#valentine staccato

[potatochip-oc-dump]

HAPPY PRIDE!!!!!!

[mochiiniko]

rhythm doctor jumpscare

[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.”

[ribbonsweetcreme]

A special delivery from the Secret Valentines gang,

Patchwork Staccato!

[slshuhua]

"New Year's kisses? Pfft, overrated. Brace yourselves; Valentine's Day is swooping in. And guess what? I'm ditching the typical romance for a rendezvous with friends. I'm thinking about creating a blind friendship date," the idol said with a nonchalant flick of her hair. The strands dance in the breeze for a moment, eventually settling down at the nape of her neck. With pink manicured nails orchestrating a staccato rhythm on the table, she leaned in, a coy smile playing on her lips, "Trust me, everyone needs a good ally to navigate this wild carnival called life."

@seoulessrp

[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

[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?"

[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

[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.

[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.

[emmyllou]

AO3 WRAPPED

@fol-de-lol non-tagged me! (I love that phrase so I'm stealing it)

works published: 5

words written:  149,585

hits: 910!! (I love my small fandom I love you all)

bookmarks: 4!!!! (thank you I love you)

most popular by kudos: Beneath a Sinking Moon

most popular by hits: ALSO Beneath a Sinking Moon

longest: The Grove of Broken-silence

shortest fic: Chicory

most comments: also Broken-silence!

fic that made me cry: I don't really cry at my own fics? Tom Levy was crying in Staccato and in Dr. Foxcastle's Board Game Club Band though

fic that made me smile: I really enjoyed writing A Lustre in the Sky. I had a lot of fun writing poor sad Segundus reading poetry and pining. I also had a good time writing Eynsford in Beneath a Sinking Moon. Johannites and their doomed rebellion my beloved.

gifts given: 3 official ones, 1 unofficial!

Beneath a Sinking Moon

Anything Goes

A Lustre in the Sky

Chicory (not officially listed as a gift but it was written for @fol-de-lol's delightful JS&MN advent calendar!

received: TWO WONDERFUL FICS AND ONE GORGEOUS DRAWING given on AO3 as gifts! I think there have been some other unofficial gifts on discord and such.

 Marry a nice Jewish boy

John Segundus Gets a Massage (among other things)

The Dance

collaborations: none =(

events taken part in: 2!

JSAMN Valentine's Rarepair Fest 2022

Jonty Scratch & DJ Norrell - A Fandom Tribute Fest

(thank you Alex for providing the links so I don't even have to go to the effort of linking them myself. It's the same two events.)

coming in 2023: More TomJohn! More WillHurf! More Johnsquared? Various flavors of Starecrossed Lovers. More Chronicles of Amber references! Maybe I'll finally finish Broken-silence. Maybe.

[alphateamsfinest]

The fact that Nikolai was presumably doing something nice for her feels fucking weird, especially with the obvious lack of trust between them after their first meeting. Jill's eyebrows furrow as she looks at the glass, and watches as Nikolai takes his and shoots it back without a problem. Her fingers wrap around the glass, tapping blunt nails against it in staccato, thinking for a moment. Maybe he's right, booze won't help the city, but maybe just a second of relaxing, maybe that might make the difference. Jill tries to rationalize it, about how she's had months of stress, of being locked in her fucking apartment, of following leads to precisely nowhere. One drink won't kill her and maybe, just maybe Nikolai is right and they're moving past everything. For once she's thinking they've gotten on a silent common ground, a tentative truce.

But then he says that and oh she's fucking laughing, loud, surprised, and fucking offended. This isn't the first time and she doubts it'll be the last that a man called her unpleasant. That she really doesn't give a fuck about but being called unreliable? She's Jill fucking Valentine and reliability is something she actually cares about.

Another fucking man, another fucking slave of Umbrella trying to control her, trying to fucking judge her. For a split second, she really considers it, considers taking this bottle and smashing it over his fucking head, hitting him until he's bleeding, until she feels something again that isn't betrayal and rage. Instead, she breathes out, takes the shot, and stamps down any reaction that the alcohol is burning down her throat.

"If you're going to insult me, at least do it with something that's a little more accurate. Call me a frigid bitch, but don't attack my reliability. It makes you look stupider than that haircut."

( @alphateamsfinest​ wrote: 🍻 Get drunk with me Nikolai )

Why people kept insisting he had a drink with them was beyond him. He rarely said no, but he also rarely drank anything at all. This time though, it had been Nikolai who came with two glasses that he placed on the table in front of Jill and poured the drink without saying anything. The second drink was poured as well and he took a seat opposite her. “It won’t help the city but it will help us,” he said as he raised his glass and emptied the drink in one go.

It all had a purpose, of course, Nikolai never let himself have a disadvantage and alcohol was a great one. One drink would do nothing more than build up the illusion that he actually did drink and so did the practised moves of raising and lowering his glass from time to time. Sometimes the liquid even touched his lips but he never drank. Yet, the amount in his glass would change, often when the other person wasn’t looking and in time, they wouldn’t notice if he drank at all or not.

“Or are you as unpleasant and unreliable when you’re drunk as you are when you’re sober?” he asked and slouched back in his seat. Would he regret it? Probably, but sharing a drink might turn out to serve a greater purpose for him in the end.

[velvethopewrites]

Hearts & Flour

“Is all of this…for me?”

Ginny asks, gazing around their kitchen. No, correction, Harry’s kitchen. He’s always sort of staked his claim to it, right from the start. Ginny has been okay to let him have it, truth be told. 

But right now his kitchen is an absolute mess. There are pans everywhere; racks with varying types of pastries cooling on them and flour is everywhere. It’s even on Harry. And he looks adorable, she has to admit, but oh no, she’s not going to tell him that. Because as well as being covered in white powder and (what Ginny hopes is) chocolate along his face, Harry also looks pretty hacked off. He glares at her almost accusingly.

“What are you doing home! You weren’t supposed to be back until late!”

“The meeting turned out shorter than I thought,” Ginny said, coming into the kitchen proper. She pretends to look disinterestedly into a large orange bowl of something that smells remarkably like treacle. With a wave of his wand, Harry floats the bowl over to the counter and frowns at her, his hands on his hips.

“What exactly are you doing, Harry?” Ginny asked.

He looks shy for a moment, but she finally sees his shoulders relax. “It was for our Valentine’s celebration.” 

“But Valentine’s Day was last week.”

“I know, Gin. But we missed it because I was gone on that mission. I thought…I thought I could make it up to you. With….” Harry shrugs and moves his arm in a circle to indicate the mess around him.

Ginny bites her lip and looks away to hide her smile. She raises what she hopes is a cool eyebrow and glances back at him. “You thought I would appreciate a messy kitchen as a romantic gift?”

Harry purses his lips and only grunts at her. He waves his wand a few times and the kitchen looks marginally better but there is still a sense of chaos in the air. Not to mention the scent of something burning. Ginny nods at their stove and Harry follows her gaze and then swears a rather bad word indeed as he rushes to pull out whatever it is he’s forgotten about. 

As his shoulders slump, Ginny comes up beside him and stares at what looks like a charred pan of strawberry tarts. 

“Bugger. Those looked kind of good. Well, minus the dark, burned bottoms.”

Harry only gives her a disgruntled look and sets the pan on the counter, checking each tart to see if there are any to be saved. There’s not. He sighs and pulls his oven gloves off in a huff of frustration. 

Ginny smirks and touches his arm. “Harry, love, it’s okay. I don’t need you killing yourself baking. You more than made it up to me by keeping me in bed all weekend. Or have you forgotten already?”

Harry blushes, but then shrugs sort of helplessly as he looks around the kitchen.   

“I just wanted to do something nice. A surprise. A romantic surprise.”

Ginny leans in and before she captures his mouth for a kiss, she brushes a bit of flour off of his cheek. His eyes spark at hers when she pulls back and she smirks at him. 

“What happened, anyway? It’s unlike you to be so…chaotic while baking.”

“Ron floo’d and I got distracted with, erm, something. I’m sorry. I wanted it to be perfect.”

“You should know by now that I never expect perfection from you.”

Harry fixes her with an unamused look. “Ha-hah.”

Ginny laughs and runs her hands through his hair, making it stand up even more. “Not the way I meant that and you know it. Is there anything worth salvaging? Or should we just order out for afters tonight?”

“The chocolate croissants should be all right,” Harry said, frowning. “And I hadn’t had a chance to ruin the treacle yet.”

“Then that’s all we need,” Ginny said, smiling. 

Harry just stares at her and then runs a hand down his face. When he finally meets her gaze again, there’s a sheepish look on his face that Ginny doesn’t understand. Fumbling for a moment, Harry steps back and with an almost timid grin, he pulls a red velvet box from his jeans pocket and simply holds it out to her. 

Ginny feels her heart start to beat a staccato in her chest but she makes herself take a deep breath before tentatively reaching out and touching the jewelry box. 

“Harry?”

“Go on then,” he said, shaking his head. “I was going to give it to you surrounded by all your favorite sweets so I, er, could wear you down, I reckon, I don’t….” Harry gets a sudden determined air and pushes the box firmly into Ginny’s hand. He uses his fingers to close hers around it and there’s a certain look in his eye….

Her heart, now beating like a dervish, is suddenly in her throat and although they have talked about marriage before this, it feels almost too soon, too much, too….

Ginny opens the box and finds a lovely golden ring on a soft rose colored pillow. It is delicate and intricate - a band made of vines, like a trellis almost, and the stone, a beautiful diamond in a filigree setting winks at her. She looks at Harry, who nods, an adorable smile on his face and she bites her lip, almost afraid that if she reaches out and touches the ring it will break the spell.

“Gin,” Harry whispers, his voice low and trembling. He removes the ring from the box and holds her hand in his as he slips it over her finger. His green eyes are bright and full of unsaid things - and she exhales slowly, suddenly unable to find her voice.

“Ginny Weasley, will you do me the honor of being my wife?” Harry eventually asks, his voice a bit gruff, but his eyes are amused and full of life. She nods, still missing her voice and he smirks, the git, as he slips the ring over her finger slowly and surely. They both stare at it, and Ginny knows she should say something, anything, but she’s gone very quiet inside and she hears everything and nothing both at the same time and she loves the man in front of her so much it almost breaks her. 

“Well, if I knew this would be what finally makes you stop talking around me again, I might have proposed sooner—oomph.”

Ginny throws herself into his arms and her heart feels 1000 times too big for her rib cage and damn it, she’s crying!  How can he always make her cry when she doesn’t want to be teary? And then they’re kissing, and like a spell has been lifted, her voice is back! And she’s saying yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes, and when they finally break apart, Harry’s eyes have darkened and his lips are an almost violent shade of red from all of her kisses and the eleven year old girl inside her screams unintelligently but the 20 year old woman she is on the outside sighs quite happily. 

Harry links his hand with hers, bringing them up together and he’s blushing, which makes him look too adorable and they kiss again - Ginny doesn’t know which one of them moved first but it doesn’t matter. 

And later, after they decide to christen their table yet again with Harry’s fine backside and she has flour in her hair and other places - later when Harry’s scent is all over her and she can hear the strong beat of his heart as she rests her head on his chest, then and only then, does it sink in that she is going to be Mrs Ginny Potter. 

Harry reaches over and grabs one of the by-now-completely-cooled chocolate croissants and feeds her a piece. She licks her way around his finger, the delectable taste of rich chocolate and the light flaky butter of the pastry making her swoon.

“Well, how are they?” Harry asks, always eager to know he’s got it right. She has never understood his insecurity over his baking; everyone always tells him his desserts are heavenly.

“Delicious,” Ginny says. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and winks at him. “The croissant isn’t bad, either.”

Harry snorts and raises an eyebrow at her. “A bit corny, Miss Soon to Be Mrs Potter. I thought you were above such things.”

“I was swept away,” Ginny deadpans and then smiles as she looks around. “You know, I’d like to try everything you’ve made, but…can we maybe get off the table first?”

Harry laughs as they sit up. “Yes, please.” He smirks at her. “When we retell this story, let’s leave out the part where you couldn’t wait to have me, just to protect any future children we may have. For the record, I proposed to you surrounded by flowers and a perfectly clean kitchen. With no burned bits. And definitely no flour up my—”

“No promises,” Ginny whispers, stopping him. 

She moves her mouth to a particularly sensitive spot she knows he has on his neck, right below his ear. “Especially since I expect a re-enactment of this proposal every single year. Even when we’re too old to bend our knees.”

“We’ll have to use the levitation charm to get up here,” Harry says, smirking.

Ginny laughs and runs her hand’s down Harry’s still semi-clothed body. “Hmm, sounds kinky.”

“So, what do you reckon?” Harry asks as he helps her down and they pick up their discarded pieces of clothing. “Long engagement or right away?”

“My mum is not going to let you get away with anything under six months and you know it. Besides it’s Quidditch season.”

“You want to get married on the pitch?”

Ginny snorts as they embrace again. “No. As much as I love Quidditch, no.”

They both chuckle and look around the kitchen, which is still messy. She glances at Harry and uses her wand to tidy it up a bit more. 

“I suppose that’ll do until morning, if you wanted to continue this celebration some place softer? Like a bed?” Ginny asked, raising an eyebrow.

Harry just smiles and takes her hand into his to lead her upstairs. And Ginny grabs a couple of more croissants for them. Just to keep their strength up, of course.

                                                     o-o-o-o-o-o

Note: Yes, I know it’s almost March and Valentine’s Day is blip in the rearview mirror, but this is for all of you. ❤️ I wish it could have been on time and longer and well, just better, but my muse is a persnickety _____.