#valentine staccato

[potatochip-oc-dump]

HAPPY PRIDE!!!!!!

[mochiiniko]

rhythm doctor jumpscare

[jayparked]

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓀𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝑔𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈

here's some sneak peaks of my wips that i actively work on in between making fake texts! 💛 pls let me know what you think! disclaimer: all works will be nsfw unless otherwise stated so mdni special shoutout to @sungbeams for making some of these banners for me 💛 ilysm talented wench

best friends to ???? / sunghoon x female reader / oneshot

synopsis: you find out your best friend has been a long term pornhub subscriber and you cant help but send him a teasing text about it. but after seeing his most watched video, you cant help but suggest ruining the friendship and acting out your favorite scenes together

current word count: 1.5k

estimated word count: 10k

estimated release date: tbd

preview:

“Why do you think I haven't been able to keep a girl around for more than 3 months? Because it’s clear how obsessed with you I am. They were only just placeholders, anything I could do to try to get you off my mind while pretending it was you begging for me every night, pretending it was you screaming my name as I fuck you.”

college au /strangers to enemies to ??? / jay x female reader / oneshot

synopsis: the new transfer student has been eating up all the new attention he's been getting, but you couldn't care less. and that only makes him more desperate to get to know you

current word count: 5.4k

estimated word count: 15k

estimated releaste date: tbd

preview:

“I just did that stupid ‘drop all your books in front of your crush and see if they help you pick them up while you also try to pick them up and your hands graze against each other and you look into each other’s eyes’ thing and you just stared at me like I was an idiot but joke’s on you because the person who did pick them up is way cuter than you and I. think. I’ll. be. dropping. my. things. around. them. more. often.” Jay’s animated staccato tone throws you off and quickly sends you in a fit of laughter as he stands there with his arms crossed and his chin turned up towards the sky. “You wanted me...to pick up...your books...cause I’m...your WHAT?” You laugh harder, clutching your sides as you double forward.

office au / enemies with benefits to ???? / jungwon x female reader, ??? x female reader / smau with written parts

synopsis: things between you and your enemies with benefits agreement has to come to an end. not only to keep the peace at the office you both work at, but to actually give you somewhat of a chance at finding true love

current progress: 5 chapters outlined

estimated chapters: 30+

estimated release date: tbd

preview:

“-Don’t ask me again,” he sits up quickly, your head moving back while he readjusts his body to lean over you slightly, one hand hovering just millimeters next to your cheek, “please, don’t. Not unless you mean it. Not unless you really want me.” His voice is wavering as his eyes flick from your own down to your lips, then back to your eyes again. His pupils are shaking, searching deeply in yours for any hesitation, his breath shallow and slight as he waits for your response. “I need you, Jungwon.” “Fuck,”

office au, fake dating / strangers to lovers to ??? / sunoo x female reader / oneshot

synopsis: after you and your coworker sunoo are both dumped by your long term partners Heeseung and Karina (who end up dating each other), you're tired of feeling sorry for yourself and decide to get back at them just in time for the Valentines day office party they're hosting

current word count: 10k

estimated word count: 15k

estimated release date: feb 14th

preview:

You move in like you’re about to kiss him, but stop short just as your lips barely brush against his. “I don’t like playing games,” you whisper, showing your teeth as you smile. “Funny,” Sunoo murmurs back, grabbing onto your hips and flipping you around until your ass is flushed against his crotch, his tie still laced between your fingers, “Didn’t seem that way when you asked me to play along with your little scheme.”

♡ masterlist

[umemiyan]

𝙏𝙊 𝘽𝙀 𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀𝘿 𝘽𝙔 𝙔𝙊𝙐.

𝗦𝗔𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗨 𝗚𝗢𝗝𝗢 𝗫 𝗚𝗡!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥. ⌇ fluff / established relationship / cuddling. that’s pretty much it it’s basically just pure fluff!!! but really sappy because apparently i’m in a mood. there’s some slight selfship vibes because i couldn’t help myself but overall i don’t think it’s too bad / 1.1k words

HAPPY EARLY VALENTINE’S DAY!!! i got hit with this all of a sudden and decided to write and share it while i had the time/motivation. hope you enjoy, this made me rather emotional to write tbh!

He’s like a large dog that’s unaware of its own size, inviting itself to sit upon its owner’s lap despite the near crushing weight of its body. That’s the best comparison you have to how Satoru positions himself as you relax together in bed, his torso covering your own as his head rests happily upon your chest.

The hour is late and it would serve you both well to properly dress down and nest beneath the covers for the night, but the energy for the task has yet to strike either of you, and, well… it simply feels nice to be close like this, even if you’re admittedly struggling to breathe. Satoru’s weight is heavy upon your ribcage, his muscles limp and eyes closed with the intent to drift off at any moment.

You’ve lulled him into a state close to slumber with your rhythmic breathing and the dancing of your fingertips along his scalp, white strands of beautiful silk slipping between your digits in a most soothing manner. He could write endless prose about how your heartbeat feels like home thumping beneath him, and the tender touch of your hands helps welcome him to the abode. Your presence brings him closer to peace than almost anything ever has, and that’s why you feel reluctant to disturb his rest. But he is indeed stealing your breath, and not in a lyrical way.

“Satoru, baby… you’re crushing me.”

Your confession is soft and warm against him like an angel’s breath, and that only makes him want to further solidify his position, to hold down his fort.

Without even opening his eyes, he just petulantly hums against you in protest, almost like a whine as he tightens his grip and more forcefully presses his cheek to your chest.

You wriggle beneath him, the motion providing you with an inkling of relief so that you’re able to settle again, allowing Satoru to continue his reign unchallenged. You simply sigh as you both go lax again, falling into the same quiet rhythm as before.

This time you pay more attention to the familiar slope of his nose, the gentle white sweep of his eyelashes, the pink tint of cheeks heated by contentment and fatigue. What a beautiful form, not just for being cut in ways that are pleasing to the eye, but for being completely and unapologetically him. And for waiting on you to love him like you do now.

There’s a sensation in your chest and it isn’t from the weight of Satoru’s skull on it. It isn’t sudden either—it’s more so like it has been there for some time, and you’ve just now taken the notion to realize it. There is no fright or ambiguity. Only peace and acceptance.

“Satoru,” you call in a gentle yet determined breath as you gaze down upon him. He is unaware.

“Hm,” he replies. It’s a half-conscious staccato grunt of acknowledgement. Your fingers still their motions in his hair.

“Do you wanna marry me?”

You speak as casually as you might when asking him what he wants for dinner.

It takes a moment for it to register, but when it does, he’s sleepily opening his eyes and resting his chin on your chest to look up at you with genuine inquiry. “Huh?” His hair is mussed, blue eyes squinted, brain layered with fog.

You repeat yourself, expression neutral. “Do you wanna marry me?”

The second utterance from your lips rouses him further from his tired state, body shifting somewhat from the fresh anticipation, his eyes still glued to your face.

“Yeah… yeah, of course I do.” It’s the truth. He’s made it rather clear on several occasions, whether it be through somewhat teasing tongue-in-cheek remarks or more serious speculations about how he always pictures you in his future. But what you don’t know is that he’s had a ring picked out for you for quite some time now, waiting until the moment it seemed like you loved him enough to not say ‘no.’

Satoru’s bleary eyes now sparkle with hope as he watches you, wondering what this is all supposed to mean.

Valentine’s Day is in a mere few days but that matters little to you. What really does matter is that feeling in your chest, that realization that came from being willing to let him smother you beneath his weight if only to allow him a few more moments of peace. The realization that you would gladly run short on oxygen for him because you know he would do the same for you in return. The realization that you gladly linger on the beauty of his existence and his willingness to offer you his vulnerability on a silver platter. The realization that you aren’t afraid to love him anymore.

This wasn’t planned. It wasn’t overthought. It simply blossomed following a period of growth.

Finally, after a few more moments of letting that feeling settle, you speak. “Well… will you?”

His gaze never falters, but he’s propping himself up more properly now, jaw going slack as he searches your face for any signs of humor or dishonesty.

“Will I…?” he trails off, dumbstruck, brain working to become fully alert as his heart thumps.

“Will you marry me?”

Satoru is still unsure of whether or not you’re joking, but if you were, he’d say you’re the greatest actor on the face of the planet. Your expression is serious, determined, and unwavering, and it causes every inch of him to flutter. Surely he’s dreaming. Surely this isn’t truly happening.

“Don’t mess around with me,” he says defensively yet with a hint of hope still coloring his tone. He’s expecting you to grin and laugh, to say that it was all in good fun. But your aura remains sincere.

Your hands move up to cup his cheeks, thumbs stroking over the rosy hue as you speak. “Do I look like I’m messing around?”

Several beats of silence pass and your eyes are locked, and Satoru gently shakes his head after discerning that you are in fact not playing a practical joke. Looking closely enough, you swear you see the subtle mist of tears adorning his lower lashes.

“…So?” you question in a half-whisper, urging him to give you an answer despite the suddenness of it all.

Satoru blinks and stares, absorbing it, accepting it as reality and internally rejoicing.

Finally.

He had bought the ring but you had asked the question. You’d met each other in the middle without even knowing it, without him having to roundabout beg for it anymore. It’s all he ever could’ve hoped for.

“Yes.”

[skittlesfics]

something soft

name: something soft

pairing: Joel Miller x gn!Reader

word count: 1212

summary: Settling down in Jackson has given you and Joel back a lot of things.

content/warnings: FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF, established relationship, Jackson!Joel, vague references to outbreak difficulties, unbetad

author's note: OMG, so I have been writing Joel fics/Pedro character fics for over a year now and have been too much of a coward to actually post anything. I decided to finally suck it up and join an event so that I was forced to post. This is a valentine for @beskarandblasters . Hope you enjoy! Happy Valentine's Day, y'all. -

Joel’s hand was warm where it wrapped around your ankle, his thumb stroking idly at the skin just below the joint as he turned to the next page of his book. It was a large-type Western that you had looted from an old library as a joke – but one that he became more appreciative of as the strain of years on alert made it harder and harder to focus on smaller script at night.

Many things were different now that you were settled into Jackson proper, but this was definitely one of your favorites.

Quiet moments out on the road meant that Joel was planning your next move or that all three of you were gathering energy for whatever horror was to come next. There was no space for leisure or relaxation in that quiet, even if there were rare moments of levity dappled into the shadows of survival. Here, though, in Jackson, you were both learning to let the quiet in.

Joel pushed his thumb into your ankle a little harder, just enough to pull you out of your reverie. Those memories were a dangerous path that you both had trodden too many times; He could see the spiral starting in your expression even before you knew it was there. When you lifted your eyes to meet his gaze, he smiled, sliding the bookmark Ellie had drawn for him as a Christmas gift into place. (Holidays were another thing that Jackson had given back to the three of you.) You let your eyes get drawn to the sketch of the astronaut floating over something that vaguely resembled the moon. I’m reading a book about anti-gravity. It’s impossible to put down!

“Got something to show you, if you’re amenable.” He said after setting the book down carefully on the fraying arm of the couch. His voice was rich and low, thick with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his eyes seeking something in yours. If you didn’t know any better, you might have said that Joel Miller was nervous.

You couldn’t hold back your own soft smile, swinging one leg off of Joel’s lap in an attempt to sit up. He held onto your other ankle for a moment, tracing idle circles into your flesh with his thumb before realizing his error and releasing you.

You sat up and bookmarked your own novel. Well Read Mother Clucker is what yours said, with a drawing of what you supposed must be yourself as a chicken. “I suppose I’m amenable.” You answered, nudging his shoulder as you stretched to loosen your taught muscles.

He huffed, fond smile still crooked on his lips, and stood.

“You stay right here and close those pretty eyes. Give me a minute.” He commanded. He pushed himself up with an audible complaint from his knees, a soft grunt marking the effort in the motion that he had hidden from you for so long before Jackson. You bit back your giggle, letting him believe that the sound blended in with the staccato crackles from the wood in the fireplace.

With your eyes closed, you tried to map Joel’s path through the room. You could hear his footsteps leading away towards the kitchen, the board next to the dining table groaning in protest. He didn’t say it, but you could already hear his grumble. Gotta fix that come springtime. That was a new thing in Jackson as well, planning for the future in this one place. Building a home. The thought brought a warmth to your chest that distracted you from his next movements.

Firelight danced behind your eyelids, and you let yourself sink back into the couch, shifting into the pocket of warmth Joel had abandoned as you heard him open a cabinet door. It creaked only slightly – the China cabinet perhaps? You wondered if he had finally listened to your complaints about chipped plates and managed to loot something whole to eat off of. Or maybe he’d managed to find another bag of stale coffee out there somewhere to replenish your dwindling supply. Practicalities that felt like luxuries.

Joel didn’t leave you waiting long. You followed the path of his footsteps back to you, tilting your head towards him even with your eyes closed. He leaned in and pressed a soft, warm kiss against your forehead, reaching out to cup your cheek before straightening again and placing something on the coffee table in front of you with a heavy clunk. The plates then?

“You can open.” He said, sinking into the seat you had abandoned in pursuit of his warmth. “It’s not much, but…”

You weren’t sure if he trailed off or if your brain simply stopped processing sound as you opened your eyes to reveal a small red crock speckled with white and black spots. There was a clumsy ribbon tied out of strips of sun-bleached red fabric from God-knows-where around it, but inside. Delicate, carefully crafted roses were arranged in an explosion of natural wood tones. If it weren’t for the colors, they would have appeared lifelike, almost. You reached out, carefully stroking one of the petals. It was nearly translucent, but undoubtably wood. He had made them.

When you looked over at him it was through watery eyes. He was watching you, expression impassive, betrayed only by the slightest quirk at the edge of his mouth.

“You made these?” You asked, breathless.

“’s hard to get fresh flowers in February up here.” He explained with a shrug, like that explained it. Like it hadn’t taken hours of painstaking labor to shave each individual petal out of wood that he had cut down and prepared with his own hands. Like he hadn’t filled your heart to bursting.

He opened his arms and you slid into his lap, throwing your arms around his shoulders and squeezing tight, like he might try to get away. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as you rained kisses across his face, one large hand finding your hip and resting there, the other finding your chin to pull you in and kiss you properly. It was a slow kiss, soft and reverent, like he wanted to memorize the press of your lips against his, the soft sigh you let out against his mouth, the way your body relaxed into the warmth of him.

“They’re beautiful, Joel, they’re everything.” You whispered finally, dropping your head down to rest against his strong shoulder.

“They’re alright.” He deflected, cradling you against his chest, “Next Valentine’s Day, I’ll get you something nicer.”

It struck you then, the date. Another thing that Jackson had given back to you was a calendar to go by. You hadn’t gotten used to tracking the days as the passed yet, more focused on the weather than a number. But of course Joel would notice, especially after he saw what Christmas had done for you and for Ellie. Valentine’s Day here, after the end of the world.

You burrowed your face into the warm cotton of his shirt, knowing that he would feel the wetness of your happy tears against his chest and not caring. He held you there, pressing a kiss against the crown of your head. Something simple, something soft, something yours.

[wrxsslin-hours]

Hey, Lover (Chapter 1)

next chap |

Bret was only supposed to deliver flowers to Shawn, not fall in love with him.

(Quintessential Delivery Boy x Househusband bretshawn au)

a/n: Hi hello, how y'all doing? Remember that one time I wrote this fic? A year ago, I think? Wild. Since Christmas break is coming along and I don't have classes until the 22nd, I was thinking I should finish this small fic-let. Thank you for readin'

I've rejected affection for years and years. Now I have it, and damn it, it's kind of weird. He tells me I'm pretty. Don't know how to respond. I tell him that he's pretty too. Can I say that? Don't have a clue - "Valentine", Laufey

The flower shop was the apotheosis of all flower shops—small but brimming with buckets and pots of flowers. A tender farrago of lilies, carnations, and hydrangeas filled the room. The floor was a mess of leaves and rogue petals; the shelves above, a nest of ribbons and silk. Wrapping papers crumpled, and the radio sang. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains and bathed the room in warmth; dust and pollen danced in its rays. It was a peek into the world through pink-tinted glasses, a sea of reds and whites. And in the middle of it all, Bret arranged roses as if he were a man on a mission.

Like clockwork, Bret tied a bow around the neck of the bouquet and gently placed it beside the others he had made. He rubbed the underside of his nose to block the overpowering aroma of flowers. The corners of his lips tugged into a frown. Customers would say the scent was heavenly; Bret would beg to differ. Curly black tresses framed his face as the sound of hushed giggles drowned the staccato melodies of the radio. An annoyed huff sliced through the air. Bruce, Bret’s brother, let out an exasperated sigh, his nose buried between the pages of his newspaper.

“Would you two stop poking your noses where they don’t belong?”

Bruce’s reprimand fell on deaf ears. Bret turned his head to Owen and Elizabeth, the sides of their faces glued to the cracked door of their parents’ shared office. It wasn’t too long ago that a tall man came barreling down the shop doors, wallet in his hands like a rifle ready to shoot through every assortment of tulips and orchids. The stranger was a far cry from their regular customers. He didn’t have the caved shoulders of a shy teen or the worried lines of a husband who forgot his anniversary. He was confident and sharp, savvy like a businessman with a heartthrob smile. He wasn’t the average Joe. And after such a slow day of work, his intrusion caught everyone’s attention. It’s been ten minutes since their parents whisked the man away into their office, and Owen and Elizabeth sat fixated on the shadows that shifted underneath the gap in the door.

Owen waved his hand, and his sandy blonde hair swayed as he did so. He reeled his head back to face his brother’s furrowed brows with furrowed brows of his own. “Pipe down, Bruce. I can’t hear a thing over your yapping.”

The older Hart gritted his teeth, ready to crack from the tension of his jaw. Before he had the chance to stand, roll his newspaper, and whack Owen upside the head, Elizabeth squealed and stopped him dead in his tracks. Four pairs of eyes darted to her as she slid her back down the wall, her hands on her flushed cheeks.

“He ordered fifty roses.” She swooned, the skirt of her lilac dress pooling around her as she sat on the floor. Owen scrambled beside his sister, his head cemented onto the door once more. As the conversation beyond the door rambled on, Owen hung onto every faint word his ears could decipher.

“Fifty roses!” Owen gasped, disbelief in his eyes. The blonde turned his head to his brothers and wiggled his eyebrows, “Talk about a Casanova.”

Elizabeth pushed herself to her feet, leaves on her skirt. “Isn’t it romantic?” she mused starry-eyed. “I’d love to get a bouquet like that,” she sighed, her head tilted heavenward.

Jim rolled his eyes at her daydreaming, gaze as dark as the stem-covered marble counter he lay on. He pursed his lips and twirled a flower between his fingers, “Fifty roses are daylight robbery. Pretty sappy if you ask me.” He plucked a leaf from its stem. “This guy must be loaded to make an order like that.”

Bruce sat down on a stool, the soles of his shoes balanced on its footrest. He shrugged his shoulders as he opened his newspaper and went to the page he left off. “That just means there’s more money for us.” He leaned his head back and laughed.

The office door suddenly flew open and thwacked Owen square on the face. A groan escaped the blonde’s lips. But his pain was left muted by the gruff voice of the man that opened the door. “Watch it, twerp,” the man snapped, his face red and his suit white.

Cowboy hat on his head, chocolate-colored eyes pointed to the studded watch on his wrist. The man’s black loafers, shined to perfection, smacked against the checker-tiled floor. Like a tornado, he stormed out of the shop and knocked every pot that stood in his way. Bret stared as the stranger crossed the street, entered his eggshell-colored limousine, and drove off. Bruce grumbled as he, Jim, and Elizabeth picked up the pots the man pushed down. Owen shakily stood up beside Bret with his hands on his nose and redness on his forehead. “I’m not delivering for that jerk,” he sneered. He patted Bret on the shoulder, “He’s all yours.”

Before Bret could retort, their parents strode into the room, an argument along with them. “We can’t possibly have fifty roses ready for today,” Helen bickered as she unfolded the napkin their customer gave, her hair brown like the apron she wore. “We won’t have them restocked until Saturday.”

Stu huffed as his eyes darted around his shop before they stopped on the rose bouquets on Bret’s work table. He grabbed the flowers and began to unwrap them. He piled the roses into a hill and cast everything else aside. Bret sputtered, his shades sliding down the bridge of his nose as he did so, “Dad, those were an order for Miss Mae–”

“Miss Mae can wait, Bret.” Stu wrapped the roses with precision. Helen sighed beside him as she plucked a notecard and began to write down whatever their latest client scribbled on the coffee-stained napkin. “Mr. Layfield is paying big money to have his delivery done today,” Stu explained. “It’s the biggest order we got since we opened, so we should make him happy.”

It didn’t take long for Bret to have a behemoth of a bouquet in his arms and a clipboard tucked under his chin. Bret could feel the dull pinch of thorns on his biceps; the aroma of roses bombarded his nose as it completely buried his upper body. With one last tweak on the bouquet from his mother, Bret was out the door and into the delivery truck. Before he could drive off, his father’s voice rang in the breeze. Bret peeked over the roses to see Stu waving at him. “Take off your sunglasses!” he exclaimed, hands around his mouth to amplify his words. Bret fought to roll his eyes as he dragged his sunglasses to the top of his head and steered the truck into the busy streets.

Bret passed a flurry of saloons and office buildings. The world outside the truck was a blur of greens and grays. White picket fences turned into towering hedgerows, wooden street lights turned into metal lamp posts, and mismatched row houses turned into palatial mansions. Bret’s delivery truck stuck out like a sore thumb in the presence of luxury sedans. A low whistle escaped his lips as he slowed to a halt in front of the rose bouquet’s intended.

A mansion stood tall in the presence of neatly trimmed hedges and surrounded by an army of limousines and cars. Upon the home’s slate roof was an array of leaves connected to twining vines that hugged its brick walls, and behind those vines were large arched windows, like hair that covered soulful eyes. Bret could faintly make out the beige curtains behind the glass panes. He grabbed the bouquet and reveled in the manor’s beauty. It was the picture of pristine perfection, a scene straight from the home magazines his mother would regularly read. Bret would’ve been impressed if the mansion didn’t look like every other house in the cul-de-sac. He grabbed the rose bouquet and slipped his clipboard on top of it. The gravel path crinkled underneath his feet as he walked to the manor’s grand double doors. The sun bore onto his skin as Bret pushed the doorbell with his elbow. He rolled his eyes at the sound of cowbells that echoed in his ears. The doorbell tune was ostentatious as the roses in his hands.

Silence filtered the air. Bret clicked his tongue and pushed the doorbell again, the sound of the doorbell more annoying than the first. He juggled the flowers in his hands as he looked down at the address written on his clipboard. The idea of being in the wrong house filled his mind, but before Bret could turn his back from the door, it swung open. ‘Finally,’ Bret thought. With his eyes still on his clipboard, he tilted his head to the side. “Does Mr. Shawn Layfield live here?” he asked.

“Well, hello to you too, handsome,” a voice drawled, sweet like honey and slow like molasses.

Bret’s head shot up as a chill ran down his spine. His dark eyes landed on the man in front of him, his breath hitched. Bret balanced the bouquet in one hand as he tugged on the collar of his pink shirt with the other. He expected the thick velvet of a butler’s tuxedo, not the glossy sheen of a silk robe. He expected thinning silver hair, not damp blond curls that clung to tanned skin. Bret was ready to smell the musk of dust, not the aroma of cigarettes and Parisian perfume. He shook his head in a vain attempt to escape the other man’s allure. “I have flowers for him.”

Shawn’s smile widened, “Are they from you?”

“They’re from–” Bret read his clipboard – “Mr. John Bradshaw Layfield.”

The blond’s smile left as fast as it came. He pursed his lips like he was chewing on a lemon rind and leaned against the door frame. “A bit over-the-top, isn’t it?”

Bret gave a wry grin. “I wouldn’t know. I’m just the delivery boy.” Bret waited for the other to take the bouquet from his hands. But the door only opened wider. The delivery boy raised a brow; his head cocked to the side.

“What?” Shawn shrugged; his robe slid down his shoulder as he did so. “You don’t expect me to carry all of that, do you?”

Bret blinked owlishly. Shawn seemed perfectly capable of carrying the order. He gazed at the taut muscle underneath Shawn’s clothes for a moment. And at the drop of a hat, Bret’s eyes stayed pointedly on the blond’s bedroom eyes. “You’re a delivery boy,” Shawn continued. He stepped to the side, his brow in a sly arch, “Go on and deliver.”

Bret frowned and took a wary step. Shawn guided him into the living room, and Bret followed as if God watched him. Cautious and guarded, Bret took each step as if it was his last. The shuffle of carpet slowly replaced the sound of shoes against the wooden floor. And Bret caught himself in the company of lush couches and intricate cabinets as Shawn excused himself to get a vase. He tapped his toe against the white tiger rug underneath him as the chandelier shined above his head. To say Bret felt out of place was an understatement. The living space was lavish, just like everything else in the mansion. Bookshelves as tall as the ceiling covered half of the room, each shelf overflowing with novels and encyclopedias. In the corner was a grand piano, free from dust and fingerprints. Paintings upon paintings hung from the walls, bronze candelabras scattered along the corridors. Bret narrowed his eyes. There were no framed pictures or lightly stained patches on the floor. The house was opulent, but it didn’t seem as lived-in as it should be. His contemplation was interrupted by Shawn’s call.

“Tell me, delivery boy, what do these flowers mean?” He asked as he placed the water-filled vase on the coffee table and situated himself on one of the many chairs in the room. “Don’t they have meanings? The language of flowers and whatnot.”

Bret hesitantly unwrapped the bouquet and propped the roses inside the porcelain vase. He handed the notecard to the blond with a rehearsed smile, “That’s what cards are for.”

“You are so boring.” Shawn stretched on the chair; his legs dangled on its cushioned armrest. “Read the note for me.”

The delivery boy exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes. Bret would’ve left ages ago if his father wasn’t so insistent about pleasing their clients. Not wanting to waste any more time, he began to read the card. “Love of my life–”

“Is it too late to return the bouquet?”

Bret couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped him. The corner of Shawn’s lip quirked up at the sound of his laughter. He twirled a strand of his golden hair between his fingers, “You should rest a bit before you go.” Shawn stood up and strolled towards Bret, “You must be tired.” He brushed his hand against Bret’s forearm and grinned at the way his Adam’s apple bobbed.

“I should go, Mr. Layfield–”

“Call me Shawn.” He peeked up at Bret through his lashes, “You’ve got a name, delivery boy?”

“What I do have are other deliveries to do.” Bret felt his cheeks warm as he raised his clipboard and offered the other man a pen, “I need your signature, Mr. Layf– Shawn.”

Shawn pouted, his shoulders sagged as he took the pen and clipboard from Bret’s grasp; their fingers brushed against one another. Bret bit his top lip as Shawn signed the paper with a flourish and gave the clipboard back to him. The delivery boy could feel the tension leave his body; this whole fiasco was finally sealed to a close. “It’s been a pleasure, Shawn.”

The blond took an abrupt step towards Bret’s personal space; their chests flushed together. Shawn tucked the pen behind the other’s ear. “The pleasure’s all mine,” he purred.

The tension left Bret, and his soul might as well follow along with it.

A stormy haze engulfed Bret’s consciousness, and it didn’t clear up until he was seated in his truck. The events that transpired minutes ago replayed in his mind like a broken cassette tape. He combed his fingers through his hair, and the pen balanced behind the shell of his ear fell on the passenger seat beside him. His eyes darted to the clipboard on his lap; the name ‘Shawn Michaels’ written on the signature line mocked him. He glanced at the mansion’s reflection on the crooked rearview mirror, and with the thoughts of Shawn plaguing him, he drove off.

Shawn didn’t cross Bret’s mind again until a week later. He was sat on the counter redoing the messy ribbons Owen hurriedly tied beforehand when his dad lumbered into the shop with a box of lavender colored craft paper in his arms. Bret raised a questioning brow at Owen, and their father placed the box on the counter. “Big order coming up,” the older Hart mused.

Bret could already feel the sleepless hours they will undoubtedly spend making flower arrangements. Owen groaned at the very thought. Their father cleared the counter from leaves and petals, letting them drop to the floor. “Mr. Layfield has a soiree in a week and since he loved our flowers the last time, he wanted us to arrange flowers for it.”

Owen groaned even louder and slouched in his chair. “Hate that guy,” the blonde grumbled under his breath, a sour taste still in his mouth from the last time their rich client last visited them. “That guy is paying for our food on the table, son,” Stu tutted.

As both Harts bickered back and forth, Bret gulped. Bret usually didn’t think of the people he delivered flowers to; their faces stay blurred for the short time they linger in his thoughts. But Shawn, with his not-so-subtle interest and that damned silk robe of his, was the exception.

“I bet his husband didn’t even like the bouquet!” Owen complained. Their father scowled but couldn’t disagree. The younger Hart wrapped his arm around Bret, “Right, Bret? The guy didn’t like it, did he?”

Bret ignored his brother, instead feigning nonchalance with a cross of his arms. He turned to Stu, “Say, do you know anything about Layfield’s husband?” Stu hummed, rummaging through the box he carried in, “The boy got married to Layfield the moment he graduated college. Layfield paraded the young man around like a prized diamond to his even richer friends. That’s about everything people know around here.” Owen butted himself into the conversation, “He doesn’t have good taste, then.” Stu shooed his younger son away with a roll of ribbons.

Bret fiddled with the ends of a flower stem, distracting himself. Stu gave him a knowing look, and Bret shifted his eyes to the lone pair of scissors on the floor, far more interesting than the squinted look of his father at that moment. “His husband is coming here later to discuss decorations. I won’t be here—” Owen clapped his hands, already aware of where their father was hinting at. “Oh, would you look at the time, I should really help Lizzy with the groceries. Okay, bye!” Owen bolted out of the store in a breath, the front door bell jingled when he set foot outside and left his family staring at his retreating form.

Stu clicked his tongue before he fished out his notepad from his back pocket. He handed it to Bret, “Just make sure to keep the customer happy.”

It wasn’t that Bret was avoiding Shawn, far from it. But when presented with the chance to flirt back with a man married to someone who could buy all of Bret’s possessions that he’s had or will ever have, he’d rather steer clear of it. But there was something about Shawn that Bret could not stop thinking about. From the beauty mark underneath his lashes to the way he smirked at Bret’s flustered state, Shawn was beautiful, and he knew it all too well. He seemed to know just the right buttons to press to make Bret second-guess his words. And the Hart was trapped between a rock and a hard place when Shawn finally visited the flower shop, an hour late from schedule.

Looking at Shawn made Bret unconsciously smooth out the wrinkles of his shirt and fix his hair any chance he got. Under Shawn’s gaze, Bret felt awfully small. When Shawn entered the store, he brought in an air of sweetness, the type that makes Bret’s mouth water. It was a nice change from the aroma of flowers, and for once, Bret didn’t have the urge to hide his nose behind his hand. Shawn dressed simply, but with the way he carried himself, it proved otherwise. He was fond of silk, Bret noticed, as his eyes trailed from his silk shirt to the jeans that hugged his waist.

“Hi, delivery boy.”

Bret blinked; his eyes shot back to Shawn’s face. “Welcome, Mr. Layfield,” Bret managed to utter. Shawn pouted, “I told you not to call me that.”

The blonde locked his gaze on the array of flowers behind Bret, his pout melting into a grin. “Those are pretty. I wish I got those bouquets instead.”

Bret turned to where Shawn was staring and laughed, “50 roses not good enough for you?” Shawn smiled, “Not even good to begin with.”

[fissions-chips]

love you not

(set ambiguously in 'canon'- tw for smoking, implied nsfw and abuse)

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   At this hour of the evening, even the streets of Chicago were mostly empty. 

   Jon watched the world blur past outside his window, head resting on one hand as the other tapped a furious, staccato rhythm against his thigh, nearly in time with the patter of the rain hitting the hood and windshield. Streetlights hazed over and the slick asphalt and concrete shone red, green and gold as mist lifted from the ground. The storm had begun to lighten, taking the worst of the downpour with it, soon to be gone entirely when the sun rose. 

   The mood in the car, however, remained no less unpleasant than the foul weather. 

   The silence hung thick and heavy between the two passengers, the interior shrouded with thick blue smoke, jet from between Valentine’s teeth as he idly tilted his head back and sighed. It was a mild sound, nonplussed- perfectly poised to cut through Jon’s thoughts and sink its teeth into him. Biting. Needling. Valentine leaned his head against the window as the other man took the bait and bristled. 

   “Shut the fuck up.” 

   Jon didn’t turn his head to look at the other man- he could see him clearly enough in his mind, smirking and saturated in alcohol, even as his good humor dissolved completely. His smile hadn’t dropped yet, teeth smudged as they were with his own lipstick and the taste of another’s tongue. 

   Jon ran his free hand beneath his nose, wincing at the sharp sting to be found there, still tacky with half-dried blood. A pang of hurt ran up the lines of his face and down the back of his throat, teeth grinding together at the sound of the other man slumping against the window, feet rising to settle upon the seats and knock against his thigh. Valentine was pointedly avoiding the sight of him, and he knew it. 

   After a few more seconds, the car rumbled to a stop at a red light- the sunglassed man raised his cigarette to his lips and took a drag. Stretching out to further intrude upon the other’s space, his gaze shifted to watch the cars pass from the corner of his eye as Jon pressed himself against the opposite window, hand clenched against his knee hard enough to bruise. 

   “… Still pissy, aren’t you?” 

   Valentine’s voice was low and smooth, utterly unimpressed- the kind of tone that dug its way beneath Jon’s skin and itched. He didn’t want to rise to the bait, wanted more than anything to be back in his own bed so he could forget the miserable evening he had had… but he was Jon Spiro, and Jon Spiro, more often than not, took any bait hook, line and sinker. 

   “What… what the fuck is wrong with you?” 

   Jon’s words dripped with venom- his lip curled as he spat them out, head snapping around to snarl in the other man’s direction. There was a note there, taunt and strained and begging to snap completely- the man’s hands curled into trembling fists as he watched Valentine smoothly roll his shoulders, still pointedly keeping his odd eyes on the curb blurring past. 

   “Of course I’m fucking ‘pissy’, you self-centered prick-“ Jon hissed, his whole body bristling as he grabbed Valentine’s legs and flung them away from him- that got the other man’s attention, Valentine letting out an outraged squawk as his lower body nearly slipped from the seats entirely. “Do you expect me to praise you for the shit you pulled tonight? For acting like a fucking whore?“ 

   “Oh, that’s rich, Jonny- got any better sticks and stones?” 

   Valentine’s voice cut right through his own, Jon forced to pause when the other CEO once more flung his feet up onto the seats beside him, shoes pointedly pressing against the white fabric of his side and smudging the pale linen with street-stained rainwater- Jon barked a curse and lifted a hand, only to be stopped dead in his tracks by the car rounding a sharp turn, knocking his head into the window. The man glanced up to see the driver staring down the two of them in the mirror, a warning glint in his eye- Valentine rolled his eyes and tucked his knees to his chest, Jon once more pressing himself against the glass and praying the chill from its surface would calm him, somewhat.

   His nose still ached. It wasn’t broken, of that he was sure- but it would bruise nastily. At least his rings didn’t cut me, Jon thought, trying to draw some satisfaction from the knowledge that he himself had escaped largely unscathed- all he found was a deep, deep bitterness, and he clung to it. It was better than the alternative, the well of grief he felt bubbling up within him. 

   The other guy can’t say the same. 

   Lifting a hand to smooth through his tousled hair, Valentine stubbed his cigarette out against his window and tossed it to the floor, grinding the remains under one heel. “I don’t know what you expected, really.” He muttered, pushing his glasses further up his nose. The smile had finally fallen from his face, mouth twisted in a sneer as his voice took on a slightly petulant note. 

   “It’s your fault for inviting me- you know me better than that, Jon... I’m nobody’s ‘plus one’.” 

   For a moment, silence filled the car- the only sound was the low purr of the engine and the quiet click of a lighter as Valentine pulled another cigarette from his case and jammed it between his teeth. 

   “… Then why did you accept the fucking invitation?” 

   Jon’s voice was quiet, cracking sharply as the man dug his nails into the flesh of his arms until he felt the skin bruise beneath. His mind flashed back to the other at his arm just hours before, Valentine’s hand pressed against his hip and his breath soft against the side of Jon’s neck as he purred something saccharine and sugar-sweet into his ear. The memory of the warmth of the other man’s body made his chest ache- Jon pressed his head against the glass and bit his tongue. You fucking idiot, he cursed himself. You stupid goddamn idiot. You knew this would happen. 

   “I suppose…” He grit out, after a long moment. “It’s too much to expect common fucking decency from you… but when I invited you to come with me, I thought you’d…” His voice trailed off, Jon struggling to choke the words out.

   It was well-known in their world that Valentine was a man of few attachments- for all his sweet, shallow smiles and attention-seeking, only happy in the eyes of a crowd, the man was, at his core, cold. Jon knew it better than anyone. He’d woken up to an empty bed more times than he could count, no matter how much he tried to tempt the other man to stay a little longer once the sun rose. He was skilled company, and, if Jon was being honest, one of the few reliable opportunities he had for a good fuck- but god, Valentine had a special way of making someone feel lonely, even when he was sitting right next to them. 

   Even now, Jon could feel the frustration emanating off of him in waves, all traces of former good humor gone. Valentine was watching him from the corner of his eye like one would watch a roach they found beneath their shoe- disgusted. Wary. Disappointed. 

   Despite knowing the other man well, Jon had hoped that Valentine would at least have the sense to play along kindly, when he had called him up and offered an invitation to a business partner’s gathering- scheduled for the month of February and meant for a plus one, isn’t that lovely? 

   Jon… hadn’t known who else to call. And Valentine had accepted, had played the role graciously for an hour or two, despite his reputation. They had danced, even. Like some happy high school couple. 

   Jon screwed his eyes shut, hating the way he had laughed along, giddy with the joy of it. Hating the way the other man had cooed his name so sweetly as he tucked him beneath his arm, like he was something precious.

   Lovesick fucking idiot.

   “I thought…” He repeated. “You could just play along for one night. One. When you accepted the goddamn invitation. I shouldn’t-“ His voice cracked sharply, and he winced. 

   “I shouldn’t have to find you with another man’s face in between your fucking legs, at a party I invited you to, because you couldn’t keep it in your pants for one fucking night.”

   A mocking scoff met his ears, the click of a lighter echoing as Valentine lit another cigarette and jammed it between his teeth. Waving a hand dismissively, he sank against his window as well, idly running a hand up the bruising marks dotting his throat. “Jon, it was a couples’ party. Everyone fucks at those parties, if they can find somewhere out of the way- you’d know that if you hadn’t gotten us kicked out early.” 

   The last words were spat with venom. “Or maybe not. You can’t go anywhere without making a scene, can you?” Beginning to bristle now, Valentine rolled his eyes again, the flickering point of his cigarette spilling hot smoke around his features as his voice sharpened, cold and sneering. “I was having fun- I didn’t go for you, Jon, and you damn well know that. How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not yours. Never have been.” 

   Jon stiffened, fingers tightening into fists once more as he fought to keep his eyes to the floor- the other caught the brief glimmer of hurt there, caught somewhere between fury and frustration, and, having found the point at which to dig, sank his claws in. 

   “Just because I fuck you on occasion doesn’t mean you mean shit to me, Jon, not like that! I don’t want a partner, and I certainly don’t want you. You can’t stop fucking… fucking nipping at my heels about it!” Leaning forward, Valentine snickered nastily as Jon shrank away, pointedly avoiding the gaze of the other man. 

   “Get over yourself! You throw a shitfit when I decide to have some fun, and now you’re acting like this when you have to live with the consequences? You ruined my night! You broke that man’s nose over it, you jealous little bitch! Now I’m gonna have to play the peacemaker when the press finds out- it’s not like anyone expects any better from you.”

   Pulling his cigarette from his lips for a moment, Valentine opened his mouth and let some of his fury roll off his tongue with the smoke. Then, sneering, and with the added impulse of the high he was under, he pointedly ground the cigarette’s end against the white fabric of Jon’s pants leg, grinning as he heard the other man hiss between his teeth.

   Any further insult or injury was suddenly cut off by the sound of a blow and Valentine’s squall of pain, the raven-haired man sent sprawling in the back of his own car as Jon screamed. 

   “Don’t FUCKING touch me!”

   The car ground to a screeching halt at a corner, both men jostled against the leather seats. Valentine blinked up through glasses sent tilting, one hand reaching up to cup his stinging cheek. He winced slightly. His odd eyes were wide with shock- they drifted towards the driver’s seat, the man out-of-view from his angle. Swallowing thickly, he heaved himself upright from the aisle flooring. His cigarette lay smoldering on the carpet below. 

   Jon was staring down at his open palm, other hand still white-knuckled against his pants’ leg- a perfect circle of soot etched only just shy of his fingers. For a moment, the man’s expression was blank, Jon stunned into silence by his own actions as his fingers fell into his lap. 

   Then, his expression twisted into one of horror, nausea roiling in his gut. The taste of bile mingled with the bitterness on the back of his tongue, and Jon slumped against the door- his hands fumbled for the latch that would open it. Goddamn stupid sonova bitch- 

   He needed air. He needed to get out. He needed to cool off. Jon’s hands shook with the unbearable urge to be anywhere else than in the company of the other man- he could see Valentine moving in the edge of his vision, a bristling black shadow, eyes hidden by pink-tinged lenses and smoke. 

   He found the latch and pulled it, forcing himself outside and into the open air, heavy and damp with the last dregs of the storm. Jon’s feet met the wet pavement and threatened to slip from beneath him entirely as he slammed the door behind him with one shaking hand, the other trembling, clenched in a fist and pressed to his mouth to stifle a short, choked sound. 

   I hate him. I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him-

   Jon bit his lip until he tasted blood. He wanted to scream. He wanted to sob. He wanted to curl his fingers around the other man’s neck and squeeze- almost, almost as much as he wanted to hide his face against it and just be held.

   He looked down at his hands. Still shaking, the damn things- the other man’s pained yelp echoed in the back of his mind, and despite his fury, his face fell. Some things couldn’t be taken back. 

   Even if Valentine himself was guilty of it before, even if Jon was well-familiar with dodging a reaching hand or cuff to the head, even if his words cut sharper than split glass… even if… 

   Jon shuddered. 

   You’re no better than he is.

   Head bowed against the faint patter of rain, Jon stumbled on in the direction of home, praying that once he made it, sleep took him quickly and deeply. He needed to forget this night had ever happened- and he needed a stiff drink and a cigarette, doctors be damned. 

   And, once he had shed his wet coat and shoes by the door, haphazard, and dimmed every light in his penthouse suit to stall the headache brewing, he would do just that… but the scent of the other man’s smoke lingered, no matter how Jon tried to drown it out with the taste of his own tobacco. This kind of poison didn’t have a cure. It just sat, and festered, a perpetually open wound. 

   Jon traced the circle of soot printed against his pants leg, the slight sting on his skin comforting. 

   I need to ditch his damn number.

   He wouldn’t. He knew that. Thinking about it made him feel better, though, so Jon allowed himself to pretend, staring out at the empty sky and pointedly ignoring the sight of his reflection, etched and alone, in the glass before him.

[ribbonsweetcreme]

A special delivery from the Secret Valentines gang,

Patchwork Staccato!

[outoflimbo]

very partial, very stoned interpretation of "music has the right to children" by boards of canada.

the album waves hello with the faint, glimmering staccato melodic structure in "wildlife analysis". what's followed is "an eagle in your mind," meditative, moody, exploring the colder caverns of fond memories. a sample of sea lion documentary plays, describing their mating rituals. it's interrupted by a playful "i love you!" that sounds like it came from a valentine's card and then proceeds with a colder, more choppy beat on the way out of the track, segueing in and out in a cool-headed way.

[jules-has-notes]

Suit & Tie — VoicePlay music video

This is VoicePlay's earliest music video that wasn't either connected to an existing album or explicitly promotional material. They jumped on this brand new (at the time) tune to give us a version that is a bit more stripped-down than the original, but still complex and groovy.

Details:

title: Suit & Tie

original performers: Justin Timberlake, featuring Jay-Z

written by: Justin Timberlake, Tim "Timbaland" Mosley, Jerome "J-Roc" Harmon, James Fauntleroy, & Shawn "Jay-Z" Carter

arranged by: Geoff Castellucci & Layne Stein

release date: 12 February 2013

My favorite bits:

the palette-swap color scheme of their wardrobe (but where is Tony's pink item?)

adding lyrics to the original backing horn lines to create more interesting harmonies

changing the excerpt of Jay-Z's rap section to a sung melody

the staccato five-part unison moment on ♫ "You're all mi-ine tonight." ♫

all that tasty triplet syncopation in the bridge

Geoff and Layne leaving off the rhythm for a few bars to give some nice low legato harmonies under the trio

that clean cut-off at the end

Trivia:

This video was released just one month after Timberlake dropped the original single, and two days before his official video premiered on Valentine's Day.

Portions of the Timberlake music video include behind-the-scenes style footage from a recording studio. Likewise, VoicePlay filmed their version at Rayne's Room, the studio owned and operated by Layne. (They didn't have David Fincher to direct theirs, though.)

getting ready to record

[potatochip-oc-dump]

thinking about gary and his friends... i am trying to lean into the mad scientist aspect of his character a little more

[ollie603]

Course resource: Graphic design; now in production

Part of my research gathering phase was to look into the course resources provided. I wanted to better understand what went (and furthermore, what goes) into creating motion design. The course resource I will be looking at is "Graphic design; now in production" by Rob Giampietro; Åbäke (Design studio); Walker Art Center published in 2011.

"Film titles are containers of information about the film they're attached to".

Title design during the silent era of entertainment gave context to the audience by addressing key points and adding dialogue to muted conversations. Borrowing from print design of the early 1900s.

During the golden era, titles were used as a branding tool for the films. Setting expectations for the audience by evoking the content of the film in the designs.

During the 90s, Kyle Coopers title design for David Fincher's film Se7en (1995) contained "frenetic typography, staccato pacing, and irreverent visual mash-ups" and furthermore was considered a landmark in modern title sequence design.

In the 2000s, television adopted the trend, commissioning designs that were on a par with anything found on the movie screen. More recently, video games have started adopting the trend to encourage/inspire awe as-well. This variation in media pioneered a new sophisticated visual direction in title design.

Ian Albinson in regards to what he learnt designing the title sequence to "How We Built Britain" includes;

That having an open-mind and listening to your producers is a positive thing. That they know the project much better than the designer would and that they understand what will work visually for their product.

Tom Kan on typography for the title design for "Enter the Void" includes;

Having a large choice of typefaces allows the designer to find what will work best based on the context and mood of the work you are basing the design off. Having a large pool of typefaces allows the designers not to be constricted to a narrow selection of design choices. Making work in different styles (media, cultural history) allows the designers & producers to find the best work that visually represents the work, rather than a singular style.

Jim Helton on abstraction for the title design for "Blue Valentine" includes;

Reviewing the footage before creating the work. Jim saw how the end of the film used fireworks and so he created a firework montage for the start, which refers back to my previous research and understanding of title design back in the 1900s by providing context to the audience (albeit not knowingly until the audience watches the film, acting like an Easter egg/surprise).

Jim Helton on making something flow in title design for "Blue Valentine" includes;

By making content understandable without audio, it will certainly be flow with audio. This allows the audience to become enthralled by the visuals and the audio at the same time.

Kyle Cooper on having a team for "The Incredible Hulk" includes;

Collaboration is crucial for success in title design (and design in general). Testing and experimentation is needed to effectively portray the product. In my case, the lecturers would be my teammates, allowing me to get feedback on what I can do to effectively streamline my design process.

Kyle Cooper on picking his favourite elements for "The Incredible Hulk" includes;

By breaking down fragments of the design into frames you can visually see each frame as a singular composition, allowing the designer to make the call whether or not it works. Cooper makes sure every single frame in his title designs are personally approved, otherwise he will go back and correct it, even if the frame is viewed for part of a second.

Damien Smith on the design process for "A History of Scotland" includes;

Collaboration with other people to get an unbiased mind to give thoughts on the work done and understanding the cultural/historical significance of the time for the work the designer is trying to portray. Attention to typographic elements is important for contextual reasons but also the visual elements to provide context on the aforementioned factors above.

Overall, my research conducted on this course resource will better prepare me for the project about to take place. What needs to be considered to create a piece of work that will leave an impression and successfully represent my speech.

[h0rnyshakespeare]

Falling in love with the BNHA girls

Request: If you want to, just general fluff of Class 1-A women is *chefs kiss* for me rn-- Pick any ya want (or do them all 👀) Crush fluff, kissing fluff, just literally ANY fluff--

Pairing: Jiro x gn!reader, Mina x gn!reader, Momo x gn!reader, Ochako x gn!reader

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 564

Warnings: None

A/N: Aaah I’m so sorry this took so long anon😭 I decided to go ahead and do all of them, hope that makes up for the wait

Falling in love with Jirou is like a soft staccato played lightly on a piano; it starts off slowly- the occasional hug, small kisses peppered on your face, the late night exchange of secrets whispered in the dark. But as time goes on, Jirou becomes less shy around you and begins to come out of her shell more. The hugs turn into cuddle sessions, the kisses turn more passionate. Kissing Jirou feels like the tune of an acoustic song- it’s soft, sweet, slow, and has your heart racing miles for her. Because of her.

The late night conversations escalate, leading to the both of you breaking curfew to sneak out to each other’s dorms- where, after some persuasion, Jirou sings you the songs she’s written about falling for you like you fell for her as you fall asleep in her arms.

Falling in love with Mina is like dancing to your favourite song all alone in your room- the giddy excitement, the rush of emotions, the special feeling you get that all your moments with her belong to you two alone. Her forward nature often getting you flustered, your heart threatening to jump out your chest.

The surprise backhugs, the kisses she excitedly places all over you as she squeezes your face endearingly with her hands, the sensual dances she makes you do with her. The many shopping trips she drags you along on- not that you mind; it gives you an opportunity to see her bright smile as she whisks various clothes to the changing room, winking at you.

Falling in love with Momo is like roses blooming in the summer, flooding the fields. It’s delicate and velvety; Momo never fails to make you feel like royalty from the way she treats you. She spoils you to no end, buying whatever she sees that reminds her of you. Momo is your rock; being a very intuitive person, she can always tell when you’re having a bad day, offering you a fragrant cup of tea before sitting on your side, gently placing your head on her shoulder as you rant about life. Study dates with Momo are regular, although they always end with the two of you cuddling on the couch, on her bed… anywhere really. Momo is surprisingly a very physically affectionate person; she craves your touch and warmth as much as you do, needs your touch, your warmth, as much as you do. She is always holding your hand, although, ironically, she gets flustered by the smallest amount of PDA.

Falling in love with Ochako is like cherry blossoms floating to the ground. It starts off with chaste kisses, squeezing each other’s hands under your desks when you think no one’s looking, making each other sweets for Valentine’s Day. Baking together becomes a frequent thing between you two, often ending with you both covered in flour after playfighting in the kitchen.

When you start venturing deeper into your relationship and open up to each other more, Ochako is the best person to go to for a comforting conversation; she usually places your head on her thighs and strokes your hair softly as you confess your insecurities, worries and problems to her. And she’ll listen quietly, allowing you to release all the built-up stress you’ve been hiding for so long. She’ll be there for you after you’ve been there for everyone around you.

[alphateamsfinest]

@superiordna isn't going to write Jill up. A lone finger sat atop the brim of his highball glass,  tapping in steady staccato.  The smell of her words sting at him first,  carrying burning fumes from the cocktail of liquors she’d been ingesting for the last hour.  Petite woman like her should not have had that many empty long islands already,  but there the glasses stand,  drained of all but their ice.  A graveyard of Collins with lemon wedges,  looming behind her indignant expression.

   “Count yourself lucky,  Valentine.  I’m in no mood to do paperwork,  or I might report you for that.”  The atmosphere was entirely informal,  yet her captain speaks with the same no nonsense as ever.  

   He reaches past her,  never did the bar’s seedy light shift along on the brim of his sunglasses,  fixed on her alone.  In his fingers he reveals the garnish of lemon stolen from one of her drinks.  “Bite into this,  would you?  Your breath is flammable.”  Then again,  maybe this was his way of teasing.

Jill actually laughs at that, something genuine and not the polite laughs she gives that are so dry it could catch fire. This one actually crinkles the skin around her eyes, makes her lips pull up a smidge more on the right than the left with how she leans.

The idea he would write her up for something like that- even if technically correct. "Then you would have to write all of us up for all the things we say! Like- when I call Chris a dork." She can only imagine how many stupid write ups there would be and how often they'd have to rewrite them, a little laugh at the thought.

Jill leans in without a second thought and bites the lemon, her face scrunches up, a little stomp of her foot. "Oh!" She breathes again, looks up at him. "Better?" She goes for a sip of her drink, stabs the straw around a few times to only get ice. That lemon is disposed of in the same manner, before she's trying to raise her hand up high enough to get the bartenders attention. "You want another Wesker?"

[superiordna]

So what she's a little drunk, they all just got off their shift and convinced the whole team out to the bar. A couple drinks in and she looks up at Wesker, squinting for a solid minute before it comes out. "You're just like.... a buff nerd."

   A lone finger sat atop the brim of his highball glass,  tapping in steady staccato.  The smell of her words sting at him first,  carrying burning fumes from the cocktail of liquors she’d been ingesting for the last hour.  Petite woman like her should not have had that many empty long islands already,  but there the glasses stand,  drained of all but their ice.  A graveyard of Collins with lemon wedges,  looming behind her indignant expression.

   “Count yourself lucky,  Valentine.  I’m in no mood to do paperwork,  or I might report you for that.”  The atmosphere was entirely informal,  yet her captain speaks with the same no nonsense as ever.  

   He reaches past her,  never did the bar’s seedy light shift along on the brim of his sunglasses,  fixed on her alone.  In his fingers he reveals the garnish of lemon stolen from one of her drinks.  “Bite into this,  would you?  Your breath is flammable.”  Then again,  maybe this was his way of teasing.

[crimson-elegy]

Pyrrhic

Post-Dirge Vincent Valentine - self-indulgent stream-of-consciousness and establishment of an 'untethered' timeline.

Pyrrhic victory, second chances, unlocked memories, broken promises, a failed (successful) suicide mission.

Culmination.

Cataclysm.

A shattered sky. Inverted and bowing with gravity, pulling the atmosphere down into an apocalyptic maelstrom once again, and once more with a planetary force rising. Underground twisted above ground in an endless web of green. Cavernous, gaping, yawning, burning, impossible geometry at an impossible scale towering to the heavens from the depths of Hell, ascending with the final hopes and machinations of the mad.

It had all come crashing down - the enemy without, the cancer within, the deceit and lies and horror and sins festering even in the light of holy providence.

Lives stolen and sundered.

Broken land. Broken dreams. Broken people. Their song, a dirge, coursed through wretched veins, relentless, irresistible. A call to Chaos, to the End, its herald, its harbinger, intertwining tortured flesh made immortal with terrible deeds.

That was what they wanted. To purge every living thing, leave Gaia a broken husk.

A machine of the Planet's making bloated with death, budding from her skin like a mosquito from stagnant water, soaring to some other world.

This was their ambition, a glimpse of horrifying clarity. A vessel for their chosen few, robbing everyone who was ever born, who had ever died, of their chances of rebirth into the light. The elemental, chthonic thing twined around his soul was to be their key.

“Are sins ever forgiven?” his mako-eyed compatriot asked once, awash in the numinous light of the forest outside the Forgotten City, glowing trees bent toward the glassy surface of the placid lake. Quiet and still but restless with bloodshed and grief.

Aerith was committed to the Lifestream here. Interred.

Tseng and Elena had been tortured nearly to death. Vincent could not let that stand--he brought them here. Nor could he allow Strife to perish at the Remnants’ hands. Action rather than artifice. It felt right. An allowance for the Turks. Nod to camaraderie from before their time, an unbroken thread.

“I’ve never tried,” he responded, aware of the breath of ghosts, the weight of failure dogging the young man’s every step. Cloud blamed himself for her death. Let it consume him. Vincent understood intimately.

Sin for the sin-eater who let the uncomfortable silence stretch with the weight of a burning gaze, even as little Marlene huddled in his cloak, sheltering in the wings of the monster.

Guardian demon.

“...Well, I’m gonna try,” Cloud decided.

A little push. A little beat. Still human. Always human. Cloud more than many.

Vincent watched him go. Watched him return to their little found family, the slender red (pink) tether binding them together. Even him. Obsession, love, and loss.

A counterbalance. The urge to leave. The compelling call.

Back to Midgar to see it through.

He had to make it right. Had to make it matter. An exercise of will adamantine despite a crucible of torture decades in the making.

Penance for the wasted years. Absolution in a final blow. Peace for the ones who, despite everything, called him mentor, friend, even as he kept them at arm’s length for their own safety, that he would not infect them with his own misery as surely as Geostigma gnawed at their souls.

And oh, how uncovered truths, recovered memories, resonated.

A s c e n d.

Let go. Embrace the Becoming, the demon, eldritch creature, force of destruction. Seize control of the Weapon, a reaper’s scythe turned against its purpose.

Shatter the shield.

Break the barrier.

Infernal shadow burned a crimson streak from the stratosphere, plunging like a blade into the whirling churning gyre, into the maw of madness, into certain sacrifice, severing the strings that set this in motion.

The report of gunfire - staccato thunder, elemental and pure.

The flap of wings - a surge of strength, supped upon the anguish and the rage and all of the beautiful broken glimpses between.

The sting of shrapnel and debris as the construct split and wavered and crumbled and roared. It had to be enough.

Had to be -

Felled.

Fallen.

White. A titan’s shattered skeleton hanging in the atmosphere. An explosion of Lifestream raining back to earth.

F  A    L       L          I            N              G

Free.

------------------

Flash.

Weightless in a cloud-strewn sky, a cool night colder still at speed. Vast and open and empty in the whip of air past senseless ears, the flap of tattered fabric trailing like a pennant, of leathery skin pulled tight around arms composed for a funeral.

If this is purgatory, he could know such peace as a blessing. He could sleep amid the white noise and the static, more a comfort than the uneasy silence of a cursed mansion muffled through cushioned coffin walls.

Seconds, minutes, hours, he has no concept of time.

[Wake up.]

"...No."

This is good. Better than he deserves, really, but he'll just have to accept it.

For once.

Something earned.

A mission seen through to the end.

But then -

[It isn’t over.]

SLAM

Metal punctures ruined metal, the briefest resistance to terminal velocity loud as artillery.

[We cannot rest.]

Crimson eyes slant open, burning gold seething around pupils, his voice, its voice, one and indivisible. Cool and windy becomes hot and close as he splits through the still-belching smoke of a raging fire.

[You cannot rest.]

Meteoric his body plunges down, down, down into the sprawling abyss, the green-lit network of pipes and valves and technology pumping like a great eight (seven) valved heart in the middle of a wasteland of its own making.

SLAM

Pierced steel crumples, shatters.

Inclinations to slow, to stop, come far too late.

Gravity takes its due.

By the time diabolical limbs open to seize air, there is not enough to catch. The slums are there. Right there, wreckage in spires of rust.

CRASH

A blink, a heartbeat. Debris tumbles, clatters, crunches into a crater, and something pulls.

Wrenches.

A sudden and momentous stop, crushing, bone-deep.

...and despite every instinct to remain silent clenching too-sharp teeth together, an inhuman howl escapes, spiraling off into the smoggy dark, rattling, echoing through shuttered homes and abandoned places.

Brass-capped claws curl around the point of white-hot pain emerging from his abdomen, finding blackened rebar slick with blood.

Heels scuff into the dust, walking forward, pulling free of his impalement with a fleshy shlock. Contorted grey-banded muscle recedes into corpse-pale skin, disgorging debris and leaving the shape of a disoriented man behind to gather his bearings.

Alive.

Awake.

Elsewhere.

Elsewhen.