought into the notion that he was the one, but over the course of your 20s you grew out of it. As your memory of that night became fuzzier and weaker, so did the sightings of his red hair. You still caught that familiar flash of red from time to time - when you were overtired and alone somewhere in the city or when you went on jogs in the early morning, when the sun barely kissed the horizon.

But the dreams persisted and oddly enough, he grew with you. Each year until you turned twenty he seemed to grow a bit, until he was a hulking mass of a man, still as scary as he had been to you at twelve.

When your cousin died four years ago, too soon at age 40, after a horrible fight with cancer, the dreams had started to be memorable again. You thought about her often and about that night so, so many years ago.

It was like a plug was pulled back then and he was back on your mind after all these years.

Maybe it was one of the reasons why you had decided to spend one last Christmas in your childhood home -  a fruitless hope for a cure, to get back to the root of it all.

 You spend the days leading up to Christmas helping your aunt with last-minute errands and your cousin with his animals. It’s odd to aid with farm work again after a solid twenty years of city-living, but you find yourself back in a rhythm surprisingly fast.

Your aunt and her eldest son welcome you with open arms on Christmas Eve², her smile as warm as if her sister hadn’t just died a couple of weeks ago. The evening is benign enough, full of talk of the past and present and you find yourself healing a little bit with the kitschy music and warm roast, topped off with little presents and spiced wine.

There is something in the air after that night, something you can’t quite grasp. It’s like the night tastes different when you prop up your windows to gaze into the inky darkness. It makes the hairs at the back of your neck stand up as though you’re being watched from the outside - and not by a guardian angel.

To counteract the bad feeling in your gut, you burn a little incense in old clay pots, as it is custom during every night of Twelvetide. The smell of juniper mixed with the warmth of the coal, both perched on top of silica sand, flows freely through the room, almost instantly calming your frayed nerves.

You’ll have to cleanse the whole house in the upcoming days as well, but now you’re too tired to burn juniper, valerian and sage in every room of the house while every window and door open and you blow the fumes into every corner, every nook and cranny.

With your little apartment back in the city, the cleansings of Twelvetide are not too much work, but the old farmhouse of your parents is convoluted, with a large cellar too. You’d tackle it tomorrow, after a long night of sleep.

Rest doesn’t come easy to you and when it does, you’re back in that damned forest. Something is different - the air is thick with tension as though there are a million eyes watching you as you stand around helplessly in your night clothes, waiting on that familiar silhouette to pass by.

It’s his eyes. You can see them for the first time in thirty years.

They’re blue, almost cyan even as they shine through the darkness - but there is no warmth there, just hardness.

Your breath is stuck in your throat when they turn to you, and with them his whole attention shifts.

His presence is oppressive, that familiar pressure from so long ago surrounds you like you’re submerged in it. It has gotten stronger and uglier, so raw it almost hurts to breathe the very air around you.

Your ears are filled with cotton balls as he simply stares down at you, his expression oddly solemn as if this is a goodbye, as if he has known you for years. You want to ask him questions - so many, but your brain is racing with confusion and excitement and the seconds pass wordlessly between you.

When your mouth finally opens he has already turned his back to you.

The air is so cold around you. You try to move through the sludge of snow and dirt, but it’s as though someone has tied weights around your ankles.

“Wait!”, you try to say, but your voice is muffled. “Wait up!”

It’s all in vain. His steps are fast and he disappears into the darkness again.

A gust of wind carries his stoic voice to you. “We’ll meet each other soon.”

And then he’s gone and you’re all alone again in ghostly hues of blue.

You wake up with a startle, slick with sweat and still incredibly cold. The window is wide open, the white curtains swirling with the cold winter air, giving them the appearance of ghostly schemes dancing in your bedroom. Your little clay pot has gone cold for hours, but the lingering scent of juniper seems to cling to you.

There’s a sheer layer of snow glistening on the floor and you curse yourself for your carelessness.

You’re up in an instant, although the cold almost hurts against your skin, trying to save the wooden boards from any lasting damage.

There is no more sleep afterwards, with the clock already at five in the morning and your mind in shambles.

Bundled up in a cozy sweater and heating up some water for a pour over coffee, your thoughts race through your head at alarming speeds.

It’s unsettling that your mind has decided to give the stranger a face now of all times, after you’d been searching for him for more than thirty years. You don’t know if it’s because you're back home, so close to the place where your near death experience had happened, or if it’s truly Twelvetide and its spirits that are messing with your head.

You want it to be a coincidence so bad, to go back to bed and forget all about it until you’re well-rested and fresh-faced, but deep down you can tell it isn’t.

That little voice of doubt flutters through your gut and you suddenly feel like the stupid little pre-teen again, too scared to move.

“We’ll meet each other soon.”

His words were so foreboding, so terrifying. 

The rest of the day is a blur as you try to forget your dream, opting to cleanse the whole house with valerian instead. Sometime during the afternoon your aunt calls again to check up on you and make smalltalk until she’s satisfied.

The night comes quicker than you’d like. You fill another clay pot with sand and place juniper on top of the smoldering coal, intent on driving out even the smallest spirit hiding somewhere in your room as you get ready to go to bed.

But even with the incense spreading its calming scent everywhere, you still can’t find yourself at peace. Instead you stare restlessly at the clock, counting the second until midnight.

 They’re already too close to your room, until there’s nothing more than thin wood separating you from the invader. There are three sharp knocks at the door, but you can’t even move your head. A breathless croak is all that leaves your lips as you wheeze and heave with the pain.

Twelvetide nights always feel like they’re beyond time and space, but the sensation currently pressing against your ribs is foreign even to you.

It starts out as throbbing just beneath your left collarbone, too high to come from your heart. Switching from laying on your side to resting on your back doesn’t help, so you count the seconds while you try to breathe into it.

No luck. With every swell of lungs the pounding seems to swell until it borders on painful. Even mellowing out your breathing doesn’t make it go away.

Instead, it starts to sting even worse and creeps further down your ribcage - your mind flits to a heart attack, but are those really the signs? Your cellphone is charging in the kitchen, a mile away it seems. Still, you have to try to get it before your condition gets worse.

Coughing, sputtering, you attempt to sit up, but there is something holding you down.

That familiar pressure.

Your eyes widen in panic and you lose control over yourself for a terrifying moment. This isn’t a dream. You’re wide awake, gasping for air in your old bed, not able to call for help.

You’re just as helpless as you were back then and just like that day, this is all painfully real. You want to cry, to scream, to at least fight against whatever is happening to you, but the pain simply crashes over with full force. Somewhere in the distance, the familiar sound of hooves and shouting reaches your ears as you sob quietly, covered in cold sweat, terrified of not even being able to avert your eyes from the evil that is searching for you.

Pictures of your cousin, your parents and your brother come to your mind and beg and plead with every deity there is for salvation.

It’s already too late when you hear the steps.

But you know. 

 You know who is waiting just a few steps from your bed, the bear of a man who has finally found a way to get to you, with his blazing eyes and impassive face.

He’s here to take you.

¹ Eau de Cologne - My grandma wore this all the time and good lord, it’s old people in a bottle

² German Christmas is celebrated on the evening of the 24th, not the morning of the 25th. The 25th and 26th are national holidays where you usually go out to visit relatives. You can imagine my confusion as a child when we watched American Christmas movies, haha

[woeisme-iamwoe]

an absolutely massive Haikyuu!! fic rec pt. 2

IwaOi this time around. My favorite ship. The world’s favorite ship...there’s so many

Undecipherable, by ioo (4k. G. canonverse)

 I’m pretty sure the author meant ‘indecipherable’, nevertheless! I am appalled that this work doesnt have more hits. Y'all are sleeping on it and that's not okay. 

The sound of the door slamming against the wall has Hajime startling back to the present. He looks at the source of the disturbance and finds himself face to face with Oikawa, red in the face with breathlessness and a leather-bound notebook tightly clutched in both of this hands. When he spots Hajime, he makes a beeline for the bench and slaps it down right next to him.

"Koi no yokan," he says. "The sense one can have upon first meeting a person that the two of you are going to fall in love."

 primavera, by tothemoon (8k. T. canonverse)

All of tothemoon’s works read so beautifully 

They say it takes twenty-six years, for certain breeds to fully bloom. 

Learning to Walk (So That We Can Run), by ricekrispyjoints (27k. M. canon-divergence)

I've read this work so many times. Like, so many times and I’ve never tired from it. Gorgeous. The shift from friendship to romance felt so natural, love it. 

"I'm not healing like I should be."

In his second year of university, physical therapy just isn't cutting it. Oikawa's knee is getting worse, and he can't hide it anymore.

Or: the light angst, project-your-own-life-experiences-on-Oikawa knee surgery fic you didn't know you wanted.

 Priorities, by weirdmilk (2k. T. canonverse)

Kissy, kissy. 

‘I just -’ Oikawa begins, ‘it might be difficult to get married, sometimes, I think.’ He chews on his lip.

Iwaizumi makes a questioning noise.

‘Ah,’ Oikawa says, and then, in a rush, ‘if I didn't want a wife at all - what then? If I said that to you. If I told you I can’t see it. Like - the wedding dress. The bride. I just can’t see it.’

Iwaizumi swallows again, his heart beating much faster than the conversation warrants. He wonders whether Oikawa can hear it. ‘You’re eighteen. You aren’t supposed to see it yet.’ He snorts. ‘I mean - if we’re sharing shit, I’ve never even kissed a girl.’ He doesn’t mind admitting it. It’s not something that bothers him - he’s never prioritised girls very highly, and despite Oikawa’s largely undeserved status as Miyagi’s most eligible teenage bachelor, he doesn’t think Oikawa has ever wanted a serious relationship with any of his fan club, either.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi can't sleep before their first practice match with Karasuno.

 Before Midnight, by fathomfive (2k. G. canonverse)

Reads like a fairytale. 

The sky turns, the seasons turn over, and Iwaizumi and Oikawa track the movements of the stars. Nothing is ever quite constant, but it's close enough.

The grass is stiff with frost. They walk in silence past the raked-over vegetable garden and up the back hill, footsteps crackling, and stand side-by-side at the top of an incline that used to seem much bigger. Iwaizumi glances over but Oikawa’s already gone, eyes searching the sky with no hint of hurry, just a kind of reverent patience.

 make a bet, keep a promise, by raewrites (13k. M. canonverse)

Bet still on. 

Sometimes, in still moments, Iwaizumi wonders why out of all the people on earth he ended up with Oikawa Tooru. Why it’s his face that lingers on his fading conscious in the last moments before he falls asleep, in the first blurry seconds upon waking up again. Why when he looks to his side, he expects Oikawa to be there in the same way he expects to see five fingers on both hands, a natural extension of himself, ever present.

Why he can’t imagine a future without Oikawa in it.

It begins with a bet made between the two boys in the mid-summer of their eighth year. It starts with volleyball, but like with most things involving Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime, things are never quite that simple.

 our hearts still beat the same, by knightswatch  

 two birds, by thelittlebirdthattoldyou (5k. T. canonverse)

Of heartbreaking letters and paper crane wishes. 

Five months into the term, two months after he’s stopped replying to Oikawa’s texts, the first package arrives. A small square box, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, and Hajime almost trips over it on the way to his dorm.

There’s a letter attached.

Oikawa doesn’t know how many times he’ll have to put his feelings down on paper before Iwaizumi believes them. 

Through My Eyes, by anchoringsouls (2k. G. canonverse)

Okay! Okay, we were doing great with the soft, happy love up until the last part! That's great, just great!

“I think if you ever saw yourself through my eyes, you would fall in love with yourself the same way the way I did with you.” 

in time it could be ours, by deusreks (3k. T. canonverse)

Anyone wanna go back in time and make a time capsule with me only to dig it up years later and we’re actually in love?

Set post Seijou's match with Karasuno. There's a moderate amount of rolling in the dirt. No pajamas were hurt in the writing of this fic.

There, in their joint backyard, was Oikawa Tooru, clad in his silly luminescent space pajamas, digging a hole near a cherry tree.

“What the hell, Oikawa.”

Tooru stubbornly continued digging. He looked pitiful in that moment; everything that was grand about him in daylight was meaningless in the darkness. He was only a boy with a shovel whose broken heart mirrored Hajime’s own.

 we can do better than that, by spaceburgers (16k. M. canonverse)

Of course, of course, the IwaOi road trip fic. AnD thErE wAs ONly OnE bED!

Oikawa and Iwaizumi go on a road trip during the summer after their high school graduation. It doesn't go as expected, but maybe that's not such a bad thing after all. 

They Say it Rains Diamonds on Jupiter, by exsao (35k. T. canonverse)

I don't know, just gorgeous. Hajime’s so in love. 

"You're in love with him."

Hajime considers denying it. He considers deliberately choking on his drink to express surprise, to create a distraction by spitting onto the man in front of him's pristine white shirt and causing a commotion. Instead, he swallows his mouthful of soda and heaves a small sigh once his mouth is free.

"Yeah," he says instead.

He's never been good at lying, anyway.

 Midnight boys/sunset town, by carafin (10k words. T. Housemates AU):

The author says they played off of the fact that Oikawa oftentimes forgoes his sleep in order to work, and wrote it so that he doesn't sleep at all. This was so cute, kinda sad, mostly not. Love how Iwaizumi just goes along with whatever crazy stilch Oikawa is on. 

In which Iwaizumi Hajime grows a few chili plants, participates in an eating contest, breaks into a park, and falls in love with a man who doesn't ever sleep - not exactly in that order.

5 Reasons Why Iwaizumi Hajime's Flatmate Is A Complete Weirdo (An Incomplete List)

1. He's obsessed with that stupid bucket list of his.

2. He's the proud owner of seven truly ugly, criminally hideous movie posters with aliens on them, which he insists on pasting all over the damn living room.

3. He's always stealing Hajime's sweatshirts.

4. Sometimes, he wakes Hajime up for breakfast. At 5AM. On Saturday mornings.

5. He literally never, ever sleeps.

 The Best I Ever Had, by FindingSchmomo (62k words. T. Canon-divergent):

You’ve read it, your mum’s read it, your dog has probably read it (you really need to take facial recognition for him off your phone, he’s got some weird nighttime habits). So basically this fic caused me physical pain and then pumped me full of morphine and now I’m good! Beautiful read, hated Oikawa for a while, Iwaizumi is the only boy I would ever feel safe alone with. 

A story of separation and time lost. Oikawa and Iwaizumi lose contact, and life goes on. Now, a decade later and back in Japan, Oikawa wonders if he can pick the pieces back together, despite knowing Iwaizumi has moved on. A story of their past, present and future, pieced together by shaky hands.

 darlin', your head's not on right, by aruariandance (13k words. T. canonverse)

Again, I’m pretty sure anybody who's anybody has read this fic and for good reason! Super sweet realizing you're in love fic. Makes me reconsider wanting to get married. 

'“Our wedding,” Oikawa says by way of explanation, tapping his finger against his magazine more emphatically. “What colors should we use? Color scheme is important, apparently.”

Iwaizumi feels his lifespan shortening.

“I was thinking our Aoba johsai colors to go for more, you know, softer tones? Besides, I’ve always looked great in that sea foam green color. Oh, and I guess you look decent in it, too.” He grins, saccharine sweet, and Iwaizumi has never been so tempted to knock one of his perfect pearly white teeth right out of his stupid mouth."

or,

Oikawa teases Iwaizumi about a childhood promise he made to marry him when they were older, except suddenly it's not really a joke at all.

 the courtship ritual of the hercules beetle, by kittebasu (66k. T. canon divergent)

Is this one of the most famous Iwaoi fic? I don’t know. Looks like it, I know it's my personal favorite. Where Oikawa studies bugs for a living and can’t seem to come to terms with his feelings. Very angsty, love that in a fic. 

Tooru is pretty sure he could manage the mating habits of a mosquito. It’s the mating habits of people he can’t seem to get right.

 Terrarium, by sausaged (11k. T. Post-canon)

Honestly, I’m so surprised this fic doesnt have more hits! It’s so good! Made me ache! I love the memories and character growth shown through the growing of the terrarium, absolutely adore that kind of symbolism. So beautiful, give it some love because it's one of my absolute favorites. 

He's practically a professional at being proactive (lies, lies, and lies when it comes to Iwaizumi).

At this point, is he really happy with just staying best friends forever? Will he be writing journals and collecting rocks forever (he will, he knows, but that is aside from the point)?

Can he really tag his Instagram photos with #YOLO if he doesn't actually put that phrase into practice?

 A story about Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime, plants, and rocks.

 Lips like sugar, by ohhotlamb (8k. T. canonverse)

Why did my childhood best friend never offer to help me practice kissing only for us to realize we were only interested in each other? I had a fake high school experience. 

Hajime is offered to learn the art of kissing from a true professional, one Oikawa Tooru. It's not as bad as he thought it would be.

 Falling Slowly, by bravely (commovente) (3k. T. canonverse)

So special, imagine loving one person, and one person only like this for the entirety of your life. This is getting too sappy, I want off of this ride. 

over the years, some things change; but over the years, some things stay mostly the same.

(alternatively, mornings with oikawa and iwaizumi over the years).

 No sleep in the city, by loveclouds (7k. T. canonverse)

Mass/volume = Iwaizumi, apparently. (Please. If anyone gets this absolutely horrific joke, lets elope).

Along their journey to find Tokyo's best ramen, Iwaizumi finds himself asked again and again why Oikawa is still single.

 Time, by surveycorpsjean (5k. E. canonverse)

Growing older together. 

When they're twenty-three, their story only begins.

 Everything With You, by Ellessey (14k. E. canonverse)

Came damn near to crying, you can just feel Iwaizumi’s pain. Fight scene was probably the most emotion evoking one I’ve read in a long while. 

‘Hajime still loves Oikawa, but he understands now. Oikawa can't look at him and see someone he could potentially date.

And that makes it easier to not focus on the little things that used to drive him crazy—Oikawa's long legs, the way he's always hanging off of Hajime, how his whole face changes when he gets ready for a jump serve, and he looks like he could take on the entire world and win.

This new arrangement though, this living together situation, is presenting a new set of variables that must be adjusted to, and the nakedness is one of them.’

--

For years, being Oikawa’s best friend has worked out fine. Hajime is hopelessly in love with him, but it’s enough. Then Oikawa—who, by all accounts, has never been anything but determinedly, assuredly straight—gets a boyfriend. Or a boy friend-with-benefits. Hajime doesn’t know, and he doesn’t give a shit about the definition.

What he knows is that remaining best friends is starting to seem a bit too painful (way too painful) to be considered a solid option.

 The Best Best, by rikke (12k. T. canonverse/future fic)

Takeru is a whole mood. Don’t want kids, but I do want domesticity and this fic feeds me well.

“Congratulations, Iwa-chan! You’re a dad!” Iwaizumi hears as soon as the door opens. He’s dealt with Oikawa for all of his twenty-one years of age now, but this declaration is still sufficiently disturbing enough that he turns from his place on the couch and braces himself for whatever Oikawa has done this time.

 Or the one where Iwaizumi and Oikawa babysit Takeru for a week.

 cheek kisses, by ohhotlamb (G. 3k. Future fic)

Sooo cute!! 

“Every time,” Hajime murmurs, “every time I see you again I remember how fuckin’ crazy I am about you.”

 Routine, by snoqualmie  (2k. T. canonverse)

Again, anyone wanna be my childhood best friend so we can put face masks on each other and fall in love? I died, truly. 

Iwaizumi is fourteen years old, horny too often and angry all the time, and he’s just starting to notice that Tooru’s legs are really long, that his lips are kinda soft looking, and his fingers feel good pressed under his jaw.

 Thirty Years and Change (the Games of the XXXIII Olympiad, by sunsmasher (19k. G. canon divergence)

Be wary, I would give this fic an upper rating to probably Teen and the follow-up fic is Explicit. But, Oikawa on the Japanese national team is just a dream as is, but add in a rekindling friendship and an angsty make out sesh? Mwah, delizioso. 

It’s July 10th, 2024, and Oikawa Tooru is an Olympian. His smiling face airs on an NHK promo every 45 seconds. He’s captain of the national men’s volleyball team, reigning star of the professional leagues, and he hasn't spoken to Iwaizumi Hajime in two years.

He has, however, sent Iwaizumi tickets for the 2024 Los Angeles Summer Games.

“So go,” says Matsukawa's voice. “It’s only a few weeks. You’ve got a whole city to hide in if it gets awkward, and if it doesn’t get awkward, well…”

It’s like watching the future reconfigure, like being in high school again, watching team after team fall to Oikawa’s faultless planning and shameless charm.

“I’ll get to watch a whole lot of volleyball,” Hajime says, and resigns himself to fate and/or Oikawa Tooru.

“Hey, when you get there, can you bag a gymnast for me?” Hanamaki asks, and Matsukawa squawks.

 Chasing Paper Suns, by carafin (10k. T. Future fic)

Again with the growing up and coming back together, this time with more angst than the last. Lovely, really lovely read. 

Post-high school, Oikawa makes it to the national volleyball team but Iwaizumi doesn't. The next three years become an exercise in growing up without growing apart.

Some days Hajime likes to think of himself as Oikawa’s counterpart—the two of them blending into a single devastating unit, the invincible setter and his unyielding ace, the bond between them unbreakable and true. Other days he feels like he is chasing after a rising sun, always running and running with his eyes fixed on the distance, trying to cross a chasm that stretches on without end, caught in an endless and exhausting pursuit.

 the yellow room, by ohhotlamb (14k. T. canonverse/future fic)

Makki and Mattsun see bullshit and call you out on your bullshit. 

“I told you, we broke up like six months ago. We’re not dating anymore.”

Hanamaki eyes him suspiciously. “You live together.”

“Yeah, so?”

“There are pictures of you two kissing stuck to your refrigerator.”

Hajime shrugs. “That wasn’t my idea. Anyways, they’re good pictures. Good lighting.”

 the river runs, by tothemoon (11k. T. post-breakup)

My heart ACHES. Happy ending, promise! Just read it. 

One year since their breakup, Oikawa Tooru starts a list of daily reminders, tips, and tricks called HOW TO FORGET ABOUT IWAIZUMI HAJIME, and he’s determined to make it stick.

—

This is a firsthand account of how to deal (and rather spectacularly, at that).

 I sure hope that guy gets fired, by Xov (29k. T. canonverse/time loop au)

The only thing better than one confession, is MULTIPLE confessions. Oikawa trusts Iwaizumi unshakably, and that's beautiful. 

It was the fourth time experiencing the exact same day that Iwaizumi Hajime reluctantly admitted to himself that something was very wrong. 

 my only friend was the man in the moon (until i met you), by ohhotlamb (7k. T. canonverse)

Just so innocent and sweet. Oikawa said ‘effort’.

In which Oikawa has a life-altering revelation, and Hajime is starting to think it involves him.  

 Bet On It, by originalblue (13k. E. canonverse)

Tooru being nice for a week? That can only end one way… with a d*ck in Hajime’s mouth. 

Hajime knows exactly how shitty Oikawa's personality is, and has no scruples whatsover about betting Oikawa six thousand yen that he can't be nice for an entire week. 

 especially for tender ones like us, by viverella (17k. T. canonverse/post break-up)

Gods! See? See what I mean? How could I forget about a work as heart wrenchingly beautiful as this? Give it some love, actually, all of the love. 

The worst part of it all, Tooru thinks to himself sometimes, is that even as they fought and kicked and screamed and tore each other to shreds, it was never that Tooru stopped loving Iwaizumi any less. The worst part of it all, he thinks, is that loving Iwaizumi turned out to not be enough.

(OR: on finding the right person at the wrong time and learning how to pick up the pieces)

 sunset town, by skiecas (33k. T. canon-divergent)

Another work that I just CANNOT understand why it doesn't have more hits. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. I almost cried. 

In the summer of 2020, Oikawa Tooru returns home from his first successful stint as captain of Japan’s national volleyball team. In one hand, he holds the undisputed weight of an Olympic medal, and in the other, his unresolved feelings for a childhood best friend.

Two years down the road, reconciling his lifelong dream with his lifelong love proves to be the greatest challenge.

 of odd numbers and intimate regrets, by bravely (commovente) (5k. T. post-canon/one night stand au)

Basically, Tooru and Hajime sleep together after not speaking for seven years and of course there’s feelings and angst and a belated chance at happiness and a life together. 

Tooru’s spent the last seven years of his life in a carefully constructed schedule that is, he realises now, as much a habit as it was a way to forget about the person in front of him.

[or, the one night stand AU between two people more than friends but not quite lovers, measuring the passage of time in distance and long-gone memories, the expansion and contraction of the spaces between their fingers each time.]

 cross my heart, open wide, by acchikocchi (7k. T. canonverse)

Super cute, super short. Realizing you're on a date with the wrong person one-shot. 

For a minute Hajime doesn't know what to say. Everything and nothing crowds his mind, leaving no room to think. That he's never tried this. That volleyball's over. That he's graduating in five months. That it would be really nice, at least once, to go on a date with a good-looking guy.

 Hajime goes on a date. It's not with Oikawa. 

 Fernweh, by oikawashoyo (19k. G. canonverse/post time skip)

A mature(ish) Tooru?? I love works that show Tooru growing and living happily in Argentina and this one is just beautiful. (Plus! Plus, Skai did a piece on it as well and I love ALL their work so you can visualize everything). Love it. 

Argentina is stretching out before him, an opportunity, a challenge. He is reminded of his losses, his insecurities, his disappointments; sees them form a tall, tall wall blocking his path to success. He takes a deep breath and knows he is going to shatter it.

In which Oikawa's whole life is spent longing for the horizon — in the form of a dream, a home, and a boy.

 i breathe easily in your arms, by orphan_account (2k. M. canonverse)

Soft, soft sex

When, after completing their high school graduation ceremony and heading home to enjoy their freedom, Oikawa had pulled him into his room and pressed his lips hesitantly against Iwaizumi’s own, it seemed an inevitable development in the unfolding narrative of their shared existence.

Despite years of having a bed to himself, the sensation of another body taking up space in his sheets, curling against his chest, creating warmth, feels natural in much the same way.

 old and new, by Mysecretfanmoments (5k. T. canon divergence)

Finally a fic where they don't freak out on confession and it's sweet. 

“You seem—sad.” Was that the right word? Others sprang to mind: desperate, lonely, anxious.

Tooru looked away. “Are you going to make me say it?”

“Say what?”

Tooru folded his arms, sighed. “I missed you, of course.”

Hajime swallowed.

“No need to look that way. I told you, I’m not one of your macho man buddies. I’m allowed to say stuff like that without being embarrassed—”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Hajime complained. “No need to be so defensive. I’ve missed you too.”

“Oh?” Tooru seemed to get a little of his own back, leaning forward on his elbows. “What about me did you miss?”

((Going to separate universities, Hajime and Tooru learn the true meaning of "distance makes the heart grow fonder"))

 all i wanted was you, by spaceburgers (6k. E. college/fwb au)

This was more emotional than I thought a 6k friends with benefits fic could be, okay? Okay. 

Wherein Hajime and Tooru are fuck buddies, Hajime curses his treacherous heart, and Tooru is bad with feelings. 

 we shine like diamonds, by whitemiists (26k. T. canon divergence)

I couldn't not include this work. It deals with internalized homophobia so well and I really resonate with it. 

In all seriousness, I’m very lucky to live in a country where my sexuality is widely accepted and my heart goes out the LGBTQIA+ peoples who are forced to hide themselves. You are loved and your sexuality and gender-identity are not wrong and never will be.  

Oikawa is nine when he first hears the word. The boys on the playground whisper it like it's dirty, like the way they daringly mutter the word fuck and then look over their shoulders to check their parents hadn't heard.

"You know Abe-kun from class?" they snicker, hands cupped around their mouths like they're passing along a filthy secret. "I hear his older brother is... gay."

 Look For Him, by Leryline (18k. E. canonverse)

A collection of kisses. I love Hajime’s grandmother. 

She laughs gently. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so heartbroken before, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi sighs and prods at the mackerel with a chopstick. “Sorry. I can’t help it. It’s just different, you know? Like Oikawa pissed me off so much that now he’s not here I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“But you weren’t always annoyed with him, were you?” his grandmother smiles serenely and takes a sip of her tea. “My, my, Hajime, old women see everything. I saw you out there with my finches, when you were kissing Tooru’s nose. Your mother and father used to do the very same thing, you know, when they were younger. And look how long they’ve lasted. I hope you and Tooru last, Hajime. He’s very good for you.”

-

Oikawa has kissed Iwaizumi more times than either of them can count; it’s a constant thing, their lips never really leaving the other’s skin. There are, however, times when they’ve kissed that are burned into their memories. Eight of them, to be precise.

 film reel life, arsenicjay (8k. T. canon divergence)

Such a unique and creative idea! Reading from the eyes of a camera, so beautiful!

The only person Iwaizumi is lying to is himself, when he insists: I am not in love with Oikawa Tooru. 

 how to let your planets align, by tether (tothemoon) (15k. T. end of the world au)

This is the only remotely non-happy ending fic I will be including on here, and it's purely because it's a gorgeous read. And yes, I ached. Your lips, my lips, apocalypse. 

It is the last day on earth, December 2nd, 1985, when you realize you're in love with him.

[imnothinginparticular]

#finishedbooks Ice-T shot me in the face & eleven other stories about rap music by Luke Fox. Got this from @nils after some conversations about books and specifically that J Dilla book I posted. This is an older book from the mid 2000s, from a writer who just loves music featuring some of his freelance interviews with some of the greatest rappers from Nas and Jay Z to MF Doom and Ghostface... rounding out with Common, Kanye, Gang Starr, etc. The interviews vary in length (Kanye's was quite long lol) and feature a nice sketch by the writer. The Ice T interview was from 1999 and chronologically the last is of Ludacris in 2007. More than anything else these interviews together serve as a perfect time capsule, cause I mean you get pre-Beyonce Jay Z, post Super Ugly Nas, Ghostface when he did that great 2006 run of Def Jam albums with Dilla, DOOM, and RZA, and Late Registration Kanye. And all the more important are the interviews of rappers who have since passed in DOOM and Guru. For the most part it was a lot of these rappers at what now we can say was their mid-career but at the time was uncharted territory releasing albums in your 30s as Nas was 30 at the time of interview, Jay Z 32, and Ghostface at 35 the oldest interviewee and more than the optimism expressed after the violence in hip-hop that most of these 90s rapper survived was just how completely different a lot of them were compared to now. Which is an easy sentiment when thinking of Kanye...but Jay Z was still that cold dude coming off Roc La Familia into Blueprint. Also I am always low key struck at how white people really like Ice-T...perhaps a generation thing but I have never seen in a cd collection or streaming library of a black person just having an Ice-T record, but man the interviewer, you could tell...really loved him some Ice-T haha. A fun book that was a good Sunday read.

[aquaticstyles]

from the dining table

I know I said I was posting at 7, but I finished earlier than expected :) 5k inspired by the song we all know and love, From the Dining Table. Hope you all enjoy reading! I really liked how this one turned out. As always, feedback is welcomed and appreciated!!!

“Whatcha doin' out here by yourself?"

You nearly jump out of your skin and send the wine sloshing in your glass splashing onto the freshly cut grass at the sound of his voice.

You hoped—you prayed that you could get through the night without running into him. You were here to celebrate your good friend and her new husband, not re-open old scars. Yet here he is, right in front of you, dressed to the nines in all black, tailored perfectly to fit his broad shoulders and slim waist, chestnut locks styled haphazardly and intentionally all at once, new, foreign stubble on his upper lip and jaw making him that much more ruggedly handsome, chest hair peeking through the opened buttons of his shirt, and a white rose clipped to the lapel of his jacket.

He looks good. He looks really good, and you would like to die.

You would very much like to bury yourself in a hole.

He seems so familiar, traces of an old lover lost in the gold flecks of his eyes, but you don't know him, at least not anymore. He's a stranger now, an array of old photographs and journal clippings scattered throughout your memory. He went from being your person, to a person--from being the one person you could talk to for hours upon hours tangled in the sheets, the moonlight from the open curtains dancing upon miles and miles of bare skin, without ever growing tired, to the one person that sucks every word out of you, leaving you speechless, an awkward shell of the confident woman you used to be around him.

You would have followed him anywhere, blind, heart thumping beneath your chest, relying solely on his palm in yours to guide you through the dark—to the ends of the earth, tiptoes over the edge, ready and willing to plummet thousands of feet downward.

The breeze that floats through the air and brushes against your arm adds more goosebumps to the ones already present due to the man next to you. Everything around you is calm—the ocean to your right, waves slowly reeling in and releasing back against the shoreline, the sun setting in the horizon, creating warm hues of tangerine and pomegranate in the sky and sparkling on the endless canvas of blue below, the palm trees rustling gently, the soft chatter of guests behind you in the distance. Outside, there's a whirlwind of serenity, but inside, there's a hurricane crashing against your rib cage.

"Oh, I, um, had a phone call," you confess. You barely got the day off to come to the wedding, and your phone has been buzzing nonstop with work emails, texts, and voicemails.

Yes, you had to take a phone call, but you also needed a minute. A minute for yourself. A minute to reflect, on both past and future.

A minute to inhale--his palm in yours, your cheek pressed against his chest, his temple resting on top of your head, swaying slowly in the kitchen, Frank Sinatra's 'One For My Baby' echoing softly, pulling you closer to him if possible, hushed whispers of "I love you" from two hearts beating in unison.

A minute to exhale--love letters, broken promises, his (your) favorite t-shirt, borrowed books, his handwriting still in the margins, tokens of his thoughts, postcards, one for each new city he inhabited while he way away from you for months on end, pearls, a Frank Sinatra vinyl, your ring stretched and bent from his pinky, anything and everything that was part of him, tucked away in a cardboard box in your attic, collecting dust.

Weddings are supposed to be joyous; they're supposed to remind you of just how amazing life can be, particularly when it's spent with someone you love, but you can't help but feel lonelier than ever.

This is what you wanted.

This is what you wanted with him.

"Still always working," sparkles dance in those eyes of his, morphing every coherent thought in your head to mush. It's criminal how relaxed he is. It's almost as if you're old friends catching up, as if all of the history between the two of you simply no longer exists. He's smirking at you, making your insides turn to jelly and your brain slosh around in your skull. He seems entirely unfazed as he strolls closer to you, the whiskey in his glass barely moving from how slow he progresses. He's honey, the golden sugar dripping lazily from a swarming hive.

You look good. You look really good. And he notices.

His eyes trail from the very tip top of your head, to your cherry red toenails, and you immediately shrink in on yourself. He studies your appearance, long locks of hair he used to comb his fingers through flowing in the slight breeze and cascading down your back, thin straps holding up the loose, silky fabric of your sundress, heart-shaped lips glistening, coated in your favorite lip gloss (He thinks the longer he stares, the more he can taste them again—the more he can feel the sticky substance transferred on his own lips, remnants of your sparkles imprinted on him), freckled cheeks paired with a rosy nose, results from a sunburn (You're tanner than he last saw you. Has your skin always been this golden?), a new tattoo on your inner right forearm, a compass, so minute that one would have to be staring to notice (Which he was, and he did).

Then he sees it.

That all-too-familiar gold band wrapped around your right middle finger, catching the light reflecting from the white wine in your glass.

The ring he gave you.

The one he saw in Japan and had to buy because it had you written all over it. The one he left on his pillow in your shared bed, waiting for you once you had successfully stretched and rubbed the sleep from your eyes while he was off to an early studio session. The one he had engraved, "H.S." on the inside of, a little piece of him always with you. The last token of him you couldn't bring yourself to rid of, a time capsule from a past love.

As soon as you realize he's spotted it, your grip on the glass in your hand tightens. Harry's eyes immediately snap back to yours—after all this time, you still wore the ring. Why were you still wearing the ring?

In a desperate attempt to distract Harry from asking that question you knew was swimming around in his mind, you clear your throat, "Still always working," you force a tight-lipped smile and rock on your heels, "that and you know I'm no good at dancing." You nod your head to the crowded dance floor alive with couples drunk off the mini bar behind the two of you.

Harry's hard expression softens, accompanied by a dimple as memories of your horrible dancing come flooding back. He releases a warm chuckle, one you haven't heard in ages that echoes in your eardrums longer than you would have liked, "Can't argue with that, 'member you almost broke m'big toe a couple times." His eyes never leave yours as he takes a sip from his glass, the amber liquid gliding down his throat with a faint burn.

The space between the two of you progressively decreases as he moves closer and closer, until suddenly his shoulder is only a couple inches away, daring to brush against yours. You're both facing the ocean now, backs towards the roaring crowd. You close your eyes, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore easing the anxiety coasting through your veins. You inhale slowly, enjoying the feeling of the wind brushing against your cheekbones, cooling off the nervous heat Harry has caused. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Harry turns his head and watches you with your eyes fluttered closed, admiring your side profile up close with no shame, because how could he not? He hasn't seen you in person for over a year—it's like he's seeing you for the first time again. He fights the urge to tuck a stay piece of hair behind your hair, something he would have done without thinking if things hadn't gone completely downhill. He wants to memorize how you look in this moment, the exact position of every eyelash, the exact angle of the slope of your nose, just in case he has to go another 12 months without seeing you again. But boy, he wants to see you again. And again.

You keep your eyes closed, your lips turning upwards in a faint smirk, "I saw you at Target the other day," you open your eyes and turn to look at Harry, only to find him already fully fixated on you. Has he been staring at you this whole time? "Rolling stone? That's big."

He grins at your flustered look of shock; he was caught, but he's not embarrassed at all, not trying in the slightest to hide how much you have captivated his attention, "Uh yeah," Jesus, your eyes are beautiful. Your eyes didn't look this beautiful when you were together. Did you do something to your eyes? No, that's impossible. Is that a new piercing in your ear? You hate needles. Did you pierce it yourself? What else has changed about you? Harry, focus. What did you say again? Oh, yeah, Rolling Stone. "Doesn't do well for my narcissism though."

"Hmm... I can imagine," you take a sip of wine, returning your eyes back to the horizon, this time focusing on a pack of seagulls gliding through orange creamsicle skies. You can't stare into his eyes for too long without thinking of everything, the good, the bad, the ugly. Each time you look into his eyes, it's like reliving every conversation you ever had. His words, a gallon of feathers poured on top of you, soft tufts brushing against your skin. His words, a gallon of daggers poured on top of you, sharp metal piercing your skin.

Silence overwhelms the two of you—filling the void of words needed and wanted to be said.

Harry clears his throat and finally looks in front of him to the breathtaking sunset melting into the skyline, almost as breathtaking as you. Taking a big gulp of his whiskey, he prepares himself for the words about to spill from his mouth. He has to ask, because you're here, in person, live in stereo, and when will he have an opportunity like this again? This question has been swimming in his brain for months; it's been eating him alive, the unknown mystery of the situation. He's dying to know if you've heard that one song.

"Have yeh listened to the album?"

He chose the absolute worst time to ask this question, right when you were taking a sip from your glass. You nearly choke on the liquid sliding down your throat, erupting into a coughing fit as soon as you get a breath of air. Harry's eyes widen, immediately angling his body towards yours, a look of alarm flashing across his features. You hunch over, sending cough after cough into your free hand. A warm palm rests on your back between your shoulder blades, causing goosebumps to rise, and as soon as he's about to ask if you're okay, you wave your hand, brushing off your near-death experience. You cough one last time, your raspy voice hesitantly admitting, "Um yes, I have."

Harry furrows his eyebrows, analyzing your face to make sure you're actually okay and before he can stop it from happening, he's rubbing small circles into your back. He hovers his body slightly over yours as you cough one last time into your elbow. You mouth "I'm good" inaudibly and send him a thumbs up. You finally straighten back up, brushing your hair out of your face and blinking slowly a couple times, God, that was embarrassing, way to keep it cool.

When your posture returns to its natural state, and his palm on your back is no longer appropriate, Harry removes his hand and pushes it into his pocket. He silently curses himself for not grabbing intertwining your fingers together and squeezing your palm once—that was something he would always do when you were together. It was his thing. When you would be out shopping and the paps would show up inconveniently out of nowhere, he would grab your hand and squeeze it once, letting you know that he's here and he's sorry, before dropping it. When you would be eating dinner at your parents, laughing about who knows what, his knee brushing yours underneath the table, he would grab your hand and squeeze it once, letting you know that he's here and he loves you, before dropping it.

Silence returns again and you're both back to your original positions overlooking the sea. Bass thumping, "cheers!", clinking, birds chirping, leaves rustling, waves crashing, heavy breathing, congratulations, "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!", his rings tapping against his glass, the soles of your shoes crunching the grass, heart pounding.

The loudest silence breaks, "Figured one day you'd at least g'me a call back."

If you weren't sure if that last track was really about you, you were completely certain now. Maybe one day you'll call me and tell me you're sorry too. For the first time since he's been in your presence this evening, you regain a sense of confidence, your nervous jitters diminishing with your next statement.

"I didn't have anything to apologize for."

And you didn't. Not when he was the one that left, when he was the one that decided he didn't want to love you anymore, when he was the one that chose his life over the both of yours. It hurt. It still does. So why would you call him and tell him that you're sorry too? Sorry for what? Loving him too much? Because you loved him too much. He was the love of your life, the man you wanted to marry, the man you wanted to be the father of your children, the man that completely and utterly captured your heart and sewed it together with his own. But he left. And you had to figure out how to live without him, how to do the dishes when he wasn't drying, how to dance when it wasn't his records playing in the background, how to kiss when it wasn't his lips that were folded over yours, how to love again when it wasn't him that you were loving. You had to do it all. Alone. Pick up the pieces he scattered, put them back together, and super glue them.

Then he put out his debut album. And suddenly he was everywhere, from magazines, to billboards, to tv shows, to recommended YouTube videos, to Instagram, to twitter, to even Facebook, there he was again, closer to you than he had been in months, yet still light years away. And all of those pieces you super glued? Yeah, they became completely undone again, and it didn't help that you decided to actually listen to his album. It was one thing to see him everywhere, but to hear him again, hear that voice that once felt like home, it ruined you.

That song ruined you.

You remember the day that song was inspired from, every single detail.

-

You had a particularly busy day at work, and you decided to have a spa night. A bubble bath, a bottle of rosé, a face mask, a couple bath bombs, and a pizza was exactly what the doctor prescribed. You had just stepped out of your steamy wonderland, your body covered in your favorite, fluffy robe, soapy suds still clinging to damp skin, completely content in your cotton bubble and slightly buzzed from the glasses of wine you consumed. It was nearly 3 in the morning, and you just sat down at your vanity to apply your various lotions and serums when the phone rang.

Who on earth is calling you this late at night?

You shuffled your slippered-feet to your bedside table, glancing over to see something you never thought you'd see again.

His name.

Harry Styles

Flashing on your screen.

Nearly giving you a heart attack.

You froze in your tracks, eyes widening, mouth hanging open, breathing halting, heart beat slowing and thumping louder than ever in your ears. It felt like the entire world was put on pause, every car on the busy street outside your apartment stopped, traffic lights stuck on red, clouds frozen in place in the sky, every form of life on hold. You miss the call, not that you could have answered anyways; you were completely and utterly paralyzed.

Another notification: Harry Styles Voicemail.

Then you're breathing again, quick, sharp puffs of air in and out. Are you dreaming? You squint your eyes shut tightly and pinch your wrist. This has to be a dream. You open your eyes, the same notification illuminating your screen. You're not dreaming.

God presses play on the world, your surroundings slowly returning back to their normal pace around you, your bubble bursting as you frantically pull your phone from its charger, typing in in your passcode at the speed of light and going straight to the neon green cube on your dock. A shaky thumb taps on the voicemail, hitting the speaker button. There are a couple seconds of static, and for a moment you think maybe it was an accident, a butt-dial, a complete misunderstanding. Please let this be an accident.

Key word: moment.

Because as soon as you think you can forget about this, go back to your nightly routine, and have a peaceful sleep, his voice is booming through the speakers, and you're paralyzed again.

"Um... Hi, it's Harry," the ghost of the man you used to know lets out a nervous laugh, "But you knew that didn't yeh? Probably why you didn't answer..." there's silence, two seconds, five seconds, eight. "I'm in Japan. It's noon here, and m'drunk, alone in my hotel room," his voice is deep, raspy, tired. "'Member that ring I gave you? I'm stayin' a couple blocks away from that shop. Y'loved that ring. Think tha' was the last good thing I did."

Your eyes shift to your right hand, the one that's not death-gripping your phone, the one that holds the piece of metal he's referring to. A lump grows in the back of your throat, and suddenly it's becoming harder to stand. You collapse on the edge of your bed and gulp. Tears pool uncontrollably in your eyes, falling onto the robe that now feels like pinecones suffocating you.

"I saw Mark befo' I left. Ran into him at the grocery store," Mark, your co-worker, your friend. Mark didn't tell you he saw Harry. Why didn't he tell you he saw Harry? Why is Harry talking about Mark? Why did Harry call you? Why did Harry leave you a voicemail? "I asked him how you were, and he said you were fine. Are you fine?" No. "Cause I'm not. M'not fine at all."

You shut your eyes in pain, wincing at his words. Waterfalls flood from your eyes, and you hate it. You hate that this is affecting you so much. You hate that he still has a hold on you. You wished you could not care; you wished you could simply say "fuck you forever" and forget him. It's been 6 months since the breakup, and you want more than anything to move on and forget him.

"Love I-" You bite your tongue at the pet name, almost drawing blood. When was the last time he called you that? 'Love'—the equivalent of a knife plunging into your chest again and again. "I fucked up... and I miss you." And again. "God, I miss you so much." And again. "And m'sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." And again. "Th'worst thing I ever did was what I did to you."

You're fully sobbing at this point, your phone thrown across the other end of your bed, his voice slightly muffled by your duvet. Your hands are tangled in your hair, elbows resting on your knee caps, shoulders shaking as you hiccup, wave after wave of his words hitting you. Little do you know, Harry is on the other end of the world doing the exact same thing—hands pulling his hair, hunched over on the edge of his grand suite's expensive mattress, an almost empty bottle of whiskey to his right, tears staining the carpet beneath him.

"And I know this is late. M'a fuckin' idiot for not saying it until now. I just..." He breathes out a sigh, and you pinch your eyes shut even tighter. No, he's drunk. He doesn't mean it. He's drunk. He doesn't mean it. Don't fall for it; you've been doing fine. You're fine... right? "I needed yeh to hear that. Need you to know I'm so sorry for hurting you. I did th'one thing I swore I'd never do."

Relaxing your grip on the roots of your hair, you sit up at his words, the words you have waited to hear him say for six months. Why don't they sweep you off your feet like you imagined? Why don't you feel different? You had thought about this moment over and over, the moment he would finally own up to his mistakes, finally apologize for all the shit he put you through. You imagined him showing up to your doorstep with a dozen sunflowers, your favorite, a speech prepared on how much he still loves you and how much he is sorry for everything. After, you would launch into his open arms, sinking back into his quicksand, enveloped in his love all over again. Everything would fall back into place; you would be whole again. What you didn't expect was a drunken voicemail, making you want to crumble inside yourself until all that is left is a pile of bones, useless. It felt as if there was a surprise epilogue to your joint ending—you were experiencing the break up all over again. What was supposed to give you life, hope was slowly taking it away each second the voicemail continued.

"I'm dying, love." Me too. "Can I still call you that?" No. "M'dying without you. Just... Please call me. Please let me show you how sorry I am. Need to hear y'voice. I'm so sorry. Call me."

-

His voicemail remains in your phone. You never called him back. You've lost count of the times your finger hovered over his contact name, nearly jumping into the deep end, just for you to take one step backwards on the diving board. One particular night, after taking another step back, you decided to write down everything you wanted to say, everything you wished you knock on his door and scream at him until you lost your voice—all of the heartache, the sorrow, the stress, the hope, the anxiety, every single emotion you felt since it ended. You wrote twenty-two pages. They're now hidden in your bedside table, addressed and stamped, never sent. Harry didn't call you again; that was the last time you heard from him, over a year ago now.

Silence welcomes itself again. Comfortable silence is so overrated.

Shoulder brushing against yours, Harry stands still, digesting your last words. I didn't have anything to apologize for. There was a time when he would have completely disagreed with that statement, clearly, given the lyrics to his last track on his debut album. Then, he would have argued that both of you had dipped your toe in your downfall, each equally responsible for how things crumbled apart. Now, however, he sees how it was him that was in the wrong. He was the one afraid of the commitment you wanted from him—part of him could never fully love you like he wanted to. A couple hundred therapy sessions later, he's sorted his shit out, and he sees just how much shit he put you through, as if someone had sat him down in a theatre, showing him your love story from your perspective. You don't owe him an apology; you were perfect, always giving him your all, every single drop, every single ounce of your love from an endless fountain. He was the one that left. Hewas the one that broke you into small, jagged pieces.

But he's selfish. He still misses you so much. He misses your hand encased in his, your laugh at his terrible jokes, your lips on his cheek, your faint snores that only erupt on Friday nights after a hard week at work, your face buried in his neck, chest on top of his and legs entangled in his on the couch, your finger poking his dimple, your face scrunched in concentration as you painted his nails, your records playing in his house (the ones you said he had to borrow, but if he scratched them, he was a dead man), your hugs (the way you would make him feel itty bitty in your embrace, enveloping him into your open arms after he was away for too long), your mind, always alive and itching for those deep conversations that always arise at midnight in his bed.

That's why he came to the wedding in the first place. He was originally booked to shoot a music video, but he quickly cancelled at the possibility of seeing you here. And that's why when he finally spotted you, off in the distance, speaking into your phone away from the buzzing reception, he knew he had to talk to you. He didn't care if it re-opened closed wounds; he was selfish and he had to talk to you. He missed you.

"Listen-"

"I-" Harry speaks up at the same time you do, beginnings of sentences clashing together. Your eyes meet again, shoulders turned towards each other now. He grins, bunny teeth making an appearance at the mishap regardless of the obvious tension that has invaded the air between the two of you. You envy that trait, his ability to make any situation comfortable and relaxed despite its origin. "You first."

"No, um you go," you mumble out awkwardly, finishing off the remnants of wine in your glass in a rather large gulp to ease the nerves. You know Harry, sometimes better than he knows himself, and you know that he would have never approached you if he didn't have some motive on his own. You had to shut this down—there was no way you could go down this road with him again, not when just this conversation was enough to ruffle your feathers, making you feel like a traitor in your own body, someone you don't even know.

"How 'bout we both go?" There's a cheeky look in his eye, and if you look hard enough you could see a tinge of excitement, hopefulness, "On th'count of three?"

Not daring to quirk upwards, your lips remain straight, and you nod.

"One," You can do it. Just tell him you want to basically forget he exists. "Two," You can do it. Just tell her you still love her. "Three."

Two similar heartbeats.

"I still love you-" Sweet sugar crystals, an honest confession from candy land.

"I think it's best if we don't see each other again." An exploding cannon, sinking his battle ship.

Two entirely different headspaces.

-

The next morning, you wake up with a massive headache, one that was undoubtedly brewing as you cried yourself to sleep the night prior (it might also have to do with the entire bottle of wine you consumed as soon as you slipped off your heels in your apartment).

You notice it's technically no longer morning when you check your phone, squinting in pain at the sudden brightness, the numbers 1:25 yelling back at you. Thank god it's Saturday; you haven't had a hangover of this intensity since college and there is no way you could possibly go to work like this.

Slowly slipping out of the warmth of your numerous weighted blankets, your socked feet hit the plush carpet, and you bend down and open the bottom drawer of your bedside table. Tied up in a pink bow are four envelopes, addressed and stamped, waiting to be delivered to the man whose hopes you crushed. You reached for the stack, running your fingers along the edges, reading over his name, tracing the letters with your fingertips.

With the letters firm in your grasp, you rush to your front door, making sure to slip on your robe; you don't want anyone to drive by you putting these letters in your mailbox in nothing but a t-shirt and undies, after all.

You're finally doing it, diving into the crystal-clear water that was once forever still. You're going to mail all twenty-two pages, every emotion. This is it, the last period to the epilogue, the ending of this book, the closure the both of you so desperately need.

As you reach for the handle, you pause, noticing the one thing you nearly forgot about—that gold band. You slip the piece of metal off your finger, observing his initials engraved on the inside for the last time. Untying the bow holding the envelopes together, you slide the ring onto one end of the cotton-candy colored ribbon and retie the knot, the ring now attached. Inhale, one moment to reflect. Exhale, one moment to say your final goodbye. You swing open the door, and right before you can make another move, something stops you. Looking down at your doorstep, a bittersweet smile breaks out across your face. He was saying goodbye too.

A dozen sunflowers.