#Processional Walk

[spitefulfitness]

First run!

I'll have to switch to shorter running/walking times. This was more so a glorified walk, but I did do some running!

I forgot to save the picture I sent on Snapchat so I'll have to remember next time 😅

[ctweddingdj]

Top 65 Modern Processional Songs

Top 65 Modern Processional Songs Modern Processional Songs. Firstly, how do you go about picking the perfect song for your walk down the aisle? Continue reading Top 65 Modern Processional Songs

[gallusrostromegalus]

You don't think matcha is tea????

Matcha isn't a Tea in my humble Opinion.

Matcha is an experience.

The year is 2009, the place is the University of Hawai'i at Manoa in Honolulu, and I am recovering from a still-undiagnosed disease that left me with a 100+ degree for over three weeks, extreme weight loss and permanent Brain Damage.  I have signed up for an introductory Art History class because I need an additional Humanities credit.

It's called "The History and Philosophy of the Japanese Tea Ceremony", and for a class I can only sort of remember, it stands out.

So I'm in professor Roberts' Japanese Tea Ceremony  class, looking and feeling like death warmed over, but I'm genuinely interested in the subject matter and show up to every class because I have nothing better to do, and ask questions and turn in my homework, even if neither are particularly coherent at times, and rapidly become his favorite student.  The thing I learned in public school was how to show up to events even if I don't want to, analyze tests and other written materials for patterns and charm educators by holding up my end of a conversation, skills that have served me in the modern world far more than learning actual course content would have.

The Tea Ceremony, historically, takes a good month to prepare and the entire evening to carry out- the guest list is curated to create social bonds and intellectual stimulation alike, a poem is composed for the season, and a seasonal flower arrangement created to decorate the space. When the guests arrive, they must all crawl through a small door to enter the tea garden, regardless of profession or rank.  Hands are ritually washed in spring water, and there is a slow processional walk through the garden, to admire the artistry of the landscaping, and the composition of seasonal elements to create this particular night of beauty.  The entire ceremony is about appreciating both the joy of existing right now, in this time and place, and the unification of the self and the universe and the endless cycles of nature. 

The guests arrive at the tea house and meet the Tea Master, who will be making the Matcha that evening. The guests are seated in particular order, the Most Revered Guest- sometimes a high-ranking official, sometimes a visiting scholar or artist- is seated closest to the Tea Master.  The Poem is read aloud.  The Flowers are admired.  The tools for making the Matcha are taken out, examined as objects of art, and their history told.  The matcha powder itself is taken out- the case examined, the cultivation of the tea discussed, and only then does the Tea Master make the Tea. 

Matcha is not brewed- it's a fine powder made of crushed green tea leaves, and the powder is whisked together with not-quite-boiling water in a bowl to create a much more substantial and flavorful drink.  This drink is presented to the Most Revered Guest first, who is expected to take a sip and, in a moment of Zen spiritual clarity, comment on its flavor and how all the elements of the tea, art, garden and season all complement each other, and perhaps offer some sort of philosophical statement.

At least,

That's how it's supposed to go.

About a month before the spring semester is over, Professor Roberts announces that he has a surprise for his class- a good friend of his, a Professional Tea Master, will be visiting Hawai'i, and has agreed to perform a Tea Ceremony for our class!  I am very excited. The other 10 people in class are varying levels of amiably confused to distressed by having to go to An Event (TM) for a grade, but agree. One of my classmates, an astrology hoe named Jessica, pointed out that with the 11 students, Professor Roberts, and the Tea Master, there will be 13 people present, which is basically inviting disaster.

"Jessica." Sighed Professor Roberts. "It's a Tea Ceremony. What disaster could happen?"

Despite Jessica's misgivings, Preparations for the ceremony went on.  We learned about Ikebana while deciding on the Ceremonial Bouquet and tried our hands at it with what Professor Robert could get at the grocery store for $12. We learned about calligraphy and different types of poetic compositions while making the Seasonal Poem, and stain the hell out of the classroom carpet learning the brush strokes.  We learn about different types of Matcha Bowl sculpting and glazing and we are not allowed to touch the demonstration bowls or the kiln because Professor Roberts was beginning to suspect that some of his students (me)  were suffering from coordination issues. I apply myself with zeal, if not necessarily talent.  I was, at the time, an Art Major, but my professors in the art department had been grading me on a secret "this bitch almost died last semester and is re-learning how to hold a pencil" curve, and boy howdy did I stumble and break leaves and splatter ink like it.

Despite my ongoing unmonitored recovery, Professor Roberts viewed my enthusiastic class participation with rose-colored glasses, and about a week before the ceremony we had a class where he brought out the used Kimonos and Obi and other forms of japanese dress he'd borrowed from the theater department so that we would be traditionally dressed(ish) and experience the ceremony authentically(ish).  While people were trying on clothes to see what would fit, he took me aside and told me he wanted me to be in the position of Most Revered Guest, the person who makes the zen statement upon which the entire event hinges.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I asked.

"You're the only person who doesn't fall asleep in class and you talked about how the flowers stagger their blooms to not compete for the bees- you're perfectly engaged and conscious of the seasons!" He said, blindly. "You will need different shoes though."  He indicated my flip-flops.  "I won't make you learn how to walk in Geta, but nothing with Heels. Ballet flats are fine."

"...These are the only shoes I own." I said.

Professor Roberts stared at me.

"-I used to have a pair of sneakers but I think a homeless guy stole them while I was at the beach last month."

"What?" Roberts blinked.

"He probably needed them more than I do. I'll see if I can borrow some flats."

"...I don't think I've ever met a woman with less than 10 pairs of shoes."  Said Roberts.

"I'm not a woman, I'm and undergrad." I said, still three years away from learning the term 'Nonbinary'.  "Those are Jordan's only pair of shorts, you know." I pointed at my classmate, who had been wearing the one (1) pair of basketball shorts for the entire semester.

"I WASH THEM." Jordan shouted defensively, wearing the longest Men's Kinmo the theater department had, which barely came down to the top of his calves.

"Oh God." Said Roberts, a horrifying new world opening up to him like a tub of Expired sour cream.

*

It was the day of the Ceremony.

The Seasonal Theme we'd worked on was "The Turn Of Summer", and the weather was complying maliciously. 

Normally, Tea Ceremonies are scheduled for the more temperate evening, but due to the school needing to host something in the adjoining cultural center later, we could only use the Tea Garden in the middle of the afternoon, and the summer sun was a sweltering 98 degrees and a similar level of Humidity.  The Camelias were melting.

Where Jordan had difficulty finding a Kimono that suited his ent-like proportions, I'd had the opposite problem and the only Kimono short enough to not trip my Hobbit-sized self was a Child’s size.  My roommate had helped me get into the Kimono and Obi before the ceremony, and leant me a pair of her Ballet Flats, but we discovered an issue- this Kimono was designed for a flat-chested prepubescent youth, and even though I barely scraped 5'0", I had the robust proportions of an Irish Peasant, and the only way to avoid displaying a frankly offensive amount of cleavage was to use the widest Obi we could find and sort of tuck my boobs into it. 

"Hm" I said. "Kind of hard to breathe."

"Yeah, but you're sitting for most of it, right?  It can't last more than an hour, so just like, shuffle and don't talk much?"  She suggested.

To her credit, the first forty-five minutes of the ceremony only involved shuffling through the gardens and not talking while the Tea Master lectured us on some of the finer points of the garden's design. 

But then we got to the Tea House- a small structure only barely able to accommodate the 13 of us, which was in the shade but hotter than the outside because of the roaring fire in the middle of the room, where the water for the Matcha was boiling.  The room was surrounded by a narrow sort of porch, part of which hung over the Koi pond, where several massively overfed carp blurbled expectantly for treats at the arrival of humans. I sat down, legs folded under me like Professor Roberts had insisted, and realized that this pushed the Obi UP, and now my rib cage was being compressed in all directions.

I tried to pay attention to the rest of the ceremony, but two and a half hours is an awfully long time to listen about lecturers you've already heard when your body is undergoing a sort of internal horserace to see if the heatstroke, sciatica pain and numbness, allergies or suffocation-by-compression will cause you to pass out first.  My legs had gone numb below the knee by the time we were done with the flower arrangement.  My entire legs were numb before we were done with the Poem.  By the time the Tea Utensils came out, I was seeing spots of colored light in my vision and could only breathe if I focused on it very, very hard.

But! The ceremony was genuinely interesting! and Professor Roberts was counting on me!  So I did my best not to sway or throw up from watching the Tea Master whisk the Matcha, and dutifully took the bowl with a pair of hands that felt like slabs of ham that I was attempting to puppet from another dimension, and took a sip.

They say that Smell and Taste are far more closely connected to the emotional centers of the brain than any other sense, and I believe it because the instant I inhaled both the grassy, powdery smell, and tasted the moderately viscous bubbly liquid, I experienced an intense flashbulb memory back to a previous late May-

The Year was '98, the place was my elementary school art room, and we'd been using the seasonal hot weather to paint on a massive scale as the art dried quickly- each third-grader had been given a roll of butcher paper, a cheap brush, squirts of non-toxic paint and a water cup, and allowed to go hog-wild on our murals, and the rush of creative energy and the imminent sense of freedom as the semester drew to a close truly embodied the summer of youth, carefree but with an almost psychotic fervor, where lack of care was both freeing and dangerous as you lost track of your surroundings in the act of creation-

Which isn't a bad seasonal-philosophical connection statement to make, but the actual words that came out of my mouth were:



"Wow. This tastes exactly like paint."



The first sound I heard after the moment of silence was the cartoonishly loud gasp of horror from Professor Roberts, which was almost immediately drowned out by the thunderclap of laughter from the Tea Master, slapping his thighs and wiping tears from his face, unable to stop. I desperately tried to explain the connection between the fact I might be dying of heat stroke right now, and how I ended up drinking my paint water back in Mrs. Krantz's art class because back then I was also dying of heat stroke, but mostly ended up wheezing half-formed sentences as the rest of the class took sips and offered opinions varying between "Wow, that's thick. Like a Hot smoothie." and "Oh yeah, it tastes like summer. Like how a freshly-mowed lawn smells like summer." Professor Roberts slowly melted into a pile of shame, and the Tea Master slapped him on the back, still howling with laughter.

"They're honest! Nobody else will be honest!  This is magnificent!"  he wheezed.

Eventually, everyone had their taste, and the ceremony was concluded.  The second the Tea Master had packed up his tools and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, Professor Roberts was in my face.

"HOW COULD YOU SAY THAT?" he hissed, grabbing my arm and pulling me up. "GO APOLOGIZE RIGHT NOW!"  he shoved me out onto the porch where the Tea Master was looking at the Koi, who had started bubble-begging aggressively again.

Except that my legs felt like blocks of wood that my pelvis was renting from another planet where legs hadn’t been invented yet, my vision was entirely static between the dehydration and lack of oxygen, and my vestibuar system had fucked off an hour ago, leaving me to stay upright by purely by the virtue of the over-tightened Obi.  So instead of bowing and apologizing profusely like my professor expected, what I actually did was stumble out of the room, say something like "Hsdfkf" and topple head-first into the koi pond.

Fortunately, the impact of the bottom of the pond with the top of my skull activated a sort of last-resort emergency self preservation system and I inhaled with enough force to break the Obi-Jime and probably a couple ribs from the pain that hit both my sides like lightning.  Unfortunately, the thing I was inhaling was fish-shit riddled Pond Water, so my emergency self-preservation system ordered an even harder Exhale. 

The Tea Master, to his immense credit, had immediately jumped in after me, and pulled me upright just in time for me to forcibly exhale half a gallon of rancid pond water directly into his face, then start screaming.  Screaming is an extremely appropriate reaction to have when injured, because it alerts everyone that you require medical attention, but is very unpleasant to experience from four inches away, which is probably why he then immediately dropped me.

Fortunately the pond wasn't very deep and this time I sat there, scream-gasping as my lungs reinflated, Koi fish burbling and sucking at me with tremendous excitement, until the EMT from the campus clinic arrived, a vanguard before the actual ambulance.

"Okay uh. You're bleeding." he said, cautiously wading into the pond.

I opened my eyes to find that I had apparently acquired a large and profusely bleeding head wound, which had activated some long-suppressed Shark Instincts in the Koi, which were eagerly gumming at the streams of blood and trying to suck on my forehead. "Good thing they don’t have teeth." I said in the distant bliss that only zen masters and people with serious head injuries get to experience.

"Do you want a towel?" he asked, helping me up.

"No, this is rather refreshing, actually." I said, still absolutely smashed on endorphins, Koi still enthusiastically swarming at my kneecaps.

"I mean like for your-"  the EMT Gestured Vaguely at my torso.

I looked down and realized that not only had I broken the Obi-jime, the entire Obi had come undone and was floating several feet away, and I was only wearing the Kimono, fallen completely off my shoulders and was only being prevented from performing a full Lady Godiva by the valiant efforts of the safety pin my roommate had put in to keep it folded correctly while we figured out the Obi.

"Professor Roberts?" I stood up all the way, soaking wet, bleeding from my forehead with such force as to create actual streams of blood down my face, neck and chest, tits out, and addressed the poor man standing, white-faced on the deck above the pond.  "I don't think I'm going to be in class on Monday-" I paused to fish a small Koi that had gotten trapped in the remains of the now-ruined Kimono, and tossed it back into the pond. "-Can I schedule a make-up exam for the Final?"

"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GET IN THE AMBULANCE!" He screamed.

I was x-rayed for a skull fracture, but my lifelong membership to the Lactose Tolerance Club had protected me, and I happily texted my roommate to come pick me up as "They x-rayed my head and found nothing" while the doctor stitched part of my scalp back together.

The following morning, I discovered that Professor Roberts had graded my exam before I took it.  100%. Truly, the best way to get a good grade on your finals is to get a serious head injury.



So, Matcha is not a Tea, in my humble opinion.

Matcha is an Experience.

And sometimes that experience is drinking something almost exactly like paint, ruining an important cultural ceremony, traumatizing your professor,  and introducing a bunch of fish to the taste of human flesh.



***

If this made you laugh, there are more funny stories on My Patreon, or you can help support me by tipping my Ko-Fi. Thank You.

[effortandmore]

isn't this more beautiful | knj x f!reader

summary: you meet namjoon by accident. you fall for him without noticing. he slips in and out of your life at will, and you let him. but as you get closer, you start to wonder if he’ll always feel lonely, even with you by his side. or, a small story told out of order about time, loneliness, and knowing (or not) what we deserve

pairing: namjoon x f!reader

rating: explicit (18+ please)

genre: smut, angst, a lil fluff/hopeful ending

au: this is idolverse

warnings/tags: this is told asynchronously, so please know these little vignettes are not in chronological order. namjoon is a mess, but so is reader. she's an artist so there's one cliche on board already. they probably should talk more about important things but neither of them like feelings. smoking, drinking, smut, including unprotected sex, oral sex, exhibitionism, maybe like… mention of belly bulge kink, cumplay (kind of)

word count: ~6700

a/n: this is for the bts x beatles across the btuniverse collab hosted by my dearest @ugh-yoongi who also checked this for vibes. so did @the-boy-meets-evil in its early stages - thank you both!! banner + borders from @hobeemin (thank you so much!!!!). my member was namjoon (obv) and my song was eleanor rigby. idk how it really shows up in here except through vibes lol

you can find everything i write on ao3

Namjoon talks in unanswerable questions. He calls you at hours the owls don’t even see, talks quietly even though you’re not sure who he’s afraid of disturbing.

“Do you remember Bageundae?”

“Of course I do.”

“If you pressed your body against one side of the rock, and I pressed mine to the other, could you feel me?”

What you want to say: go to sleep, Namjoonie.

What you say instead: “I can always feel you.”

“Always is a funny word,” he replies. “Maybe worse than never.”

“Maybe?”

“You never know,” he says, and you can hear the sad smile he wears even from your desk across the ocean. 

Sometimes, when people give the retelling of how they meet their “person,” it’s all sparks and fireworks and floods and worlds being turned upside down. 

That’s not how you met Namjoon. 

You met him softly.

You met him in a lazy river current and not a waterfall.

You met him like Sunday morning sunshine sneaking through cracks in defeated curtains.

You met him and the woodwind orchestra blew a quiet processional before the brass joined in much later.

You met him with a whisper. Literally. 

“This is one of my favorites,” he said, a stranger whispering beside you. He wasn’t even talking to you—you remember being pretty sure about that. Just announcing it as an affirmation to himself and you happened to be there to be the unintentional recipient. 

Now, you know it’s probably a foreshadowing of your whole relationship. 

Then, you said, “It’s a misconception that you have to whisper in a museum. It’s not a library.” 

Namjoon didn’t even give you the sitcom satisfaction of arguing with you about it. Just gave you an affronted side eye and huffed under his breath. Crossed his arms over his chest and planted himself further into the floor, staring at the Chung Sang Hwa in front of you. 

To yourself, you rolled your eyes. It was almost like he was determined to outwait you, that there would be some satisfaction in it for him if you left for the next work on the wall before he did. 

He didn’t know (yet) that you were as or more stubborn than he was. So, you both waited. You didn’t even know what you were waiting for, just that neither of you wanted to lose. 

(And now look at you.)

It was near closing time on a weekday, and all of the special exhibits were crowded earlier, but the permanent collections were easy to be alone in. You were almost wishing someone else would walk in. Minutes passed, neither of you moved. In your periphery, you saw Namjoon stealing glances at you when he (presumably) thought you wouldn’t notice. 

Finally, “This isn’t going to be some naver post later, is it?” 

You were annoyed, not blind. You knew exactly who he was (or did you, you wonder now)—everyone in this country knew, his picture plastered over billboards and bus stops. 

“Which story? BTS RM, weirdly stubborn art jerk, won’t walk away from painting first? Or, BTS RM casually checked me out at a gallery when he thought I wasn’t looking?” You didn’t look over at him, just raised your eyebrow in a challenge. 

“Don’t flatter yourself.” 

“So, you prefer the ‘jerk’ narrative?”

“I prefer to be left alone.” 

And you still don’t know why you said what you said after that, as you turned to face him for the first time since he walked up next to you. “You probably don’t get that very often. Alone time.”

Namjoon looked back at you then, and it still wasn’t butterflies or choruses of angels. Instead, he just looked surprised and a little sad. “I don’t.” 

“I’m sorry,” you replied. And you found that you meant it.

“Do you ever wonder,” Namjoon said, and again, you didn’t know if it was to you or to himself, “how it is you can be surrounded by people and still feel profoundly lonely?”

You hadn’t. But you still thought you understood what he meant. “No, but it makes sense that you would.”

Namjoon laughed then, maybe a little bitter, maybe just nervous. “I shouldn’t be talking to you about this,” he said. 

“And yet…”

“And yet,” he agreed with a small nod. 

The two of you were quiet again then, but not in a stand-off anymore. Behind you, you knew his manager was fidgeting, worrying that something was off. That you’d reveal yourself to be some sort of wild stalker or obsessed fan. 

“It’s not personal,” Namjoon offered, like he could already read your mind. 

“I know,” you conceded. 

You started to walk away, ready to see a different painting, ready to not feel like you were doing something wrong by incidentally being in the same room as someone famous, when Namjoon stopped you. “He wanted to paint heartbeats, to give them a language, to let people see what all the emotions that fuel our hearts would look like,” he said. “Do you think it worked?”

Next to this person that you didn’t know but somehow you thought you might understand anyway, you nodded.

Next to Namjoon in a room so quiet you were sure you could hear the steady thrum of your heartbeat (or his, or both beating at the same time), you nodded.

Next to him, who you didn’t yet know would become Him, you nodded.

“Yeah,” you said gracelessly. 

“Can you see it?” Namjoon asked. 

“Which one?” you countered.

He shrugged, not breaking eye contact. “Aren’t love and hate and pain and pleasure all the same at the end of the day?”

Eventually, he will teach you that they are.

It starts with phone calls.

(Sometimes it seems it might end with one, too.)

Namjoon speaks like the shallow pools of blended color on a painter’s well-loved palate. There is no certainty. He uses gray words like “sometimes,” and purple ones like “maybe,” and the soft peach “don’t you think?” 

“Morning, Namjoon-ssi,” you hum into the air, hoping you’re close enough to the microphone that you don’t have to shout. 

“What if we were in Florence?” he asks in return. 

“Then I would still be asleep, or you would be getting smothered with a pillow for waking me up.”

He laughs, not the bright one you know he saves for when there’s an audience, but a small one that bubbles up from his chest with a deep timbre. “So, in Florence, you and I are in bed together?” 

You sigh into your (not Italian) pillow. 

“Good morning,” he adds. “Can we speak informally?”

Your sigh turns into a smile you hadn’t asked for. “Yeah.”

“Good.” 

You’ve been speaking for weeks. Namjoon is busy, you are not (at least, not in the same way, not to the same magnitude). You make a space for him in your life with much less consideration than you usually use with others. Or, maybe he just takes it. 

“What are your plans for the weekend?” he asks. 

“Same thing as all the other weekends.” 

“Can I watch this time?” 

“It’s boring.” 

Namjoon pauses. “Does it bore you?” 

“No, it’s what I love.” 

“Then,” he says, in what you think is probably his typical fashion (at least with you, it is), “I think I might find it easy to love, too.” 

“Oh, Namjoonie,” you tease, “I’m starting to think you find everything easy to love.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. This is a thing you’ve noticed about him. He’s serious in a flash. He’s jokes and teasing and talking to you about what ifs and what nots until suddenly he is very determined that he should say something meaningful. Or very convinced that you have. 

“I want to,” he says. “I want my heart to be more full than my mind. It’s hard.” 

“I know,” you say, even though for you, it’s not. 

“I’m glad you don’t,” he says earnestly.

“Come see me on Saturday,” you say, deflecting. You can do this for him, you think. You haven’t seen him since the museum, but you’ve seen the pastel splashes of his words, the geometric lines of his heart, the post-modern dilemma he thinks he carries down deep. You’ve seen the important things, so you know you can give him the distraction he doesn’t know he needs. 

“I think I will.” 

You hang up in black and white. 

Namjoon fucks like a surrealist. Shifts your body until you’re still recognizable in the mirror, but fundamentally different, too. 

Pulls your hips up too high: Ernst. 

Makes butterflies soar out of your mouth, gusty with your labored breath: Magritte. 

Fucks you cross-eyed, spit dripping hourglass slow from your lips: Dali. 

You thought he would be a talker, like he is on the phone. Thought he’d try and work through the freightliner of thoughts steaming through his brain. But Namjoon is all breath and whispers and sighs and moans and fragments of the pretty words he used to get you like this: bent over your worktable, chest smeared into cadmium red and titanium white. He talks, but it's oil paint instead of watercolor this time: thick and precise. 

“Fuck, you look perfect like this,” he says, voice a little dreamy, slapping another pink-paint handprint onto your ass. You’re never going to get it scrubbed off your skin.

It makes you laugh, breathy and high. 

You came first (and second) on his tongue. Told you to keep painting while he got underneath you, pretty on his knees, honest and plain telling you he wanted you.

“Want to see what art tastes like,” he said, cotton soft breath on your thigh. 

“Silly,” you replied. “Does anyone fall for lines like that?”

“Doesn’t matter, don’t want you to fall. I told you to keep standing.” He’s smug when he licks across your core, startling you. 

It went like that until your hand was shaking and the thick outlines around nameless figures on the canvas shook with you. 

“Pretty painter, taste as good as you look,” he paused to say. You moaned when he fucked his tongue into you, clenched around it, wanted to be greedy, wanted more, wanted everything. “Sound even better,” he added, chin slick, eyes sparkling. 

After you came, he didn’t stop. When your paintbrush fell to the ground, he doubled his efforts, two fingers sliding inside of you while he sucked your sensitive clit between his lips. “Come on, baby,” he said, “I know you have another one for me.” 

Your hand gripped his hair instead of your brush, you chased the overstimulation instead of wriggling away. It felt right, somehow, to just take what you want, and Namjoon didn’t seem to mind. Moaned into your cunt when you fucked his face, holding him in place while your hips moved. A muffled, “fuck, please baby,” into your skin when you pulled his hair just to see what it would feel like. Lips curved into a grin when you rocked against him through your second orgasm. 

And now, he reaps the benefits of his efforts. You’re pliant beneath him, fucked out and pleased, easy and eager as he slides his thick cock in and out. You watch him carefully in the mirror, you see his focus on where he thrusts inside of you, his awe when you clench around him and pull him just a little farther in. You see him grin when he slaps you, telling you he knows you’re watching, asking if you want more. “A greedy little thing,” he breathes. “Think you want more? Think you want me to fuck you harder, want my cock in you so deep you can feel it in your stomach?”

You feel stupid with it, nodding in agreement, mouth open and drooling onto your worktable while he fucks you to a third orgasm. 

“You fuck me so good. Such a big dick, gonna feel you all week, Namjoonah.” 

“You should paint this,” he says, slowing his thrusts. “No one’s ever looked as good as you do taking my cock.” 

“No one?” you ask, suddenly a little desperate for the praise.

Namjoon bends to kiss the back of your neck, lets his lips mark a pathway down your spine that his fingertips follow. He’s so deep inside of you, hips grinding slow against your skin. When he reaches your waist, he grips and pulls you into him even closer. 

The space between you (barely there to begin with) bends to his will: Carrington. 

“Nobody, baby,” he whispers his first certainty to you, fingertips teasing between your thighs now, careful where you’re still too sensitive, but wordlessly asking you to give in, to give more. 

“I’ll give you anything,” you say in response to a question you don’t think he’ll ask as he starts to circle your clit, pulls almost all the way out of you and fucks back in harder than before.

“You’ll take even more,” he says, and he comes inside of you, hips stuttering unsure, a bassline under the clear melody of his words. 

Lazy, you lie face up together on discarded canvas, forgotten starting points of ideas you hadn’t intended to complete. Unabashed, you have a knee up so your thighs don’t tack together with the mess you’ve made. Namjoon talks about nothing, blows smoke in halos above your heads and offers you the cigarette careful between his long fingers. You don’t smoke, but you hold it anyway, watching him, carding the fingers of your free hand through his hair as he stares at his cum leaking out of you, catches it on the tender part of your thigh and wipes swirls and squares onto the canvas around you. 

He finishes the thoughts you began before you even knew him.

“Tell me a story,” you whisper roughly into the air, hoping he can hear you through your shitty phone microphone. 

It’s early, that sacred pre-dawn you save for yourself (and now, somehow, for him)  and you’ve woken up from a shitty sleep and a worse dream and couldn’t stop yourself from calling him back when you saw you’d already missed a call from him. 

“It’s late, baby.” 

You let out a puff of breath, Namjoon laughs almost silently at you. 

“Please?”

“You don’t like books,” he says, almost a tease. It’s true. You like them conceptually, but you told him you don’t feel like you have the patience sometimes. That you want to give them energy you don’t have.

“But I like stories.” 

“FIne.” Even his sigh is fond. You like him like this so much—easy, willing, teasing but still giving in eventually. 

You fall asleep fast, the first words you hear are the last. “Once upon a time…” When you wake up, you have messages from him. A whole lot of them, a whole story written out in your Katalk chat. A love story, sort of, one where they’re star-crossed and destined but always just a little too far apart. It ends with a “maybe” instead of a “happily ever after.” You don’t even let yourself think about that too much—it’s perfectly him—a little drama for the sake of it, a little sadness to make the joy feel better.

Your world is tiny. A firefly in a sky full of bold, bright stars. It is you, in your studio, alone. It is you with your friends, it is you getting a cat so you have someone to talk to when your friends aren’t around. 

For Namjoon, it expands. A firefly to a star to a burning red giant. 

Still, it feels small when you’re inside of it. It’s you with your friends, it’s you with Namjoon in your studio, it’s Namjoon gently stroking your cat’s fur while he talks to himself and you paint. 

It’s difficult to describe, but when you’re with him, you either have his full attention to the extent it’s overwhelming, or he seemingly pays no attention to you or what you’re doing. Just works on whatever he’s working on while you paint, speaking to you because he knows you won’t answer. 

On one of the nights when you’re together (but not at all), you finally ask. He’d let himself in around two in the morning and kissed the top of your head before he put headphones in and stuck his face into his notebook on the other side of the room. He likes to sit by the window so he can crack it open and blow his smoke out of it instead of into the room. 

“Why’d you come tonight?” 

“I wanted to be near you.” 

“I don’t think you’ve even looked at me.” It’s not an accusation, just an observation. You like that Namjoon will know the difference, you like that he’s hard to offend, and doesn't mind when you speak plainly. Gives you plain answers in return (usually). You stick the small paint brush you’ve been using sideways in your mouth and grab a larger one.

“Baby, you’re all I can see lately,” he says, staring at the trails of smoke curling around the outside of the window pane. 

You laugh around the red-tipped paint brush you’re biting down on, a pause for the cadmium to add a little white to the edges. Namjoon looks over then, snaps a picture of you with your eyes crinkled and your head thrown back, red oil threatening to drip like blood. 

“Beautiful,” he says, looking at the picture before he goes back to writing.

There are more phone calls every time he travels for work. It’s the same routine. He texts you a photo of something he’s seen that he liked, and when you respond, whether it’s five minutes later or five hours, he asks if he can call you. 

Sometimes they’re quiet, simple recountings of the things that have happened in his day or are about to happen in the next (timezone dependent), sometimes they’re ranting about the industry and the pressure and how he never thought about time until he realized he was running out of it. Sometimes he’s worked up in a different way, wants to see your face in pixelated halos while he comes on his own stomach, alone in a hotel room far away. 

All of this, you let him take. It’s not completely sacrificial, by any means. You like to hear him talk, better than any podcast you’ve ever heard. You like to know what he sees—he’s touched parts of the globe you could only dream about seeing. You like that he never makes it complicated. 

Never promises to take you there one day, never says he wishes you were with him.

You’ve been fucking in secret for a while when Namjoon wants you to meet his friends. 

“Why?” you ask. 

“Because I want you to see me, too,” he says. Simple and complicated at the same time. You’re afraid to ask why again, not sure if you want to know the answer. This is sex. It’s incredible sex that happens far more often than you thought he’d be able to make time for. 

He shows up at your studio at odd hours of the morning (or is it still night?) and talks to you about all the frivolous things while you take each other apart. Rambles about Murakami while he fucks you, tells you about a Youngkuk he saw while you swallow his dick. Naked and sprawled amongst your paint and mess and half-done work leaning against the walls, he tells you a little about his work, too. Asks you about a painting he’d seen you working on—diligently adding splashes of blue, tells you about a song he wants to do the same thing to somehow. Asks you uselessly if color and sound are the same thing if you think about them too hard.

They are. It’s a thing you both know that you don’t think many others do. It’s one thing he’s sure about. You think he only likes you because you’re sure about it, too. 

It’s incredible sex and pretty good conversations that happen at what most people probably think are strange times, but it’s not more than that. You can’t afford to get your heart confused, and he can’t afford to give you anything other than exactly what he’s giving. 

(He can’t afford to give you what he does, but he tells you there’s no reward without risk. 

“Am I the reward, then?” you tease. 

Namjoon never answers you.)

But you don’t tell him no. You think this is a bargain you can make with your heart, you can ask it for temperance while you do this thing he wants, you can meet the people who are truly important to him without convincing yourself you’re counted amongst them. You can try, anyway.

So, on a rooftop in Hannam-dong, you sip whisky with a photographer friend of Namjoon’s while he stands behind you, an arm wrapped around your waist, and alternates between sucking bruises into your neck and smoke into his lungs. 

“How’d you meet?” the photographer asks. 

“Hoam,” Namjoon replies into your skin. “She picked a fight.”

You laugh, he laughs, the photographer laughs. It’s carefree and light—your laugh, your thoughts, your skin under Namjoon’s wandering lips. Your heart is holding up its end of the deal, you don’t feel anything but pleased to be there, pleased to have his attention again (still). 

“Our Namjoonie likes a challenge,” his friend says. 

“Our Namjoonie is a challenge,” you tease.

Namjoon nips at the thin skin between your neck and shoulder in retaliation (or to prove your point, you’re not sure). You yelp, turn in his arms, see him smirking before he goes to take another drag. Swiftly, you pluck the cigarette out from between his lips, stamping it out on the cement. 

“Baby,” he whines, looking down where the cigarette is brown and white dust under your sneaker. 

“Better things to do with your mouth,” you retort, pressing up onto your tiptoes and pulling his bottom lip between your teeth. 

His mouth is ashy and yours tastes like peet, you’re sure. It’s filthy and a little cheap even though the cigarettes and the whisky and the lip balm he always wears were all expensive. Namjoon kisses like he does everything else: completely single-minded, treating the soft curves where your mouths meet as if they’re the edges of the world. 

You walk him a step back until he’s flush against the wall and lean into him again, pressing your bodies together hard and your lips together plush. He’s hard in his joggers and it’s every last piece of self-control you have to not sneak your hand under his waistband and tease him until he’s leaking and begging to get inside you. 

It wouldn’t take much. 

Takes a lot out of you to not drop to your knees and choke on his cock where everyone can see, where everyone would know for sure for sure for certain that he’s chosen you for this for now for some reason. To not make him moan around your name while he comes down your throat, a different kind of concert. 

Your hands stay in appropriate places while your lips beg for more. 

He was right, something he said the first time you hooked up: you are greedy for him. But he’s just as bad for you, begging in your ear for you to let him take you home, for you to let him fuck you right here so everyone knows you’re his (right now, in only this way, for some reason that neither of you are willing to speak into existence). 

You give in, no cares about who sees, it’s safe here with friends who would never betray him. You feel ever weightless against his body, whispering, “Yes, come on Joonie,” you say. “Need your cock. Need you.” 

(Briefly, it occurs to you that those sentences mean two completely different things, that they’re both true, and that either it’s Namjoon choosing to ignore the odd, heavy weight of the second one or you both are.)

You’re halfway out the door before you remember you were in the middle of a conversation. 

You don’t notice his friends whispering. 

You don’t notice his manager rolling his eyes. 

You don’t notice the way Namjoon looks at you when he knows you’re not looking back.

And you surely don’t let yourself notice that both of you want more than you’re willing to give in return.

“Can you come over?” he asks, but it doesn’t quite come out like a question. 

“I’m working, maybe a different time?” 

It’s abundantly clear he hadn’t expected you to say no. He’s silent on the other end of the line for a moment before he lets out an aborted sigh. 

“You can work whenever you want.”

Before you realize he’s serious, you laugh. “Yeah, and now is when I want to. You know how it is to get inspired.” 

Namjoon huffs. “I’d still make time for you.” 

It’s almost more absurd than the sentence before it. First, you know from firsthand experience that he wouldn’t, not really. Your “relationship”—or whatever you’re (not) calling it—revolves almost entirely around his schedule. And that’s fine with you, usually. It was expected, anyway. You don’t exactly drop everything to see him, but you haven’t been the best at keeping plans with the other people in your life, either. You don’t blame him for it, it’s just how things are, and it’s your own fault (at least partially) for bailing on your friends to “chase dick” as they so delicately put it. The second point is that you wouldn’t ask him to. If you don’t ask him to change for you, if you don’t need him to bend, then you never have to stop to ask yourself what the two of you are even doing. 

As the static of the connection is drawn out like a fermata with neither of you willing to break it, you wonder if this is your panoply, the armor you don, one of the ways you’ve been protecting your own heart without realizing it. 

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” you say, repeating it to yourself, admitting it to him. 

“I know,” Namjoon agrees, but he sounds disappointed instead of conciliatory. 

“I have to go.” 

“Sure,” he says quietly before he ends the call. “Let me know when you have time.”

Namjoon is obsessed with time. 

How much is left. 

How much has passed. 

How much until the next thing. 

How much he’s wasted. 

You think this is because he puts a deadline to his regret, says things like, “It’s been a year, I can’t worry about it anymore.” 

It’s hard not to wonder what schedule he’s given whatever this thing is between you. Are you still regrettable? Is there a space between regrettable and forgettable you can build shelter in? 

It makes him fill his time. He’s always doing something, likes to feel productive. Holds himself to an unspoken standard that you’re not even sure he could articulate if he needed to. He gets antsy when he has to relax, twitches and fidgets and fills the space with words. 

Sometimes, after sex when you’re quiet and lax and content to just sit with him, he uses the time to write. He sits tall up in your bed and holds his notebook above your head where it rests in his lap. He says you help him organize his thoughts, says having you to bounce things off of gives him clarity, says you think of words like colors like he does and you know how he likes to paint. Says he gets his best work done in this time in between pleasure and sleep. 

He hums to himself while he writes—you don’t even know if he knows he does it. Sometimes, it wakes you up from where you didn’t know you’d fallen asleep on top of him. 

“Is it morning yet?” you slur, still mostly asleep. 

“Relax, baby,” he whispers when you stir. “We’ve got time.” 

You don’t break up, because there’s nothing tangible to break. It’s a quiet thing, without dramatics, but oh how you grieve. 

It’s not linear. You’re not in a predictable pattern of feeling. One morning he doesn’t call, and you don’t even notice, but another makes you sob quietly in the corner of your studio, curled up under the window where he used to sit, like you can fuse yourself with the ghost of him. 

There are days when it’s easier, days when it’s difficult. When you mourn the way the curve of his bicep felt under your fingertips or the future you never considered until it wasn’t an option anymore. 

(You still don’t know if it ever was an option, but that’s the tricky thing—you can grieve for the things you had and also for those you didn’t. No one can stop you, Namjoon’s not there to pull you back to reality. He was never very good at that anyway.)

Some days, you wonder if he grieves, too. It would be easy to read interviews and read into things, it would be easy to assume every word, look, gesture is a window into his mind, but you try not to do that to yourself, try not to do it to him. 

At four in the morning on a Saturday, when days without him have long turned into weeks, you mindlessly scroll through your phone, idly wondering what he might be doing at this time when he used to be with you.

“The quiet hours are all for us,” he would whisper into your skin, no distractions, no demands. 

Those hours are infinitely louder in your mind without him there. So, you distract yourself, you look at every app and you get lost in reels and tiktoks and tweets and then you go back to instagram to see his story is updated. And you think twice before you do it, but you still click on it, curious and heartbroken and a little bit hoping he’s not already found someone new to spend daybreak with. 

It’s just a song, an old one, a sad one. Text he added in small font across the bottom: 

“Grief is love persevering,” he says.

In your corner, under the window, you cry over the silly quote for the both of you.

“Do you know about alpine sunflowers?” 

You laugh as you put your phone on speaker and set it down next to you. You’re not laughing at him, and he knows it—you’re full of a particular fondness you only feel for him, one you especially feel when he’s thousands of miles away, busier than busy and running on no sleep, but still calling you to bullshit. 

“No, tell me about them.” 

“Okay,” he says, voice pitched up, a little excited, like he’s sitting up straighter and getting ready to tell you something wonderful. “So, they only grow high up in the alpine tundra. The Swiss Alps, the Rockies, you know what I mean?” 

“What about the French Alps?” you tease.

Namjoon huffs. “There too, jagiya, but you’re missing the point.” 

“Okay, make me see it, then.” 

“I will if you’ll stop teasing.” 

You do stop, not because he’s making an impeccable argument, but because he’s always going somewhere with things like this, and without realizing it, you’ve stumbled into a reality where you’d follow him anywhere. 

“They grow slowly. ‘Cause of the snow and the subzero temperatures and the fact that there’s just not much up there for them. They take their time, you see?”

You’re starting to, your paintbrush dipping into a dusty yellow to test in a small corner of your canvas. You nod, forgetting he’s not there in the room with you, that you should speak if you actually want to answer him. He doesn’t care if you do or not, you know, not until he gets to the punchline, and sometimes not even then. 

On the other end of the line, you hear him suck in a breath before he continues. “They save up everything: the sunlight and the water and they hoard it all. They're selfish little things, baby. Just these spindly stalks of nothing sucking up everything good out of the Earth.”

“Hmm,” you murmur so he knows you’re with him. 

“But then, and this is the best part, then one day, after ten fucking years if you can believe that—after ten years do you know what happens?”

“Climate change?”

Namjoon ignores you now in favor of finishing his story. It’s fair enough, you suppose. “They bloom. Big and beautiful, brighter than all the other sunflowers like an explosion of little suns across the mountains.”

“That sounds beautiful,” you reply. 

And you know what Namjoon is thinking. That their beauty comes at a cost, that he hasn’t quite untangled yet whether he loves those stupid flowers for taking what they need and becoming something incredible or if he despises them for waiting so long to do it, for keeping something so lovely to themselves. It’s not what he says, though. As you paint something that might be tangling green vines of selfish sunflowers across gesso, he surprises you. 

“I wonder if in all relationships, someone is the sunflower and someone is the mountain.”

You can’t help but pause, because he might be right. One of you might take something from the other to become more beautiful, one of you might give up everything to be made more whole by the other, if even for a moment. 

“Maybe they are,” you agree. 

“You know what happens after the alpine sunflower blooms?” he asks, voice softer now, more tired as night turns into morning where he is. 

“What happens, Joon-ah?”

Namjoon sighs into the phone, the mood has changed since he called you—and this isn’t unusual. He can be ebullient and he’s gorgeous when he’s happy and carefree, but it changes quickly sometimes depending on the circumstances, depending on how much he’s let himself think, how much time he’s spent alone. 

“They die. They do all of that and they work hard for so long, and then they’re gone.” 

Carefully, you ask, “You want to be the mountain, then?” 

In the background, you can hear the rustle of sheets and the careful clacking of his glasses hitting the bedside table. He yawns, and you can picture the way he’s rubbing his palms over his face, pulling his shirt off before he dives all the way under the duvet, probably taking advantage of being alone to take up all the space he possibly can in the big hotel bed. He sounds half-asleep and sad when he finally answers you. 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

“Why not?” You put your brush down, stare at the small mess you’ve made. 

“The mountain has it worse, she can only watch them go.”

He is everywhere, even when he’s not. 

There are the obvious things: the ads with his face, the gum and coffee and candy with his picture on them, the music, his lyrics, playing in cafes and bars and pages and pages of his songs in every noraebang. 

There are the private things, too. The reminders that are just for you.

You see him in the way the leaves change: reliable but not predictable. 

You smell him after it rains, when you pass by cafes and smoking rooms and when you take the train to Yeosu just to remember the way the saltwater can make the air sting. You hear him every time you hear the train sail into the station at Yongsan and when you hear the river gently shove against its banks. 

It’s a couple months after you meet him, and along that river, you walk a less-loved path. With all the words you know, you explain all that to a friend, one you’ve known a long time, who doesn’t know who you’re talking about as you try to describe the person who’s taken up all of your time and attention lately. 

Because you can’t tell her anything about him, you tell her these things instead and you hope it’s enough for her to understand. 

And maybe she does, maybe better than you do. 

“Does that make sense?” you ask. “It’s hard to explain how much he is.” 

“To you,” she says. “He’s that much to you.” 

You hadn’t even considered that he wasn’t all of those things to everyone. It never even crossed your mind. It’s probably apparent that you’re mulling it over, trying to true it up with how you feel. 

She shrugs with one shoulder and smiles, brings a finger up to smooth the wrinkle in your brow.  “Don’t think about it too hard, yeah? Love is supposed to be simple.” 

Those two words had always each seemed so big to you, to carry so much power on their own. It’s the first time you let yourself consider putting the words Namjoon and Love in the same sentence. 

And in that moment, you know that if Namjoon is the changing leaf, you are the one that falls.

“Do you love me?” you ask—afraid to know the answer, more afraid of never knowing. You stare at unfinished bunches of sunflowers and handprints of pink and white borders that never got filled in. All of it undone, all of it paused. Abstracts in stop-motion waiting for… him to come back? You to get your shit together? Inspiration? What’s the difference, anyway, you think while you wait for him to speak. 

He doesn’t answer right away, hums a little, clicks his tongue, things you can sense more than you can hear. It’s a rude way to start a phone call, especially when you haven’t spoken in a long time, especially when you’re not each other's to love. 

Not anymore. 

Not that you know if you ever were. 

You need to know, you think. Questioning whether all of it even mattered is making you worse off than thinking it didn’t. Listening to him tell foreign interviewers he’s had a rough year, lost something great, was finding it hard to trust—himself, others—you, your brain supplies… it’s making you feel a little wild, a little reckless. 

One drink past good decisions, you call, and when he answers unexpectedly, you forgo “hello” for “do you love me?” 

You wait, expecting exasperation, complication, maybe a long and drawn out description of how maybe people can never know if they’re in love, if they have the capacity to love completely. 

And then he surprises you. 

“Of course I do,” he says, sounding soft and a little scared and more definitive than you’ve ever heard him. “You know that.” 

“I didn’t,” you reply. Not to be argumentative, but because it’s true. Because you love him and you want him to be happy and you know he’ll never get it right if he thinks what he gave you was enough. 

“I don’t think I knew then, either,” he concedes. “But I wish I had. I do now.” 

“I miss you.” 

“I know. But you did then, too.” 

The laugh you let out is wry and wet with your tears, the ones you’re shedding for the you that did miss him even then, even when he was by your side, even when he was buried inside of you. “I’m lonely,” is what you say, too honest. 

“I know. I am, too.” 

There’s nothing to say to that, you think. Maybe this is where it really ends, a torn-open wound for both of you—you’ll paint it all in vivid acrylics, probably never finish it just to be ironic. And then Namjoon adds, “Can I come over?”

You reply quickly, a taste of his own medicine. “Maybe,” you say. 

You should have never left, you mean. 

He laughs then, watercolor yellow and orange joy dripping over the phone line. It’s bright and hopeful—you listen to him shrugging on a jacket and swearing out a curse when he runs into his dresser, rushing to get to you, scrambling for time—and it makes you decide that for once, with him by your side, you might finish the picture.

[comicwritesstuff]

Can I ask for Yandere Veneer x Reader headcanons? Maybe with assistant Reader?

Hell yeah

Yandere!Veneer x GN!reader headcanons/one shot

TW: possessiveness, NSFW, blowjob, stalking, manipulating.

Veneer wouldn't be that crazy, not as bad as Yandere Velvet, but he is still insanely possessive.

He would see you and not even interact with you before stalking you, quickly becoming obsessed with you.

He'd watch you for weeks on end, falling harder and harder for you, making sure you were safe from harm.

He watches you at your job, then he finds a way to get you fired, and as your walking outside after getting fired, he'll come up to you asking if you wanted to be him and Velvets assistant.

Being desperate and in need of a job, you agree.

Turns out instead of being both Velvet and Veneers assistant, Veneer hardly lets you around Velvet, hogging you to himself.

At some point he flat out tells you, "Don't even bother trying to help my sister, you're my assistant."

Being his assistant some would think it would be easily, but with as much fan mail, emails, basically everything he doesn't want to deal with, you do.

It gets incredibly exhausting, when you ask for a break he will say, "Oh, you poor thing...of course you can have a break darling..."

He will wrap his arm around your shoulder, leading you to the couch, pouring you a drink or two, after your a bit tipsy he'll say, "You look so tired, why don't you cuddle with me."

If you try arguing, saying he is our boss, and if you try to keep it processional...

"Come lay down with me. I'm your boss, you do as I say."

Weeks go by, he becomes more possessive, to the point of where he doesn't let you leave the mansion they live in.

No matter the task, it can be as simple as doing dishes, he is always around you, watching you, using excuses, "I just want to make sure you're doing it right hun.."

He starts making you do even more work, letting you do even Velvets shit. He does everything he can do to break you.

"You're my assistant, do this now or I will fire you, and I know how bad you need this job hun...I mean... look at you, do you really think anyone in there right mind would hire you?"

He keeps saying things like that, when he's certain you won't try to leave he starts flirting with you.

"Y/n, come help me change."

Obviously your flustered, but still trying to be processional you go to help change him, starting with his shirt and eventually taking his pants off, you thought you got lucky since his boxers were on.

"Tch tch tch, the boxers too love."

Your face flushes, which makes him even more cocky, he loves it when he gets you flustered.

You oblige and slide his boxers down, trying to advert your eyes from his cock.

He stays silent, watching you with a smirk, as your trembling hands try to put on a new pair of boxers, yet, he stops you.

"Y/n. I think you know what to do, now be a good little assistant." He tells you teasingly.

And well...he's your boss, so you have to listen to him.

You hesitantly start, rubbing his hard dick, but your going to slow for him, he grabs your hair and slams his dick to the back of your throat.

If you start crying he'd coo you, "Your doing so well baby, I'm almost done."

He's grunting and softly moaning, before he finishes in your mouth, forcing you to swallow all of it.

From then on out he is much much nicer to you, unless you do something he told you not to.

You can very rarely leave, or be somewhere without him.

He gets you a necklace as a gift, you where it everywhere but what you don't know is that there is a camera in the necklace, so he really can watch you no matter what. It also has a tracker inside it.

He is fine with you going out after you get the necklace, but if he sees you talk to someone (he strictly said not to) then he won't let you out for weeks, locking you in his room.

If you ever try to leave him, or run away, he will find you, and never let you out.

If you can get past the part that he is insanely possessive, and that you won't ever be able to leave him, then your relationship with him is very wholesome.

He is the big and little spoon, not caring much who is who, he's always holding your hand and telling you, "I love you so much...your always going to be mine, isn't that right dear?"

"Nothing could, or would...ever come between us, you love me right?"

[ughthisisntright]

The Stroke | Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader

Written for @roosterforme 's '80s Rocktober Playlist! SO GLAD no one else chose this song!

Song: The Stroke - Billy Squier

Summary: Rooster plays an unlikely part in two friends' special day and you reap every benefit.

Word Count: 1,958

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, nudity, sexual themes, Rooster being a total dork.

Orchestral overture over your arrival in the gardens. A gentle breeze carrying the scent of peonies and roses. Indistinct chatter amongst guests finding their seats. All the fixings of a perfect day.

A perfect wedding day.

Summer’s late heat lingered and persisted. As if it were a child stubbornly hanging onto an old stuffie that had been loved too much. Mid-September brought a comforting segue to Fall. Partially colored leaves and still that warm breeze that enveloped all whom it touched.

Again, the perfect wedding day.

You walked your way up the aisle, finding a seat a little back from the front. You'd keep yourself close enough to see, but not to obstruct. Up far enough in importance, but still following tradition. Family sits in the first few rows. That’s the rule.

You looked around the garden and found peony bushes and arrangements. The simple gold arch at the makeshift altar and unity candle on a table set back just a touch. Pristine white chairs and a small stone pathway up the center of the aisle. It was everything you knew she’d have picked. Everything she'd told you she'd picked. But was it ever more beautiful than it is in person?

As the rest of the guests filed in, familiar faces made their way to your side. Mickey, Bob, Reuben, Jake. Friends you'd made along the way. Friends who'd been invited to share this occasion. You preferred to be a guest. It was better to observe. You were surrounded by people you love. Surrounded by people who loved you. And you all loved the couple you came to see.

A romantic processional played just a little louder over the speakers in the garden. Each head in the crowd turned to watch as the officiant, followed closely by Javy, came down the aisle first. Groomsmen you didn't recognize followed suit, smiles on their faces. You assumed these were family members and the assumption made you smile.

Bridesmaids soon followed, more family you were sure, and took their places at the altar opposite Javy. Lined up in perfect succession, it looked straight out of a bridal magazine. The gorgeous processional faded, confused faces exchanged. But the group of friends around you began to snicker softly, knowing what was coming.

Booming over the speakers, loud and clear: Billy Squier’s “The Stroke.” Looks of realization dawned on the guests’ faces and laughter could be heard amongst every guest. Your eyes were transfixed on the archway everyone else had arrived through. A smirk tugging at your lips, a laugh bubbled in your chest as you watched him strut through the entrance to the garden.

In all his mustachioed glory stood Bradley. Bright yellow fanny pack secured to his hips and those obnoxious Pit-Viper sunglasses on his face. Oh, he was the perfect man for this job. Sexy, bitchy, and absolute heaven to look at. He held a bottle of beer in his hand and swallowed all of it down quickly before chucking the bottle on the ground - quickly picked up by the wedding coordinator standing close by with a smile on her face. He grinned widely and slowly unzipped the fanny pack and produced pink flower petals, sprinkling them in front of him.

The song continued, Bradley easing his way down the aisle with a cocky grin and spreading those pink petals along the stone pathway for the bride to walk down. He threw some in a couple of family members' faces as a joke, being met with raucous laughter and applause.

Once he spotted you, though, in your late-summer beauty, he pulled up a handful and blew them all over your face. You laughed with mirth as he continued on until he reached the end of the aisle, reached the altar. He gave Javy a firm clap on the shoulder before turning to the rest of the guests and taking two handfuls of petals and tossing them in the air like confetti.

That song. You'd never be able to hear it the same again. As it faded out and a beautiful rendition of Canon in D began playing, a warmth became present at your left side. You turned your head to see Bradley, sans Pit-Vipers, looking at you with a shit-eating grin.

Everyone rose to their feet and turned to face the archway. Excitement bubbled in your chest as you prepared yourself to watch the bride come into view. Bradley’s hands snaked around your waist and he pressed a kiss to the back of your neck.

“I've got a surprise for you,” he groaned in your ear. The shudder you produced sated him for the moment. But you were sure it wouldn't last.

But then, there she was.

Natasha was wearing a floor length satin wedding gown. Spaghetti straps and a cowl neck with a low and revealing back. Just how you'd pictured when she described the dress to you. Before you got too lost in how she looked, you turned your head to look at Javy.

And he was a wreck.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, he held his hand over his mouth and stared at her as she walked down the aisle toward him. Her arm linked with her father’s, a gorgeous bouquet of peonies and other greens in her hand, she made her way to the altar.

-

They’re married now. Married. You couldn't believe it. Javy was always a romantic, and sure you'd always seen the sparks between them, but you couldn't believe they actually pulled it off. Natasha was gorgeous, Javy was so handsome. You only hoped yours and Bradley’s wedding would be so gorgeous someday.

And you knew it would happen.

The long glances, the closeness the two of you shared, it was all too comfortable to be casual and not going anywhere. You found yourself staring at Bradley a little too long as the reception wore on. His head turned to you and he smiled as he met your gaze.

“Having fun, honey?” He asked sweetly with rosy cheeks from all the wine.

“A blast,” you returned just as sweet. “Oh, you said you have a surprise for me?”

“Ah ah, I’ll show you when we get back to the hotel room.” His eyes crinkled in another one of those shit-eating grins and you simply rolled your eyes. He then grabbed your hand and pulled you to the dance floor.

Wedding classics, some old and some new, pulsed through the speakers as everyone had the time of their lives. Nat did say the wedding would be fun. And boy she was right. You were more than happy to dance the night away at their wedding. But you also knew she wouldn't have it any other way.

As time passed, your shoes came off and Bradley’s jacket was hanging off the back of his chair. Additionally, his sleeves were rolled up and some buttons had come undone on his shirt. His Pit-Vipers hung on the bridge of his nose as he went absolutely nuts with the other Daggers on the dance floor. You laughed at his silly dance moves, but when he put his arm out to tuck you against his side, you were running over to join him.

Hips rolling together, you two danced to some disco song Jake had surely requested. Bradley’s hand was firm on your waist as the two of you moved. His hips certainly didn't lie, and you were being brutally reminded of this as he moved behind you.

It was sinful, really.

And it made you want to go back to your hotel room.

Eventually, you'd lost all your energy and were sitting down at your table. You rested your head down on your arms and your eyes remained closed. You'd given your love to Nat and Javy who were outside taking pictures and would still be when you and Bradley left for the night. The music persisted, and so did Bradley. He was cutting a rug with Mickey and Bob all while you begged silently to go.

Fortunately, all that wine had finally caught up with Bradley and he was making his way back over to you. A lopsided smile on his face made him look even cuter than he was. And it made you ache.

“Ready?” He asked softly. You nodded and stood up, grabbing your shoes and his jacket before heading out. You thanked God that the two of you were staying in the same hotel as the reception venue as you didn't have to drive anywhere. You were sure you'd have fallen asleep in the car if you had to drive all the way home.

Bradley held your hand as you walked to the elevators. He was still wearing that goofy fanny pack and the Pit-Vipers were perched on his head. He looked down at you and kissed your temple before the elevator doors opened and he yanked you inside.

Before the doors were even closed, his lips were on your neck and his hands were all over you. You stood there with your shoes in one hand and his jacket in the other, unable to return the favor in any way except moaning his name into the thin air of the elevator. He chuckled against your skin and then yanked you out of the elevator as it opened up on your floor.

A flurry of kisses and touches and gasps and moans became your entire being as Bradley backed you against the door of your hotel room. He fumbled with the key card and pushed the door open, the two of you crashing inside like a couple of horny teenagers. He then quickly put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door and returned his attention to you.

His hands were everywhere. And once your dress was off, they were gripping your flesh hungrily. As though he hadn't ever tasted you before. He gently laid you on the bed and smiled down at you before removing his dress shirt and undershirt. He kicked his slacks off and got on top of you. He kissed your lips, jaw, neck, collarbone, anywhere he could. His big hands palming the weight of your breasts and massaging the flesh gently. Your soft gasps overwhelmed his senses and he sat up.

“What's the matter?” You ask, breathless.

“Nothing…” He replied, a smirk tugging at his lips. He reached over and grabbed that obnoxiously yellow fanny pack he was wearing during the ceremony. He unzipped it and pulled out those familiar pink petals he'd thrown hours ago. You snickered softly and he wagged his eyebrows at you.

“They thought I needed extra,” he started. “Looks like I lucked out.” He kissed your lips softly before lifting his hands up over your bare chest.

The petals slipped from between his fingers and cascaded down to land on your skin. You bit your lip gently as they kissed your breasts and other parts of your chest. The light tickle of the delicate material of the petals had you stifling giggles as Bradley hovered over you with a smug look on his face.

“Only you, baby,” you quipped.

“You shut up,” he responded with a snicker. He dropped more petals on your chest, taking note of how your nipples stiffened to peaks from the sensation. “I can tell you love this.”

“Maybe I do,” you said with a sigh. “Or maybe I just love the view of you up there.”

“Mmm…” he hummed as he dropped another handful of the petals on you. “I gotta be the flower dude more often then, yeah?”

“You don't have enough friends for that-” you laughed. He simply bent over and kissed you hard in response to your little jab.

But, yes, he'd have to do this more often.

[gentlebeardsbarngrill]

02/01/2024 Daily Recap

TLDR; Thank you for the help!; HoistTheAdsReceipts; HoistThePetitionCampaign; UK News; Basingstroke Comic Con; Cast & Crew Sightings; Samba's birthday; Watch Partys; In Person Meetups; Articles; #OhBloysHeMad; Videos; Misc; Love Notes; DailyDarby/Tonight's Taika

Hey everyone! Thank you for all the kind folks that gave me feedback on the Renewal Repo! I'm still getting stuff back filled but please feel free to check it out now, it's got the current events I'm aware of and I'm keeping it up to date with everything daily that comes across my feeds. There's also a contact form for anything I'm missing or you'd like to add!

OFMD Renewal Repository

== Hoist The Ads Receipts ==

So technically this was yesterday, sorry I put it in my todo folder and then completely forgot to add it! So for those of you asking about receipts for the Hoist the Ads Charity donations. There are more images on those links but I'm running out of image allotment for this post so please visit the tumblr or other socials to read the rest. Instagram Link / Tumblr / Twitter

==Hoist The Petition Campaign!==

The @SaveOFMDCrew is hosting a #HoistThePetition campaign to try and boost Signatures on the Petition. You have a chance to win some OFMD stickers. If you don't have twitter you are welcome to message me and I'll message LC on your behalf or find alternative contacts for you! For those with twitter: LCWebsXOXO

== UK News ==

As always, thanks @lamentus1 for all the information on the UK front! Basingstroke Comic Con is happening on May 10-12 2024 at the Hampshire Court Hotel in Basingstoke, UK

BasingStrokeComic Con Facebook Ticket Links Some cool news on the twitter front, @lamentus1 tweeted the SunTV Magazine editor Steven Corbett and he responded!

== Cast & Crew Sightings ==

It's Samba's birthday!!!! He sent us a lovely photo on IG

Looks like he's feeling the love! He's trending! (and so are oranges haha- thank you @lucyrosebutler for catching the trends!) He's been out here liking everyone's comments so he's definitely seeing everyone's well wishes! Thanks for making him feel loved everyone!

Kristian Nairn gave some more updates! Looks like they're sorted for Wee John Monday! More info tomorrow!

==Reminders for Upcoming Events==

=#OurFlagMeansDeadloch=

Last day of #OurFlagMeansDeadloch tomorrow!

Watch Party Hashtags:

#OurFlagMeansDeadloch

#SaveOFMD

#AdoptOurCrew

=#StewAsACrew=

February 4th is National Soup Day! Share soup pics, jokes, recipes, etc while rewatching Season 1 of OFMD! 

Watch Party Hashtags:

#StewAsACrew

#AdoptOurCrew

#SaveOFMD

== In Person Meet-Ups!==

Are you near Burbank, CA? Tues, Feb 13 there will be a walking processional to celebrate #OFMD! Thank you @aimeekitty for sharing this!

== Articles ==

The big article that's got everyone's attention today was this pile of nonsense from the Vulture about "The Truth Behind Max's Cancellation Spree". If you don't want to give them the satisfaction of having clicks, you can go under the cut on this post to see screenshots of the article.

The Truth Behind Max's Cancellation Spree

This has once again triggered our fun and exciting hashtag: #OhBloysHeMad and a new one #Don'tStreamOnMax.

There are some tips from the #SaveOFMD Crew though about Hashtags and cross-posting

Also something to note....

==Videos==

New episode of Movies with Marty! Our Flag Means Death (2023) S2 Eps 3 & 4 Reaction | FIRST TIME WATCHING

==Ad Campaigns Up and Running!==

Our Street Level Ads are live in New York!

== Love Notes ==

I am very tired tonight lovelies. I had a lot to say but it's been a very long day, so I'm going to call it quits a bit earlier tonight. I think this picture sums up my feelings pretty well. <3 you all, see you tomorrow.

== Daily Darby / Tonight's Taika ==

Tonight's Darby picture is courtesy of @jacemerlyn on twitter. Thank you for this gem! Taika's picture courtesy of his instagram.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

roy kent at his wedding! obviously he’ll do the first dance but do we think afterwards he’d end up partying and dancing to the wedding playlist with his wife? does he cry when she walks down the aisle? I need all of the thoughts xx

Roy wasn't at all nervous when it came to your wedding. He didn't care if he tripped or something went wrong. All he cared about was marrying you, making you Mrs. Kent.

He watches as the wedding party do the processional. Then, the wedding march began to play. Everyone stands and it was now your entrance.

You appear at the end of the aisle, your arm looped around Ted, your father figure and man who brought you and Roy together.

You look absolutely beautiful. The way your dress just makes you even more gorgeous and angelic looking. Roy can't believe it. He wipes at his eyes, trying to not let any tears fall.

"I gotchu, grandad," Jamie, his best man, pulls out a handkerchief and offers it to Roy.

Roy slaps it away and grumbles, "Fuck off." He looks back at you and sees you giggling and shaking your head. Love and tears in your eyes.

When you get to the other end of the aisle, you give Ted a hug and place your hand in Roy's outstretched one. You hand Keeley your bouquet and place your other hand in Roy's.

He squeezes your hands gently, "I love you," he rasps.

"I love you too," you say beaming, and you look to Coach Beard, your officiant, to start.

_________________

Roy wasn't much of a dancer, especially after he messed up his knee. However, he did indulge you in the first dance, holding you close and swaying you to the music.

He participated in a few dances here and there, but he mainly sat on the side watching you have fun with your family and friends. You were jumping around and having fun, dancing with Keeley and Rebecca. Your smile is so wide and Roy felt that feeling in his chest again, the one he felt when he realized he was in love with you. His body feeling warm all over.

He downs the rest of his beer and stands up with a grunt. He makes his way over to you and your smile seems to grow bigger when he joins you.

You sing along to the song playing and he twirls you around, the lovesick smile on his face.

He can't wait to spend forever with you.

[cinamun]

The Processional | Next

Friends! Please join us tomorrow for a very special vow exchange and all of the wonderful things that happen after that.

Additonally, as her son and his bride walked down the aisle, Mercy Carruthers played this song on the baby grand.

[11queensupreme11]

If Percy marries Daddyseidon... who's giving away Percy? Cuz usually the father of the bride will walk his daughter down the aisle to hand her off to the groom... but since Percy is marrying her father what would happen to the processional order

This is so ridiculous, it's like a big incestuous riddle I never thought I would ever need an answer to but I really do LMAO

THESE ARE THE KINDA QUESTIONS THAT CONTINUE TO HAUNT ME 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

i still haven't figured out what percy would even CALL him after marriage. like, would she still call him "daddy" or "poseidon"???

on one hand, he's her husband now and it's weird to call you hubby "daddy"

but on the OTHER HAND, he's also her fucking DAD, and it's weird to call your dad by their name 😭😭😭😭

i have no clue how to answer ur question bro, i really don't 😭😭😭 im sorryyyyy 💀

[uncpanda]

Blood is Thicker than Water: Chapter 20

AN: Not going to lie. I STRUGGLE writing wedding scenes. However, I really love how this chapter turned out. Instead of dragging it out, we get snippets. I love that about this. Please leave feedback.

Warnings: None that I can think of.

Master List

Guest List: 

“Four hundred and thirty-six people.” 

Rafa stares at you. He’s been sipping from that cup of coffee for over two minutes now. You lean forward and say it again, “Four hundred and thirty-six people.” 

He finally puts the cup down, “I really don’t see the problem.” 

You scream in frustration and stomp right out of the apartment. 

The moment the door closes Rafael looks at Benny and asks, “She realizes I have a big family right?” 

Wedding Party: 

“So that gives me Rita as my best woman, and Ed and Eddie as groomsmen.” 

“And I have Liv as my maid of honor.” 

Rafa stares at you, “That means the sides are uneven.” 

“So?” 

“They can’t be uneven.” 

You raise an eyebrow, “Why not?” 

“It won’t look right.” 

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you.” 

Your fiance sighs, “What about your friends from college?” 

“Most of them are already married and have kids. Plus they live in different states. That’s not fair to ask them.” 

“Friends from childhood?” 

“I hung out with Elliot’s kids. I haven’t talked to them in years, andI don’t really have a desire to do so now.” 

“So this is just how it is.” 

“Unless you want me to ask your mother?” 

“Nope. We’re good.” 

The Venue: 

“What do you think?” 

You look around at the garden. It is perfect for a springtime wedding. Even without the flowers in bloom, it’s gorgeous. 

You look over at Rafa, his smile is stretched across his face. He’s done good. Amazing really. There’s just one problem. 

“It’s not going to fit four hundred thirty-six people.” 

Your fiance scowls, “We can figure it out. Some people can stand.” 

You cross your arms, and lean forward, “That’s against the fire code counselor.” you point towards the plaque that reads a max of 300. 

He throws his hands up in frustration, and finally says the words you’ve been waiting to hear, “Fine! I’ll make cuts.” 

Ring Bearer: 

“He needs a part in the wedding!” 

“I’m not disagreeing with you.” 

“You said no.” 

“I said no, because I already told my sister Noah could do it, and he’s our nephew.” 

“Well of course Noah is a ring bearer, I’m just saying Benny could be one too!” 

  “There’s also the fact that your grandmother might pass out if she sees a dog in the processional. We’re already not getting married in the neighborhood church. She nearly cried when we told her that.” 

“She loves Benny!” 

“I know, that’s why he can come to the reception and take pictures with us. I already talked to the venue and our dog walker.” 

“Oh. Well, okay then.” 

Shopping: 

“So how did you manage to convince mama Barba and Abuelita and the rest of his relatives not to come today?” 

You take a sip of the champagne in your hand, “I told them the truth. This is a you and me thing. No one else allowed.” 

Liv smiles, “Well, it means a lot that it’s just us.”

“What do you think of these?” 

You and Liv turn together and watch as Ed and Noah come out together. They’re dressed in matching tuxes. You and Liv melt. Noah is absolutely adorable, and Ed actually cleans up pretty good. While Rita is Rafa’s best woman, Ed and Eddie are his groomsmen, and Noah is the ring bearer. 

After you’re all done cooing at Noah, Rafael finally steps out of the dressing room. He looks drop dead handsome in his tux. You feel your eyes go wide, and then he gets a little smirk on his face. You know you’re not living this moment down. 

Music: 

You stare at Rafa. He’s trying not to laugh. You can’t blame him. “She’s going to kill us.” 

You smile, “This song comes from the first movie we ever watched together.” 

“We’ve already found a way to work quotes into the wedding. If you walk down the aisle to this song, your sister might just kill us.” 

You shake your head, a serious look coming over your face, “No she won’t. She knows why I love this movie, why I love the book.” 

Rafa looks serious now too, “I think it’s perfect.” 

Dress shopping: 

“No,no, no, no, no! What did I tell you about off the rack? I said absolutely not! Where is your manager? I helped him evade a racketeering charge, he owes me!” 

You sip on champagne and look at your sister. She has that look on her face, “At least it wasn’t a murder or rape charge.” 

She nods in agreement before asking, “How did Rita end up on this chopping trip again?” 

“This is apparently the best wedding dress shop around. She knows the owner . . . apparently rather well. She’s trying to help.” 

A second later a terrified manager and a ranting Rita pass you by.

You both watch them go. You’re happy to say you don’t find your dress in that store. 

Dress Shopping Part 2: 

The day you find your wedding dress, you’re not expecting it. You’re less than five months away from the wedding, and you’re panicking a little bit. You KNOW it takes time to order a dress. Rita’s told you about it five million times. 

You’re walking Benny when you see it. A small bridal shop, with a pretty dress in the window. You stare at it for several seconds before you call your sister. She answers on the first ring, “This better be an emergency. I’m in the middle of a case.” 

“I think I might have found my wedding dress.” 

There’s a moment of silence, “What’s the address, I’ll be there ASAP.” 

You rattle it out just as an employee sticks her head out, “Hi there. Would you like to come in?” 

You look down at Benny and she smiles, “He’s welcome to come in too. I love dogs!” You go in.

By the time Liv arrives, Benny is on his back getting belly scratches from the staff while you’re in the dressing room being fitted into your dream dress. 

Liv stares at your goofy, three legged dog for a second before she calls out your name. You step out a second later. 

You watch her eyes go wide, as she studies you for a second, “That’s it.” 

You nod, “Yeah.” There are no tears. It’s just a comfortable feeling. This is your wedding dress. 

The Night Before: 

The night before your wedding is spent at Liv’s apartment. Ed and Noah head over to your place to spend time with Rafa and Eddie. It’s just the two of you. You put on face masks, paint your nails, and watch Disney movies. It reminds you of one of the best parts of your childhood.

It’s as you’re sitting on the couch that Liv says, “I’m so happy for you. You know that right?” 

You smile, “I know.” 

“He’s a good man.” 

“The best in my opinion, though Ed gives him a run for his money.” 

She smiles at that, “I truly think, you’re going to be really happy together.” 

“I know so.” 

With that, she pulls you in for a hug. 

Right Before the Wedding: 

You don’t actually feel nervous until about half an hour before the wedding. Your makeup and hair is done. You probably should have been in your dress by now, but you’re still in your getting ready outfit. Things are a bit behind schedule. Noah had a melt down, your sister has cried no less than three times, and Abuelita and Lucia have been bickering with each other. You haven’t seen Rafa. You’re not sure why you’re sticking to this stupid tradition, but you are. 

You’re watching the chaos with an observant eye when someone taps you on the shoulder. You spin around to see your sister standing there. She tosses her head to the side and you follow her outside. The sun is shining and the March air is only a little chilly. You close your eyes and allow yourself a minute. When you open your eyes, you see Liv smiling at you. 

“What?” 

“It’s just crazy. How Lewis,” 

“May he rot in hell,” 

“Lead to all of this. You moving back and meeting Rafael. Me and Ed connecting, getting married, and having Noah. We’re getting those happy endings we dreamed of as kids.” 

You hug yourself and look at the ground for a little bit before you look up, “Did I ever say thank you?” 

“For what?” 

“For raising me and loving me when you didn’t have to?” 

Your sister hugs you, “You never have to thank me for that. You are one of the best joys of my life.” You smile at that. 

Walking Down the Aisle: 

You’re nervous, but you’re allowed to be. You’re in your dress, your veil is attached, and everyone has walked down the aisle except you and Liv. You look at your sister. She’s dressed in a black dress. She has once again avoided color. 

She holds out her arm to you, and you take it. You close your eyes, and you count to three. The music starts: the instrumental Dawn from Pride and Prejudice; the first movie you and Rafa watched together. The movie you two still watch together.

You start to walk. It’s slow, and thanks to the three hundred and twenty three people (Rafa was able to cut it down) you can’t see Rafael yet. You do, however, see Uncle Don, and Finn, and Munch. You smile at them. 

And then you turn the corner of people, and you see him. Rafael is standing there. He’s dressed in his tux. His hair is perfectly styled. His eyes are focused solely on you as though you’re the only thing he sees. You feel yourself start to speed up, but your sister grounds you like she always does. 

When you finally reach him, you feel your breath leave your chest. And as you take his hand, everything else fades away. It’s just you and him. Just like it’s supposed to be. 

[loneberry]

From “Poem Of The End” by Marina Tsvetaeva, translated from Russian by Elaine Feinstein

*

Prague. When I think of Prague I see the Russian poet Marina Tsvetaeva separating from her lover Konstantin Rozdevitch on the Charles Bridge, her heart breaking, her body burning. Like an animal stabbed in the stomach, she begs for 1 inch of lead to the heart. Everywhere, she is an exile everywhere she goes. All poets are, for “life is the place where it’s forbidden to live.” (I had used that Tsvetaeva line as the title for the poem that opens my Sunflower book, the poem about being lost: "She is lost and I am lost but the difference is she is a novice at being lost, whereas I have always been without country.")

12 years ago I saw the bridge. I wrote:

Everything shrouded in a mystical slime. A crazed sleep-deprived flâneuse wandering through old European cities with a notebook full of somniloquent scribblings. The people walk around looking all processional and I swear to God, the tourists on the Charles Bridge in Prague were part of some kind of sublime funeral. It seemed like everyone was wearing black, walking past the blackened statues with their black gloves while the black birds soared across the sky. I break down teary-eyed on the train from Berlin to Prague...

*

Yesterday at dawn I went to the Charles Bridge to read sections 7 and 8 of Tsvetaeva's "Poem of the End" (see section 8 above). I used to go to the Brooklyn Bridge to read the "Atlantis" section of Hart Crane's The Bridge. I guess I feel that to understand something about the spiritual topography of my favorite poets, I should go to the places that inspired the poems and read them, to learn something about the architecture of memory, how we are emotionally branded by certain places of affective intensity.

It was cold and windy. Gulls and other birds were circling and cawing. Suddenly my phone battery went from 87% to 1%. After reading the poem I went into a cafe to charge my phone. A chill to my bone. A fatigue unlike anything I had felt before--beyond the typical jet lag. Went home and fell asleep. Dreamed of the phantoms of the heart, the ones that haunt the poets--everything gets mixed up there, in dreams. What are you chasing? "And when I wake she melts away into the sand." Did not want the dream to end, but I had a talk to deliver at the Academy of Fine Arts. After the talk we ate Neapolitan pizza and someone told me about her dreams of escaping death. She was in an elevator hurtling toward the ground. Death is coming. She resigned herself to it. Always, she accepts what is coming. But when the elevator crashed on the ground she was somehow unscathed. The door opened: desert. She was in the desert.

I like to think that everywhere I go, I am walking in the footsteps of a poet. What did she see, who did she become passing through this place? I see Tsvetaeva murdering her love, transforming, sensual and holy, from a lover into a poet. What is it that sinks like a ship, in the last line of the poem? She is letting go. Love is swallowed by the wave.

The Charles Bridge just before dawn.

[sassyfrassboss]

Leakings and the British Press

I tend to do some of my best thinking in the shower in the morning. Not sure if it has to do with my brain being fresh in the morning or if the water just pounds good ideas into my brain.

Anyways, after watched both the Anderson Cooper interview and the Michael Strahan interview, both twice, something Harry kept saying over and over again in both interviews stuck with me.

Harry was saying that the palaces, aka William, Charles, and the other royals, would continually brief against, mostly Meghan but Harry as well. Harry claimed that the palaces would collaborate with the British press and plant false stories about Meghan to take attention away from the other senior royals. He said they did this to distract from negative stories about the other senior royals. It was a cover up at Meghan’s expense.

Now I have spent the past few hours racking my brain trying to think about these “negative” stories about the other royals.

As we know, Catherine rarely has anything negative written about her. The top stories that come to mind are “Three Kitchens Kate” her being “work shy” and of course her “fight” with Rose Hanbury.

Charles, well I don’t think anything bad about him came out until after Harry left which was the donations for favors scandal.

William, yeah other than him being work shy or having a temper, and his kids going to a posh expensive school that he pays for out of his own pocket, but that is about all I can think about.

Camilla, well she tends to keep her nose clean as well.

The British press have all expressed their confusion as well over these claims. They keep saying “what negative articles about the other royals!?”

However, all the articles that made Meghan look bad were all of her own doing.

She is the one who demanded a big tiara. She is the one who yelled at The Queen’s chef about the taste of eggs. She is the one who made Catherine and Charlotte cry. She is the one who cried about no one asking if she was okay in a poverty stricken country where girls are raped and murdered daily. She is the one who had a $300k baby shower and her security for it was paid for by the UK taxpayers. She is the one who broke royal protocol over and over again by walking in front of Harry in the processional line and to greet a King. She is the one who planned surprised engagements on days other senior royals have very important speeches or engagements or tours. She is the one who cleared out an entire section at Wimbledon because she was too important to sit with the peasants. She is the one who lied to the palaces about work she knew she was not allowed to do and did it anyways. She is the one who lied on court documents. She is the one who has changed the story more than once and when her inconsistencies are pointed out it isn’t her being a liar but the press being racist.

So how exactly by reporting on the truth were the other palaces leaking or throwing her under the bus? Sure a couple of the instances happened behind closed doors so obviously those were leaked but, from memory, this was around the time that Meghan had started her own PR against the BRF and how they were threatened by her and her star power. She was saying her and Harry left KP because William was a bully. So we got the leaks of the tiara, the egg issue, and Catherine & Charlotte crying.  However, all the other ones, and many more, were there for us to witness with our own eyes and put two and two together. We didn’t need the British press to point out that when another senior royal, especially Catherine or Camilla had something important scheduled, Meghan would show up somewhere as a surprise!

KP even issued denials about stories that WERE true. The stories that Catherine and Meghan were fighting was true and KP issued a statement saying it was a lie. I think the only stories that were false were the copper bath tub and yoga floor, which many people believed Meghan and Harry planted themselves.

So I guess I am just super confused over the "fake" stories about Meghan? I can't recall a single fake article other than the bathtub.

I love how Harry has this attitude that the world cannot form opinions on their own and that us peons believe everything that we read.

This is the dude that fell for a fake phone call and believed in an island doesn’t exist. No questions asked. But yeah…we are the chumps.

[amoirsetpacis]

★ --;; Vash comes to the altar first.

Gentle music plays as he does so, figure cut in sharply in black with red accents matching the petals softly lit by the late setting sun and the fuzzy glow of the lanterns. The two musicians changing their tune as the processional begins, the quiet tinkling of pixies settling into their branches fades as well. He has to keep his eyes glued to his destination; that combination of anxiety and excitement that's been buzzing away beneath his skin and in his gut for weeks now reaching its inevitable conclusion.

The rehearsal hadn't been anything, in comparison, and even then he had been scolded for his inability to keep himself still, to keep all the nervous energy trapped inside himself. He'd given a sheepish 'sorry', then; but now that same feeling is so much more magnified. For someone so often finding himself as the center of attention, it's actually something he's not the biggest fan of. That, and even though the fact that he loved Wolfwood was anything but a secret any more, an open display like this still leaves him feeling exposed in a way he's not used to. But still, he's glad that they can-- elated, even, that they have been afforded the safety and relative peace to be able to share this part of themselves. If anything, it stands as a testament to what the both of them already know; to the quiet, sure bond between the two of them.

So Vash still ends up fidgeting, fingers toying with one another but doing very well managing to keep his feet glued to his spot. At first they'd toyed with the idea of walking up together; of the final shedding of one of them always trailing behind the other that had steadily decayed, left them walking side-by-side in its wake. Instead it feels like one last hoorah, walking one after the other, knowing they'd follow each other anywhere, if it were possible. Let it fade away as they leave instead, something that had bloomed unspoken once again on display.

Even as their tiny party of his brother and their friends follow suit behind him, as he smiles quietly and nervously at each of them, the tiny movements don't stop, heart thundering in his chest. There's only one person left to wait on, and Vash very much wishes he was holding his hand already.

@punisheye

[alamos-garden-lover]

[The Video begins with a shot of the venue, two columns of wooden chairs in perfect rows, all filled with the waiting guests, in between is a lovely rich green and gold carpet leading up to the pulpit. The arch is made of two young jacaranda trees, woven through with several different flowers, and a frame of beautiful carved dark wood. The event would look right at home in the Shire or Rivendell.

The processional begins with Swordsman at the piano, playing a beautiful medley of the lord of the rings soundtrack. Darkrai walks up to the wedding altar in a beautiful green suit, embroidered with gold. His hair is done in a complex and beautiful braid, with flowers and thin golden vines woven into it, though one eye is of course covered. He’s grinning, looking the happiest he’s ever been, but also on the verge of tears. Behind him is Gallade as his best man, and Tonio and a few others as groomsmen. Alice as the maid of honor follows next, in a very pretty soft pink dress with white accents, and the bridesmaids in solid pink behind her.

Then comes Aconite as the ring bearer, wearing a purple and light blue kimono, and right behind them was Hari Forlorn, in a white suit with lavender accents, scattering the petals of roses and lotus’s for the bride.

Alicia was stunning, golden hair laying loose around her shoulders, framing her face like the sun. Her dress is a shimmering white, with trailing sleeves and train, embroidered with silver flowers and leaves, with touches of gold. In her hands she holds a bouquet of roses, amaranths, aconites, daphne odora, and anthurium. She smiles as she goes to stand with her husband to be at the wedding altar. Darkrai has eyes only for her, utterly smitten.

The officiant starts speaking, giving the wedding speech, talking about love and faithfulness, though the couple don’t seem to be paying attention, simply holding each others hands and staring.

Alicia says her vows first, in both Sinnohian and a smattering of Sindarin. Darkrai’s vows are even sappier than hers, with much more of it said in Sindarin, and with him fighting back tears. As they exchange their vows they also exchange the rings, both gold and silver, with green stones.

When they are pronounced husband and wife Alicia pulls Darkrai down for the kiss as the guests clap and cheer in congratulations.]

[hermesserpent-stuff]

Hi

I got in too deep about acumens weddings. Heres my thoughts and itll be added to my slide deck for the dragon hunters of rtte.

1. Processional 

The officiant comes down the aisle. Then the groom with their family. Followed by the bride and their family. Once at the front of the gathered crowd, the wedding begins. 

 2.  Opening Remarks 

The officiant welcomes everyone and invites the gods to come to watch on. They then speak on the significance of the day. 

3. Sword dances

First, the groom takes his favored weapon (normally a sword or ax) and does a performance to show off agility and skill, typically to a drum beat and the stamping of the crowd. They get faster and faster till the song ends.

Then the groom kneels and holds up their weapon for the bride to take. The bride takes it (if she accepts the marriage, this is the place for denials) and places it on the ground. She puts her own favored weapon on top of it to create a cross. Then she does something similar to the Scottish Sword Dance. 

After that, she offers the groom's weapon back to him and he can take it (and then deny the marriage or not). Then they stand together in front of the officiant.

4.  Exchange of Vows 

The officiant says a few words to set the stage for the vows.

The couple repeats the vows after the officiant. 

“In the eyes of Wodin I stand, to take your hand in mine. To take you as my (husband/wife). We stand as one when together, we stand as one when apart. We share all that we are and that we have. We will raise warriors of mind and body.” 

5.  Exchange of Amulets (like exchanging rings)

6.  Knot Ceremony 

They tie a knot around the two joined hands, loose enough that the knot can be slipped off and be kept as a representation of the couple joining to become one. 

 7.  The Pronouncement 

The officiant declares them married and leads a marriage song that the crowd joins in. The couple kisses and then they walk back down the aisle while the singing continuing. The crowd then follows them to the feast that awaits after the ceremony.