shuifong-blog

[shuifong-blog]

Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010) dir. Edgar Wright

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isa: nope

isa: the other thing

peter: about the weather

peter: bc if its cold and i dont wear a jacket

peter: ill get sick

peter: and you'll have to deal with that

peter: but if i wear a jacket

peter: i wont get sick

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bluejamiemoon‌:

Happy birthday? Happy birthday?! Was that really the best that Jamie could come up with? Could he not think of anything better? How has he not dropped dead from sheer embarrassment? It must be God’s cruel joke, letting him say something that idiotic and just simply allowing him to continue on living.

“..did..you mean this..?”

The question makes Jamie snap back to reality, brown eyes meeting Peter’s. He gulps as hisfriend takes his hand and rests it against his rapidly thumping heart - its quickened beat feels the same as his own heart in his chest. It’s beat pounds throughout his whole body, from his ear drums to his fingertips, pressed hard against Peter’s pec. He wonders for a moment if he can feel his own pulsating heart, pounding, hammering just for him through his shaky hands.

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I want you. I want you. I want you. The words were like a mantra in his head, called out louder and louder, screaming over the ugly thoughts that began to emerge from the silence, taking control of the wreck that was his mind and slowly, slowly pulling the pieces back into place. I want you. I want you. I want you. Again and again, over and over, until there was nothing left in Peter’s blood, in Peter’s heart, in Peter’s head, on Peter’s tongue, but Jamie fuckin’ Moon.

Jamie wanted him. Jamie wanted Peter. Jamie wants him.

He would’ve pinched himself if that didn’t mean he’d have to move Jamie off of his hand.

His bruised hands are slow as they raise to take hold of Jamie’s face, as his thumbs carefully smooth out along his jaw, along his cheek, down again to circle back and link behind his neck. They slide up the nape, brushing along the thick, sweet-smelling locks that fall so softly against a smooth forehead, the slope of which is followed by numb fingers as they make their way down the arch of his nose, the rise of his cheekbones, as they settle against a pair of lips that had haunted his nights more times than he could count. His touch soon trails down the arch of Jamie’s neck, down to smooth over sharp collarbones, down to grasp at bony shoulders before falling to slide across a lanky chest, settling right above a speeding heartbeat that matched his own. Beat for beat. Breath for breath.

It was real. This was.. Real.

They were real.

“...It’s been real for me since I first met you, Jae-min Moon,” He murmurs, his voice steady and certain for the first time in too, too long. Gentle fingers raise to curl into those dark locks, pulling his..not-exactly-friend down to steal those lips for his own in one, two, three, eight, ten, fifteen kisses more, the exhale at his throat finally of content, of reassurance, of.. Peace. The dark in his mind has been pushed back, just a little, but enough. Enough for him to breathe and see and think and feel and…

Be happy.

“...it’s always been real for me.”

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tvrrances‌:

          her face changes almost in unison with peter’s, and –– with her finger still glued to her cheek –– she looks up at the ceiling, as if to ask the higher cosmic powers why she is the way she is. ‘ i didn’t miss my –– look, you got what i meant, right ? i was mimicking a tear falling down my face. whether it came out of the corner of my ear or my literal ear hole isn’t a super vital detail right now, as far as i’m concerned, ’ she huffs, her finger finally leaving her cheek and gesturing at both her eye and ear. she crosses her arms as she finishes her sentence, a grin sneaking back onto her face and he stumbles through the names of her two quasi-clones ( emphasis on quasi ). ‘ gee gramps, i had no idea you felt that way ! if your dying wish really is for me to come with you on a special roadtrip where we’ll split our time between churro tasting, medical checkups to make sure the niagara falls in my ears are normal, and a widespread panic-themed light show, then i’m totally in. i’d never go against my elderly relatives’ wishes. speaking of which, got any tunes from the early 1900s you want me to play in the car ? ’

“Not vital? Not vital?!” Peter scoffs at this, his hands splaying out above his head in a wildly exaggerated gesture. “What’s next, huh? Furbies are real? WWE is faked? Trump is president? Stop talking mad, Tor!” He reaches out to take hold of her shoulders, to shake her gently with his eyes blown comically wide, his expression twisted into one of dramatic concern. God, hand him a fuckin’ Emmy. “This isn’t how you’re supposed to go, Tor! I can’t be the one to put you down, no, I can’t! I can’t do that to my only granddaughter-- they can’t make me! If you’re gonna turn.. If you’re gonna turn, baby, it’s.. It’s gonna have to be you to make the choice. Y’either become one of them, or…” He takes her hand and folds it against his chest, gazing deep into her eyes with his own filled with sorrow, filled with remorse, God, Jake Gyllenhal can suck it. “..y’go back to God on your own terms..”

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thirdisla‌:

her eyes cross to stare at the credit card, a pout forming on her features as she realizes she’s either gonna be living the good life under the pretext of pure embarrassment or moving on with her life normally, which sounded… lame. ugh.

“why, so you can blackmail me with it?” she scoffed. she was sure she could come up with something equally as dirty to throw back in his face, so it wasn’t a huge deal. “fine, whatever. you can take as many pictures as you want, as long as you’re the only one who ever sees them. i can’t have anyone knowing that i willingly went to a planetarium.”

“God, I can see your reputation wilting now.” Peter can’t help the roll of his eyes at how seriously the other was taking the entire situation, an attitude ripped straight out of a cliche nineties film.

With a cock of his brow and return of his smirk, he raises his hands above his head, swaying them out in shape of a rainbow. “Headline!” He exclaims with a voice purposefully deepened, taking on what he thought was the perfect impression of a news anchorman. “Adult woman seen at the nerd’s place of hangout, has to turn in her badge and prom crown. More at eight!”

A chuckle at his own joke and he’s dropping his hands to slip into his pockets, his body leaning in closer towards the girl before him. His expression turns from one of mirth to one unfathomable, his eyes lidding over as he lets his gaze wash up and down her face. “..C’mo-o-on. I promise word won’t get to Malibu.”

[shuifong-blog]

isa: we didnt

isa: what did u say u were having a crisis about

peter: about turning 25

peter: oh god reoccurring crisis

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bluejamiemoon‌:

Fuck!

All the while he’s blabbering away to Peter, the phrase ‘you fucking idiot!’ repeats in Jamie’s mind, growing louder and louder with each second. He fucked up, he’s certain of it. He has ruined Peter’s birthday, and probably ruined their friendship for not the first, but the second time in their lives. Fuck. Why did he do that? He still doesn’t know for sure.

Well… maybe he does know. But, that’s neither here nor there.

Peter definitely hates him now, right? There’s absolutely no doubt about that in his mind. He’d probably hate himself, too, he doesn’t blame him for that.

Jamie can’t quite figure out his friend’s expression. Is that look confusion? Anger? Disappointment? Something else entirely? Jamie doesn’t know, and he’s desperately wishing that if God is real, she’ll take pity on his soul and let him drop dead on the spot. Death is far more favorable than the dread filling up in his chest.

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Fuck.

Putty. Putty was all he was in Jamie’s hands, melted beneath his touch, softened by his taste of his tongue, malleable by that heartbeat speeding faster and faster against his chest, synchronising with his own. The lips against his own control him, guide his hands to rest upon sharp hips, allow his fingers to curl into the fabric of Jamie’s trousers, manipulate his breath to quicken and shallow, catching in his throat, choking him, choking him--

Worth it.

If this was gonna be his end, if this was gonna be his ticket to his coffin, Godfuckindamn, was it worth it.

The warmth that melds against his skin, that brings a shiver down a cold spine, is enough to shock his thoughts into overdrive once more. They spin out of control, each one screaming louder than the next, screeching, demanding to pull themselves to the front. Was this real? Was this really happening to him, with Jamie, right here, on his floor, on his birthday, right now? Was this not another one of those dreams that leave him gasping for breath beneath soiled sheets and an impending sense of guilt, an inability to meet his friend’s eyes the next morning for fear of the remnants to show in his gaze? Was this not a prank pulled by a mind so wistful, so nostalgic for a past that only exists in Peter’s fucked up perspective, so twisted to have conjured up a situation so---

Spiraling. He was spiraling. Come back to Earth, Peter. Come back to Earth, to this moment, with your hands sliding up against your ‘friend’s’ back, clutching him closer, closer, damned if you’d let a breath of air to come between you. The panic can set when Jamie came to his senses. Peter didn’t have to come to his.

A roughened sigh slips from his throat as a hot tongue slips against his own, deepening the kiss into the kind that breaks open the sky, that shatters the ground beneath his feet like glass, that drowns him in the air around him that he curses for touching him, for holding him, for being in all the places he could only dream of having Jamie. His voice is low, too low, could he hear it? as he whispers Jamie’s name, as he continues to whisper Jamie’s name, over and over and over again, until there was nothing, nothing, nothing on his tongue, on his lips, in his chest, in his mind, but Jamie Moon.

Cold fingers clutch in his hair, anchoring him against the man that proves to him that every kiss he’d ever had in the past was wrong. His hand slips from the arch of Jamie’s back to slide down the leg making its way up his side, hooking it up over his hip and holding it tight, tight, to keep him just as attached to Peter as he was to Jamie. He’s limp as his back is soon pressing up against the cold floor, allowing Jamie’s hands to move him about, push and pull, mold him into whatever it was he wanted him to be.

And it was heaven.

It was his heaven.

So, of course, he couldn’t have it forever.

He mourns the absence of those lips the moment they lift off of his own, chasing them with the same passion, the same vigor as before. Just a little longer, let him stay in this dream a little longer. Let his world be nothing but Jamie, let his mouth tingle with the taste of that tongue until the day he died. Let him have Jamie, just a moment more.

But the warmth is lifted once more, from his lips, from his hands, from his chest, away, away, up too far for Peter to reach out and grab for once more. His eyes are reluctant to flutter back open, to gaze into that face, to face the reality that was--

“Happy birthday.”

--a helluva birthday gift.

His fingers raise to pass over swollen, parted lips, again and again, committing Jamie’s taste, his touch, to memory. Fuckin’ hell, his head was…

Quiet. For once, for now, his mind was silent. Stunned by the world that was still full of Jamie, stunned by a heart that was kickstarted after years of a frozen beat, stunned by… Stunned by how much Peter could finally feel, all at once, and continue to feel, on and on and on. It didn’t stop. It never stopped.

Not with Jamie.

“..did..you mean this..?” He couldn’t help the roughened question, so soft he couldn’t even be sure it was said, as his gaze lift once more in attempt to hold Jamie’s. His hand raises to take hold of Jamie’s, to pull it down against his chest, down against his racing, racing heart. A racing, racing heart that only quickened into a sprint at the feel of the palm above it.

“..did you mean.. To do this? Or.. is it… not real?”

[shuifong-blog]

isa: after the birthday bit

isa: before asking if its cold out

peter: i said i was having a crisis

peter: and we established that the plural form of crisis is

peter: actually we didnt establish shit

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isa: no

isa: the other other thing

peter: birthday weekend

peter: you told me to get dressed

peter: and i asked about a jacket

peter: should i wear one is it cold out

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isa: no the other thing

peter: which other thing

peter: the tattoo?

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thirdisla‌:

she was shocked that this conversation was even still going, based on the fact that she figured he’d annoy her out of this by now– or vice versa, but she’d never admit that. she never expected to be spending her night going to a crappy laser light show, especially in the company of a leech fragment member– bleh! but sometimes free shit and the possibility of a good fuck were worth it. sometimes.

“i want there to be no evidence that i was at this event whatsoever,” she snorted, pulling her phone out of her pocket and immediately googling widespread panic. maybe she should figure out who they were if she was their new number one fan. “and maybe a thousand bucks every day until i die.” the second part was a joke– but, it didn’t have to be. 

“Oh, okay, hold on. Time out--” He reaches out to tug the phone down so that their eyes may meet, his brow arching high over a shit-eating smirk. Shocking, honestly, that she was still even meeting his eye at this point. When does the drink get tossed into his face and the day gets called? The day--... They call it a day. Confusing phrase. What was he doing? Right. ”You really think you’re gonna get all this--” He gestures to the whole of his body for a moment, before slowly coming up with a credit card that he waves before her face, just shy of her nose. “--for a full forty-eight hours and I’m not gonna get a single picture? You’ve gotta be outta your mind, gorgeous.”

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isa: what

peter: should i wear a jacket

peter: i mean i stuck my arm out the window but i cant tell

peter: do i have to lick my arm first

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thirdisla‌:

“uh, my type is people who are hot and good at sex. those are kinda the only two prereqs,” she shrugged, eyes darting down to examine his abs as a pleased smirk crossed her own lips. “okay, here’s the deal. i’ll go with you to your dumb thing. i’ll wear a stupid widespread panic shirt if it’s not tie-dye. and i get to pick out which hot dad to approach.” she’d most likely just go for the loneliest looking dude and con some free drinks out of him. “buuut it sounds like a lot of work– i’ll probably get super hungry. will there also be food available?”

The show ends with a drop of his arm, quick and smooth with nothing left but the glint of amusement in his eyes. After all, you never want the teaser trailer to reveal too much of the movie. S’gotta keep the audience’s hopes up for the real deal. No matter the end quality of the real deal.

Oh, stop being so self-deprecating. It’s not as hot as you are.

At her words, he couldn’t help a twitch of his lips, a cough to cover up what would’ve been a bark of laughter had he not been the classiest of gentlemen, so dearly unwilling to laugh at a lady. Tie-dye, though. Tie-dye was the least of her troubles. When Peter comes to her place with all the Widespread merch he could overnight, she was gonna wish it was just tie-dye.

But, y’know. No need to tell her any of that shit now, right? At least not until he had a written contract with her signature. Or a recording. Or, y’know, rope. Whatever keeps her from getting out of this.

“Everyone’s high and gets the entire night off from their kids. There’s gonna be food,” he assures. Of course, the food would come from a concession stand full of already-stoned workers, but.. Y’know. Food would definitely be present.

“Any other demands, Lady Antoinette?”

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naomisommers‌:

Naomi purses her lips at the fact that Peter already paid, mindlessly trying to swat him, but gravely miscalculates and smacks herself on the cheek. Ow. “Fine. But, you really shouldn’t be paying for the hotel,. Let me pay for that at least, man.”

She nods her head as Peter talks, her gaze lifting from the flyer to the birthday boy. “Yeah, I’m catchin’ your drift, gramps. Can I be straight up, Paula Abdul style, with you?” She leans forward slightly, brow arching up. “I’ve never heard a single song by this band. Will this affect my viewing experience?”

Oh, Peter had definitely been there. Aiming for someone else, socking himself in the eye instead. Stepped on his own toes once, too. Even hiked a baseball bat right up the butter beans. He reaches out to give the wounded cheek a sympathetic pat, a knowing nod as he meets Bertrude’s eyes. One and the same, they were. One and the same.

“You can buy me a t-shirt,” he finally settles on, despite the knowledge that Widespread doesn’t sell merch at anything that wasn’t them performing live. I mean, he’d tell her if she’d asked, but.. She didn’t ask. So, why tell her? Right? “Maybe get a laser to sign it. That’d be dope.”

He waves off her question with a ringed hand, his expression softening. Oh, to be well outside the know. So blissful, so innocent. “Trust me,” he murmurs, reaching out to pinch the injured ever so slightly as his eyes glint with mirth. “That’ll probably make the experience a lot more easier to sit through.”

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tvrrances‌:

          her reflexes kick in and she backs away, careful not to get flicked in the nose à la scooby-doo in the masterpiece that was the 2002 live-action scooby-doo movie. ‘ i –– like about half the people in this town –– work at the trio, grandpa, so clearly twenty-five is the new seventy-two. should i start writing things on post-it notes for you ? i’ve heard that helps people of a certain age remember things, ’ she quips back, taking a final ( and rather loud ) sip of her cherry coke. she shrugs at his decision, her index finger raising up to draw the trajectory of a tear from the corner of her ear down to the middle of her cheek. ‘ guess i’ll just have to look up ‘ rave grandpa ’ on youtube while crying into a giant tub of ice-cream. the world really is unfair to those who speak their mind, ’ she sighs, feigning sadness for an instant, distracted shortly after by another thought, ‘ i have to ask: if i’m officially not going, who’s your next choice ? or –– drum roll –– was i last on your list ? your last hope ? the obi-wan to your leia ? ’

Peter opens his mouth to retort, a comment about gilfs and how a sugar daddy only gets more desirable the closer they are to death, but he pauses. He squints. His brows furrow. He frowns. And his finger slowly lifts from the corner of his ear to trace down towards the middle of his cheek, mimicking Torrance’s gesture with an expression of absolute confusion. “..the fuck was this? What the fuck was this supposed to represent? Was this supposed to be a fuckin’ tear? Are you crying out of your ears, Tor-- Do you produce tears out of your fuckin’ pores? The fuck was-- Did you miss? Did you miss your eye? There’s two of them, how the fuck did you miss?”

The bewilderment only has a moment to stew before it’s shelved in favor of her question, his brow arching ever so slightly as he hums in thought. “Who’d you say earlier? Isla or, like.. Lore-somethin’? Maybe them. Maybe I’ll go ask them, huh? S’cuse me for wantin’ to go have a nice weekend out with my granddaughter, maybe buy her a fuckin’ churro before I take her to her physical where we can determine whether or not crying from the ears is a terminal illness.”

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bluejamiemoon‌:

Jamie’s smiling in triumph at his absolutely stellar joke about Peter, opening up his mouth to add another zinger about his friend being in old age. But, before he could say anything else, he’s pushed down, letting out a soft, “Fuck!” when his back hits the floor. His sweater rides up just a hair and he feels the cold tiles against the exposed strip of skin. Jamie tries to wiggle free from the headlock Peter put him in but to no avail, his body twisting up against his friend’s as he laughs softly. However, he freezes up for a beat when he feels a soft bite against his shoulder.

Oh. It’s on.

With more determination than before, Jamie snakes his hands up between Peter’s arms, long legs wrapping around his friend’s waist. After a few, admittedly embarrassing moments, he breaks free of the headlock, his hands pressed on the other’s shoulders in a poor attempt to keep him from pulling some other kind of wacky wrestling move. He takes in a shaky breath, suddenly realizing just how close the pair are.

He’s so close he feels Peter’s body heat radiate on him, so close he swears can nearly hear the beating of his heart. So close Jamie can’t focus on his whole face, but only on certain parts. Brown eyes flicker from the bridge of Peter’s nose, to the tops of his ears, to his eyes - what’s he thinking? - to his lips.

And, his gaze lingers.

And, it stays there.

Without thinking, he leans up and places his hands on either side of his face, pressing his lips against Peter’s. His mouth tastes of peanut butter, and Jamie decides in this moment that it’s his favorite flavor.

Fuck. His eyes snap open.

What the fuck are you doing?

His hands fly off of Peter’s cheeks as if they’re scalding hot, legs dropping away from his waist. He pulls away from his friend and rests his head back on the chilly tile, a strange feeling tightening in his gut. Shit. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckFUCKFU--

”…I-I…” Jamie clears his throat, wanting to look anywhere but at Peter. He chooses to shut his eyes for a beat, hoping that when he opens them back, he’s laying in his bed, not on the floor, not underneath Peter. No such luck. This is the reality he’s unfortunately living in.

The one where he kissed Peter..

”I’m sorry,” Jamie manages to mutter out. “I… I don’t know why I did that.” Is that the truth? Maybe. Maybe he has absolutely no clue why he’d suddenly kiss Peter, the boy he used to hate so passionately, the man who he now thinks of as his friend. Does he think of him as a friend? Does he? Shit, Jamie feels a headache coming on. He doesn’t want to deal with this; he’d much rather bolt out of the door and hide from Peter for all of eternity.

”I, uh,” he starts, rubbing his eyes,“I’m sorry. I should get going, yeah? Yeah, I should go. I should go, right? I’m sorry. Did I say that already? But, uh, yeah. I’m sure you have other shit to do today, I should leave.”

Was it just him, or did Jamie softly saying ‘fuck’ while pressed up beneath Peter deserve to be its own sexuality?

His lower lip bit on his grin, more to hold back a quiet gasp and curse of his own, Peter’s arms cement themselves around that thin, lanky frame, tightening in a mad attempt to keep his prisoner from escaping. Of course, he was much too busy trying to keep hold of Jamie’s wriggling body to take much notice of the way his sweater hiked up, the way his hip bumped up against bare skin, and shit, okay. Okay. He might have loosened up a bit there with his lack of focus, and now Jamie had freed himself of his hold.

Damn. Randy Savage was looking down at him in disappointment, no doubt. Was that in bad taste? That was probably in bad taste.

What was he doing? Right. Jamie. Well, he wasn’t doing Jamie, but.. He was in a situation with Jamie. A compromising situation, no doubt about that. A compromising, complicated situation that mingled their breaths and locked their eyes and fuck, was Peter all too aware of those hands sliding up his arms, curling around his shoulders, of long legs smoothly raising up to lock around his waist to secure them into the exact position that he swears he’s had multiple wet dreams about throughout the course of their entire friendship--

Jamie was there. Peter blinks once, twice, the thoughts in his head screeching to a halt as the realisation bursts towards the front, pulling his attention to the only thing in the world that mattered right now-- That mattered ever. He was there, only an inch away. He could count each breath, he could count each eyelash, he could practically see the emotions flicker through dark brown eyes, one after the other, faster and faster and faster. Holding his breath if only in attempt to keep the moment from passing, Peter gazes deep into the eyes of his childhood friend, of his constant, his tongue flicking out to wet lips that part for words that don’t come, for an explanation that he doesn’t have. Should.. He apologise? For holding Jamie like this? Or.. maybe for the bite. He should apologise for the bite. That was, like, probably out of line.

“Jamie,” he begins softly, gazing down into a face that seemed curiously faraway-- maybe embarrassed? Probably embarrassed. Shit. “I’m sor--”

And the words die on his tongue as Jamie’s hands raise up to cradle his cheeks, and his thoughts die on the spot as Jamie’s lips seal over his own. His blood is singing, burning through his veins, pounding in his ears louder and louder until there was nothing in the world but Jamie, Jamie, Jamie, Jamie. One hand falls to encircle a sharp hip, to pull them close against him, to close whatever breath of cool air between them and--

And suddenly, Jamie was pulling back like Peter’s skin was burning him to the bone.

His eyes flash open at the abrupt switch between pure fucking euphoria to the aftermath of a trainwreck, the expression on his face a dead giveaway of his disappointment in the loss of warmth. Jamie’s words were muffled, buried beneath the million layers of utter confusion and desire that only seemed to multiply as Peter struggles to comprehend what the fuck just happened.

Clearly, this was all just a part of a dream sequence, but, like.. Why did Jamie pull away? His dreams almost never had Jamie pull away, and the ones that do usually had him pull away to fill his mouth with something else.

Did he have to make the next move? God, when did his dreams get so interactive? He slept to get out of doing the scary work.

His hands lower to cradle Jamie’s face, still stumbling over words that Peter just couldn’t give a flying fuck to understand, and tilts it up, tilts it towards him, tilts it just enough to be able to swallow those stutters and stammers back as he locks their lips tight once more.

Peanut butter. His favorite flavor.

[shuifong-blog]

isa: because i'm pleased you were born

isa: i would say crisises

isa: but stop crisising. what is there to crisis about. nothing

isa: we're going to have fun instead. get dressed

peter: welcome to a world of firsts ill be your guide

peter: well i mean several things like

peter: for one jamie kissed me so thats something to crisis about a little right

peter: should i wear a jacket is it cold out