#Stan Store reference

[deus-ex-mona]

华语chuutan来了

[sophiamcdougall]

You're a reasonably informed person on the internet. You've experienced things like no longer being able to get files off an old storage device, media you've downloaded suddenly going poof, sites and forums with troves full of people's thoughts and ideas vanishing forever. You've heard of cybercrime. You've read articles about lost media. You have at least a basic understanding that digital data is vulnerable, is what I'm saying. I'm guessing that you're also aware that history is, you know... important? And that it's an ongoing study, requiring ... data about how people live? And that it's not just about stanning celebrities that happen to be dead? Congratulations, you are significantly better-informed than the British government! So they're currently like "Oh hai can we destroy all these historical documents pls? To save money? Because we'll digitise them first so it's fine! That'll be easy, cheap and reliable -- right? These wills from the 1850s will totally be fine for another 170 years as a PNG or whatever, yeah? We didn't need to do an impact assesment about this because it's clearly win-win! We'd keep the physical wills of Famous People™ though because Famous People™ actually matter, unlike you plebs. We don't think there are any equalities implications about this, either! Also the only examples of Famous People™ we can think of are all white and rich, only one is a woman and she got famous because of the guy she married. Kisses!"

Yes, this is the same Government that's like "Oh no removing a statue of slave trader is erasing history :(" You have, however, until 23 February 2024 to politely inquire of them what the fuck they are smoking. And they will have to publish a summary of the responses they receive. And it will look kind of bad if the feedback is well-argued, informative and overwhelmingly negative and they go ahead and do it anyway. I currently edit documents including responses to consultations like (but significantly less insane) than this one. Responses do actually matter. I would particularly encourage British people/people based in the UK to do this, but as far as I can see it doesn't say you have to be either. If you are, say, a historian or an archivist, or someone who specialises in digital data do say so and draw on your expertise in your answers. This isn't a question of filling out a form. You have to manually compose an email answering the 12 questions in the consultation paper at the link above. I'll put my own answers under the fold. Note -- I never know if I'm being too rude in these sorts of things. You probably shouldn't be ruder than I have been.

Please do not copy and paste any of this: that would defeat the purpose. This isn't a petition, they need to see a range of individual responses. But it may give you a jumping-off point.

Question 1: Should the current law providing for the inspection of wills be preserved?

Yes. Our ability to understand our shared past is a fundamental aspect of our heritage. It is not possible for any authority to know in advance what future insights they are supporting or impeding by their treatment of material evidence. Safeguarding the historical record for future generations should be considered an extremely important duty.

Question 2: Are there any reforms you would suggest to the current law enabling wills to be inspected?

No.

Question 3: Are there any reasons why the High Court should store original paper will documents on a permanent basis, as opposed to just retaining a digitised copy of that material?

Yes. I am amazed that the recent cyber attack on the British Library, which has effectively paralysed it completely, not been sufficient to answer this question for you.  I also refer you to the fate of the Domesday Project. Digital storage is useful and can help more people access information; however, it is also inherently fragile. Malice, accident, or eventual inevitable obsolescence not merely might occur, but absolutely should be expected. It is ludicrously naive and reflects a truly unpardonable ignorance to assume that information preserved only in digital form is somehow inviolable and safe, or that a physical document once digitised, never need be digitised again..At absolute minimum, it should be understood as certain that at least some of any digital-only archive will eventually be permanently lost. It is not remotely implausible that all of it would be. Preserving the physical documents provides a crucial failsafe. It also allows any errors in reproduction -- also inevitable-- to be, eventually, seen and corrected. Note that maintaining, upgrading and replacing digital infrastructure is not free, easy or reliable. Over the long term, risks to the data concerned can only accumulate.

"Unlike the methods for preserving analog documents that have been honed over millennia, there is no deep precedence to look to regarding the management of digital records. As such, the processing, long-term storage, and distribution potential of archival digital data are highly unresolved issues. [..] the more digital data is migrated, translated, and re-compressed into new formats, the more room there is for information to be lost, be it at the microbit-level of preservation. Any failure to contend with the instability of digital storage mediums, hardware obsolescence, and software obsolescence thus meets a terminal end—the definitive loss of information. The common belief that digital data is safe so long as it is backed up according to the 3-2-1 rule (3 copies on 2 different formats with 1 copy saved off site) belies the fact that it is fundamentally unclear how long digital information can or will remain intact. What is certain is that its unique vulnerabilities do become more pertinent with age."  -- James Boyda, On Loss in the 21st Century: Digital Decay and the Archive, Introduction.

Question 4: Do you agree that after a certain time original paper documents (from 1858 onwards) may be destroyed (other than for famous individuals)? Are there any alternatives, involving the public or private sector, you can suggest to their being destroyed?

Absolutely not. And I would have hoped we were past the "great man" theory of history. Firstly, you do not know which figures will still be considered "famous" in the future and which currently obscure individuals may deserve and eventually receive greater attention. I note that of the three figures you mention here as notable enough to have their wills preserved, all are white, the majority are male (the one woman having achieved fame through marriage) and all were wealthy at the time of their death. Any such approach will certainly cull evidence of the lives of women, people of colour and the poor from the historical record, and send a clear message about whose lives you consider worth remembering.

Secondly, the famous and successsful are only a small part of our history. Understanding the realities that shaped our past and continue to mould our present requires evidence of the lives of so-called "ordinary people"!

Did you even speak to any historians before coming up with this idea?

Entrusting the documents to the private sector would be similarly disastrous. What happens when a private company goes bust or decides that preserving this material is no longer profitable? What reasonable person, confronted with our crumbling privatised water infrastructure, would willingly consign any part of our heritage to a similar fate?

Question 5: Do you agree that there is equivalence between paper and digital copies of wills so that the ECA 2000 can be used?

No. And it raises serious questions about the skill and knowledge base within HMCTS and the government that the very basic concepts of data loss and the digital dark age appear to be unknown to you. I also refer you to the Domesday Project.

Question 6: Are there any other matters directly related to the retention of digital or paper wills that are not covered by the proposed exercise of the powers in the ECA 2000 that you consider are necessary?

Destroying the physical documents will always be an unforgivable dereliction of legal and moral duty.

Question 7: If the Government pursues preserving permanently only a digital copy of a will document, should it seek to reform the primary legislation by introducing a Bill or��do so under the ECA 2000?

Destroying the physical documents will always be an unforgivable dereliction of legal and moral duty.

Question 8: If the Government moves to digital only copies of original will documents, what do you think the retention period for the original paper wills should be? Please give reasons and state what you believe the minimum retention period should be and whether you consider the Government’s suggestion of 25 years to be reasonable.

There is no good version of this plan. The physical documents should be preserved.

Question 9: Do you agree with the principle that wills of famous people should be preserved in the original paper form for historic interest?

This question betrays deep ignorance of what "historic interest" actually is. The study of history is not simply glorified celebrity gossip. If anything, the physical wills of currently famous people could be considered more expendable as it is likely that their contents are so widely diffused as to be relatively "safe", whereas the wills of so-called "ordinary people" will, especially in aggregate, provide insights that have not yet been explored.

Question 10: Do you have any initial suggestions on the criteria which should be adopted for identifying famous/historic figures whose original paper will document should be preserved permanently?

Abandon this entire lamentable plan. As previously discussed, you do not and cannot know who will be considered "famous" in the future, and fame is a profoundly flawed criterion of historical significance.

Question 11: Do you agree that the Probate Registries should only permanently retain wills and codicils from the documents submitted in support of a probate application? Please explain, if setting out the case for retention of any other documents.

No, all the documents should be preserved indefinitely.

Question 12: Do you agree that we have correctly identified the range and extent of the equalities impacts under each of these proposals set out in this consultation? Please give reasons and supply evidence of further equalities impacts as appropriate.

No. You appear to have neglected equalities impacts entirely. As discussed, in your drive to prioritise "famous people", your plan will certainly prioritise the white, wealthy and mostly the male, as your "Charles Dickens, Charles Darwin and Princess Diana" examples amply indicate. This plan will create a two-tier system where evidence of the lives of the privileged is carefully preserved while information regarding people of colour, women, the working class and other disadvantaged groups is disproportionately abandoned to digital decay and eventual loss. Current and future historians from, or specialising in the history of minority groups will be especially impoverished by this.  

[nicoline1998enilocin]

I have a Sebastian Stan x Girlfriend!Reader request. Ok so the reader admits to Sebastian that she always fantasizes about Bucky doing dirty things to her and Sebastian gives her what she’s been fantasizing about🥵

I came across your writing not too long ago and I just wanted to let you know how much I love it🩵

I think of him when I'm with you

PAIRING | Boyfriend!Sebastian Stan x Girlfriend!Female!Reader

WORD COUNT | ~ 950 words

SUMMARY | Sebastian accidentally finds out you're reading Bucky Barnes fanfiction, and even though he's not sure what to feel initially, he's slowly warming up to the idea. When you finally reveal your deepest fantasies, he invites you over to the set of his latest Marvel movie and makes every last dream come true. In character, of course.

WARNING(S) | This is your official trigger warning. Do not proceed if any of these topics upset you. Use of pet names (doll, prinţesă), smut (unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), cockwarming).

A/N | Thank you so much for this request, @sergeantbarnessdoll; this unlocked some fantasies I didn't even know I had, so thank you! Also, I want to thank you for the sweet compliment; small comments like that make my day! 🖤

A/N 2.0 | Thank you so much to @avengersfantasies for giving me with this idea; I couldn't have made it into what it is now without you!

Likes, comments and reblogs will be very much appreciated 💚

Divider is made by @firefly-graphics | 18+ banner is made by yours truly

Main Masterlist | Sebastian Stan Masterlist

''Babe, can I use your laptop for a bit?'' you ask as you walk into the bedroom where Sebastian is getting ready for his half-day shooting.

''Of course, prinţesă,'' he says, and you feel butterflies in your stomach at the name. You adore it when he talks Romanian, which makes your knees go weak instantly.

''Thank you!'' you say before heading to his office and grabbing his laptop, since yours is still at the Apple Store to be repaired. You can't live without Bucky fanfiction, so you're eager to continue reading the series you've been hooked on for a while.

You plop yourself down on the couch and log in to Tumblr, ready to continue where you left off a few days ago. This time, you finish the entire series, and you're about to delete the browser history when someone calls you, and you forget all about the laptop.

Later that day, you've returned to Sebastian's office since yours is repaired again, and you're picking it up right before Sebastian's about to come home, so you decide to grab take-out on your way home.

''Hi, prinţesă,'' Sebastian says as you walk into the door and put your stuff down, ready for a hug and a much-needed kiss, too.

''How was your day? Done anything... interesting?'' he asks with a hint of mischief, though you don't seem to notice it.

''It was good; I did some work and picked up my laptop,'' you say, and he quirks a brow, knowing you've been reading on Tumblr instead of working.

''Work, you say...'' Sebastian says before he opens up his laptop, and all color drains from your face as you see what he's referring to.

''S-Seb, i-it's not what you think!'' you try, but Sebastian gets a smirk that tells you everything you need to know; he's just as much into this as you are.

''I believe it's exactly what I think it is, prinţesă,'' he says as he pushes you against the counter behind you, caging you in as he leans in closer, ghosting his lips over yours.

''Meet me at my trailer tomorrow at 1:30 PM, and I'll give you exactly what you've been fantasizing about,'' he says, and a moan escapes your lips as he attaches his to your pulse point, making your legs feel like jelly under you.

It's the next day, and you're standing in front of Sebastian's trailer with some lunch like he asked and you knock a few times before the door swings open, and your breath hitches as you see him in full costume.

''Come in, doll,'' he says before stretching his hand out for you to grab and walk into the trailer. Your mouth is still open as you take it and look him over because he looks incredible.

''S-Seb-''

''Call me Bucky, doll. I don't know who this 'Seb' is,'' he says in air quotes, and that's when it dawns on you what he's doing. He's leaning into your fantasies, turning you on beyond belief.

He pulls you onto the couch, and you're straddling him, your soaked panties pushing against his hard cock, and you can tell he is as much into this as you are.

''You're beautiful, doll, and I can't wait to know what you taste like,'' he says before attaching his lips to yours, swallowing your moans as you grind against him.

His hands - one warm and one cold - pull up your dress until it's over your head and on the floor, and he can take in the black lingerie you're wearing, Sebastian's favorite.

A deep grunt escapes his throat as he sees the lace adorning your body, and before you know it, he lifts you and takes his cock out, sliding it deep into you with little to no prep.

''Oh, Bucky!'' you moan as you're leaning into your fantasies, only making you wetter.

''Who's making you feel so good, doll? Huh? Let everyone hear who's making his doll feel so fucking good she's going crosseyed,'' he whispers in your ear.

''B-Bucky! You're fucking me so good!'' you say as you keep bouncing up and down, his hands finding your nipples and playing with them through the lace of your bra.

''Such a perfect doll for me, my perfect fuckdoll,'' he grunts as he grabs your ass with both hands and sets the pace, fucking you hard, and you cum quickly after, followed shortly by Sebastian.

''Hmm, thank you for making me feel so good, Bucky. Can't wait to do this again,'' you say as you nuzzle into his neck when you're both coming down from your highs.

''No, thank you, doll, for making me feel special. And say hi to Seb for me,'' he says with a big smile as you keep sitting on his dick, you love to cockwarm him for as long as possible.

You've fallen asleep after Sebastian rubbed your back for a little while, and when his assistant walks in without knocking, he gets the sight of his life.

''Oh, fuck! I'm sorry! I didn't know,'' he starts, but Sebastian cuts him off.

''Don't worry, it's just Y/N, and she's taking a little nap. I'll be with you shortly,'' Sebastian says, and his assistant quickly runs out of the trailer, and when he slams the door shut, you jolt awake.

''Welcome back to earth, prinţesă,'' he says before capturing your lips in a soft kiss, and when he has to go again, he helps you get dressed and plants one more passionate kiss before he leaves.

''I can't fucking wait to do that again because this was amazing,'' he says, and with that, you're on your way home, still recovering a little from everything that just happened.

[twstbookclub]

Inked Blossoms

Summary: Jamil didn't think much of you when he received a flower basket. You were his new neighbor running a flower shop—nothing more, nothing less. So, why can't he stop coming by after visiting you once? POV: 2nd Person Pronouns: Gender-neutral Admin/Writer: Cressa🦋 Tags: Tattoo Artist x Florist AU, Tattoo Artist!Jamil, Florist!Reader, Fluff, Romance, Angst, No happy ending, sorry folks, Mentions of Blood and Self-harm, Use of Flower Language, Jamil's POV Word Count: 4, 025 Main Reference for Flower Meanings: Boeckmann, C. (2023, November 17). What does each flower symbolize? The Old Farmer's Almanac.

And I thought the Riddle fic I wrote is my longest one 💀 I actually had this plot in mind in the same month as I thought of the Riddle fic, which was back in April of last year. I only put in one link here, but I fact-checked every flower I used in this fic with other sources. Admittedly, when I wrote this, I received some heartbreaking news that morning and I cried my eyes out. I may or may not have projected those feelings into this and incorporated my previous experiences here. To all the Jamil stans, I'm so sorry that my first fic of this guy is long and angsty. I hope you all enjoy, though 💕

Jamil stared at the flowers on his parlor’s doorstep. Pink peonies and coral roses filled the twine basket, along with a purple flower that he didn’t know the name of. The arrangement emphasized the purple flowers, while there were a few peonies mixed in with the roses. What piqued Jamil’s curiosity were the leaves that lined the edges of the basket. He squinted, subconsciously leaning down to peer at the blooms at his feet.

“... Is that basil?” He mumbled, confused about the inclusion of a familiar herb. It was something he often used in his cooking, particularly when he was roommates with Kalim back in high school. That boy’s palate was too refined for anything bland and ready-made, so Jamil always had to cook with spices and herbs. It came to the point that the smell stuck to his clothes, even after a thorough wash in the laundry. Not just his clothes—even his hair. He already had a meticulous process with his hair care and bejeweled braids, so it was a nuisance.

He shook his head, before he took the flower basket in his hands. The blooms jostled a little, and a gentle hand pushed a peony back in place. Something nagged at Jamil to look to the left, for some reason. When he turned his head, the sign of the shop next door caught his attention.

“A flower shop, huh.” That was new. Jamil vaguely remembered this lot being sold recently, but he never thought it’d be turned into a store like that. It used to be an antique store owned by an elderly woman. She minded her own business, despite the weird and judgmental looks he received for the henna tattoos that decorated Jamil’s tan hands and arms.

Jamil’s eyes darted from the cursive letters of the sign to the flowers and plants displayed behind the glass walls. The name of the shop was painted on one of the walls in gold—above some of the artful arrangements of red roses, white carnations, and calla lilies. There was a shift of color behind them, and he narrowed his eyes again for a better look.

Someone was tending to the flowers. He could vaguely make out the color of their hair and the verdant apron over a white polo shirt. With the large bouquets in the way, Jamil couldn’t see a face. Sighing and shaking his head, he walked into his tattoo parlor with the flower basket in his arms.

If all his time in the city taught him anything, it was that nothing in this world was free.

Still, Jamil couldn’t help but wonder what the purple flowers were. They reminded him of tulips, but the petals were thinner and pointed at the tips. The stamen was visible, too. It was a stark contrast to the blooming tulips he knew: blunt-tipped and oval petals without the stamen being visible. He made a mental note to search about them once he went home.

Jamil found out that the purple blooms were called crocuses, and he wound up finding a website detailing the meanings of every flower imaginable. The flowers replaced the lamp that used to be on the table next to his bed. Every morning, he’d wake up to the colorful arrangement in a vase with his mind stuck on the meaning of each flower.

Maybe he should see what the florist was like. If they were like the antique shop owner from before, then Jamil would just remain polite and ignore them whenever he could.

On a slow and quiet day in the parlor, Jamil flipped the sign and locked the door. He shoved the key in his pocket, while his eyes drifted to the flower displays and bouquets through the glass walls. A blur of white and green moved behind them, but he still couldn’t put a face to the florist.

Jamil would have to see if he was curious enough to put a name to that face, too.

A chime echoed in the store once he stepped inside, and an onslaught of fragrance hit him. He noted that it wasn’t as powerful as the smell of spices, ones that he can taste from the scent alone. Still, it was strong enough to leave him a little lightheaded.

“Ah, welcome!” A voice rang through the back, behind an open door that led to what Jamil assumed was a small greenhouse. Sacks of fertilizer and clay pots filled with flowers peeked out of the metal shelves. The sight was obscured by a green apron, stitched with the same cursive letters of the store sign.

Charcoal gray eyes met lively, cheerful ones. The gloved hands that gripped the door frame were smeared with soil, maybe even fertilizer. Dirt smudged your cheek, but his gaze drifted to your lips. Your smile—too bright to be natural—was difficult to look away from. Something churned in his chest the longer he looked at it.

“Oh,” you mumbled, which made Jamil look back into your eyes again, “you’re my next-door neighbor. Hi! I hope you like the flowers. I’m, uh…”

A sheepish chuckle left your lips, making Jamil’s heart lurch. He resisted the urge to scowl at the feeling. He just met you, and he’d rather not make a bad impression. The tattoo artist came to your store to meet you like a proper neighbor, not to antagonize you.

“I came by to say hi, and you weren’t there. I had to get the shop ready and all, so I decided to leave the basket and hope that it stays there—” You sighed, took off one of your gloves, and ran a hand through your hair— “and I’m rambling. Sorry about that.”

Jamil watched you, anxious and fidgety, and he suppressed a smile. There was something amusing about how you acted like a mouse: squeaking and retreating at any sign of danger. Although, he highly doubted that you saw him as a threat.

You were just… shy. You talked a lot, but you were shy.

“It’s fine,” Jamil raised a hand and smiled, practiced and polite, “and I appreciate the flowers. Thank you. It’s a beautiful arrangement—you have a way with bringing out their natural beauty.”

He probably laid it on too thick. It was a habit at this point: butter up people to ease them, to let their guard down. Jamil merely planned to meet this florist to satisfy his curiosity. He never considered the option of befriending this person, much less engaging in a long conversation with you.

Your face lit up, as if something dawned on you in that moment. Chuckling, you stretched out the hand without the glove and gave him your name. It was followed with a cheerful, “It’s nice to meet you! I hope we can get along, um…”

“Jamil,” he shook your hand with that same, practiced smile, “Jamil Viper. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He noticed your eyes dart towards his hand and arm, inked with the traditional motifs and patterns of his homeland. Under the sunlight that streamed through the glass, your eyes seemed to sparkle. Your mouth parted in a silent, “Oh.”

“That’s so pretty,” you blurted out and continued to stare at the henna tattoos. Jamil simply watched you with wide eyes, but the surprise disappeared in that same instant. Your voice, loud and happy, filled the silence of the room.

“The amount of detail here is amazing, and—Oh, there’s even more tiny patterns inside another pattern. That’s so cool!”

Even though this much praise usually annoyed Jamil (it reminded him too much of Kalim), he found himself flustered. A faint warmth spread across his cheeks as he watched you marvel at the tattoos. You raised a hand, probably to trace the design with a finger, when you paused.

Your smile was frozen on your face, as if you caught yourself doing something embarrassing. Your own cheeks flushed in shame, before you pulled away with a nervous giggle. Jamil almost laughed at how ridiculous you looked at the moment.

He ignored the small voice in the back of his mind that called you cute.

It was supposed to be a one-time encounter. Jamil only visited your flower shop to see the person who opened a new business next to his tattoo parlor. He wanted to see whether this new neighbor of his was going to be tolerable or otherwise. One meeting was enough to deem you tolerable; someone that Jamil could politely wave to if you two happened to pass by each other.

So, why was he looking at a bouquet of irises and white jasmines right now? Why was he standing in your store on a Sunday morning?

“You’ve been coming a lot here lately.” Your voice rang from the back, much like how Jamil first met you. He looked over his shoulder to see you admiring the other flowers with a small smile.

“I don’t mind, really, and it’s nice to have you here. I just didn’t expect you to come here almost every day,” you clarified with a chuckle as you approached him. The telltale flush of your cheeks already told Jamil about how embarrassed you were to confess that. He watched you caress one of the petals of a hydrangea with a gentle look.

For a weekend, it was surprisingly quiet here. People flocked to your store during its first week, and Jamil observed all this in the comfort of his parlor. The window provided a clear view of what was going on, so he didn’t need to go outside. You became frazzled in a matter of moments—running around and arranging the flowers yourself—and that amused Jamil. Just a bit.

Still, you smiled throughout that hectic week.

Me neither, Jamil wanted to say. Instead, he answered, “It’s another slow day in my shop, so I decided to visit. I suppose it’s become a habit whenever I have nothing else to do.”

You chuckled, and Jamil pretended his heart didn’t skip a beat. He ignored the twitch of his lips, curling into a small smile. Oblivious to the look the tattoo artist gave you, you continued to admire the flowers.

“That’s fine with me. Besides, I like your company.”

Your shameless honesty was going to be the death of Jamil. The tips of his ears grew warm, and he tugged his hood over them. He already concluded that you were a thoughtful and considerate person after spending some time with you. You prepared tea and cookies, ones you yourself baked, every time he visited. Careful hands arranged the flowers by meaning and color, which already said enough about you. Being a florist sounded just right for someone like you.

Jamil briefly wondered what flowers you’d give him if you wanted to give him a bouquet.

He cleared his throat, mimicking a cough, before he shifted his attention to the irises and jasmines again. Ever since he searched the meanings of the flowers in that basket, he couldn’t help but be curious.

“Can you tell me what these mean in flower language?” He asked, glancing at you from behind his hood. Whether you found this action odd or not, you didn’t comment on it.

With a curious hum, you leaned over to look at what Jamil referred to and smiled wider. You replied, “Ah, irises can mean wisdom, faith, trust, valor, and hope. As for white jasmines…”

You raised an eyebrow at Jamil with a mischievous grin. He didn’t dare entertain the thought that you were being adorable from the action alone. He didn’t dare hope that the gesture actually meant something.

“They can mean sweet love, and the person who receives them is seen as friendly and pleasant.” You paused, before you suddenly left Jamil’s side and reached for the adjacent wall of flowers. Before Jamil could say anything, you already extended a white bloom under his nose.

Wide-eyed and bewildered, he stared at the flower in your hand. It somewhat resembled a rose in full bloom, but the petals were shaped differently. Another amused laugh echoed in the room. You took his hand, inked with intricate patterns that crawled his skin like vines, and placed the flower in it.

Jamil realized that it was a gardenia. This species of flora grew in some part of the botanical garden of his high school. He was only familiar with it because he used to pass by the area to relax, preferably alone.

“I think this suits you, though.” You hummed and returned to the counter with a spin of your heel. Jamil watched you wordlessly as you disappeared into the greenhouse. From where he stood, the tattoo artist saw pink and white camellias peeking through one of the shelves. He nearly jumped when your head popped out of the door frame.

“Oh, and can you help me carry some of these pots around? They’re pretty heavy, thanks!”

It was only until Jamil got home that he searched for the meaning of the gardenia. The bright laptop screen glared at him as he entered the keywords in the search bar. He clicked on the first result and—

Jamil stared at the words with darkening cheeks. His mouth became dry, and his tongue was tied into knots. His hand slammed the monitor shut, before he abruptly stood up and left for the kitchen. He needed some water. He needed to not think too much into things. You were going to be the death of him, Jamil swore to that.

Still, the words were already seared into his memory: you’re lovely.

Jamil found himself visiting you whenever he could. You always asked for his help whenever heavy labor was involved. If it was anyone else, he would’ve felt annoyed. With you, it was just an excuse for Jamil to stay longer.

Fleeting touches, subtle glances, and shy smiles—it was like your own language. Not a single word was exchanged, yet it felt like you said more than Jamil could comprehend. He didn’t miss the moments when your hands lingered too long over his. He would be a fool not to notice that a cookie jar and a box of teabags sat on the counter each time he visited.

For the past year, you’d give him a single flower every day without fail. One time, after the usual tea, it was a morning glory. Another time, when you were particularly homesick and Jamil stayed to chat, you gave him a hydrangea. When he visited your house and took care of you when you became sick, you gave him a yellow lily the next day. He always brought them home, but it came to the point that a mishmash of flowers in a vase brought color and life to his workspace. It sat under the window, where it bathed under a patch of sunlight. He even considered buying another vase due to the sheer amount.

You gave him all kinds of flowers, but he’d never forget the first gardenia he received from you.

“That looks out of place,” one customer pointed out while Jamil prepared the needle. He already knew what he was talking about, but the tattoo artist still followed his line of sight. A soft smile stretched from one ear to the other, and he didn’t bother hiding it.

Without looking away from the flowers, he answered, “They’re gifts from a friend. It’s the only place I can think of where they can be cared for.”

He ignored the sly, knowing grin on the customer’s face. Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Jamil gestured towards the chair and continued to prepare everything he needed for this job.

One sunny day, your storefront was crowded more than usual. Jamil paid no mind to the crowd as he pulled his hood over his head. Inked hands grabbed a bundle of flowers, tied with twine, from the table. They were placed far from the vases that decorated the parlor; just to avoid confusion. His eyes fell on the gardenia he drew on the back of his hand. Jamil added that some time ago, maybe around the past month. Still, it made him smile.

Jamil locked the door, then he instinctively looked at the flower shop. His heart stuttered at the sight of the flowers amongst the crowd. The vibrant and lively blossoms were like a splash of color against the dull tones of the city. What used to be gray pavement and monochrome buildings seemed to come to life with just a few flowers.

He blinked his surprise away, before he gripped the bouquet in his hands. The thrum of his heart and the sweat on his palms weren’t something foreign to Jamil. He always felt like this at the thought of you, even Kalim noticed the change in his friend when he visited once. Your smile flashed in his mind, and his own lips curled into a small one. His feet led him to where he knew you were.

Past the flower shop; past the crowd that lingered at the storefront; past the fresh flowers that gathered against the glass walls. Jamil’s feet grew heavier with each step, as if lead hit the concrete and left faint cracks behind. He stepped through the iron-wrought gates with a soft exhale. His grip on the flowers tightened. He considered going back to the tattoo parlor.

In the end, he thought he’d regret it if he backed out now. Blades of grass grazed his sneakers as he walked through rows of stones. Names were etched into each one, a reminder of who they were to the loved ones left behind. Charcoal gray eyes looked straight ahead. He didn’t bother looking at any of them.

It had been a year since that day, but he still remembered where you were.

Grass crunched under his feet as he stopped in front of an unassuming headstone. Engraved in the stone was your name—funny how he never knew your surname until the funeral. You never told him when you introduced yourself, and he didn’t pry. He even imagined you with his surname at some point, but…

Jamil swallowed the lump in his throat. He crouched on one knee and laid the bundle of flowers on your grave. The tattoo artist made the effort of arranging the colorful blooms in a way that you would. At least, how he remembered that you would.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, and he stared at your gravestone with that same lump in his throat. A sigh rang in the empty cemetery. A cool breeze carried the hustle and bustle of the city. The laugh that used to plague Jamil’s everyday life here was missing. It was gone for months now, but he could still hear it clearly in his head.

“Hey,” Jamil mumbled, clenching his hands into fists, “it’s been a while. I’m sorry I only visited today. It… took me some time to come to terms with what happened. Regardless, you deserved an earlier visit.”

No answer, Of course, there was no answer. You’ve been dead for quite some time now. That was an understatement, considering that a year has already passed.

Jamil’s stomach churned, and an insufferable heat filled his chest. His eyes stung. His nails pierced into the skin of his palms. The lump in his throat seemed to grow bigger, and he found it hard to breathe. Memories of your smile, your laugh, and the time he spent with you and your flowers overlapped in his mind.

He dug his heels into the dirt as he gritted his teeth. The sting behind his eyes grew worse. It was hard to breathe, and he found it harder to speak. He somehow forced the words out with a broken heart, pieces scattered along the ashes of what was left of you.

“You idiot,” Jamil choked out as his vision blurred with tears, “you could’ve called me to help you. How was I supposed to know you were still sick? How was I supposed to know you needed to carry that ridiculously huge flower display across the street? How was I supposed to know that car would lose control and—”

Jamil looked up to the sky with a clenched jaw, teeth clacking and shaking his skull from the force. He wanted to scream. He wanted to curse whatever deity existed in this world. He wanted to forget how you looked, pale and bleeding on the street, that day. He wanted to erase that memory of you until his heart bled out and his voice croaked its last scream.

“—they haven’t found the driver. Everyone who knew you petitioned to keep the shop in your memory. Someone else took over, too. You don’t have to worry about your flowers anymore.”

Since that day, whenever Jamil looked at the ink that adorned his hands and arms, all he remembered was your loud voice and bright smile. Your praise and astonishment echoed in his head like a broken record player. He couldn’t count the amount of times he tried to scrub them clean from his skin. If that didn’t work, he scratched at them until he bled and the patterns were hidden under that shade of red.

In hindsight, Jamil thought that was idiotic of him. Love turned anyone into idiots, anyway.

Sighing, Jamil forced the tears back and looked down at your gravestone. If he tried hard enough, he could imagine you smiling and laughing again. The image of you, lifeless and still on the road, would become a scar that faded with time. He hoped it would be.

“I thought of giving you baby’s breath,” Jamil began as the lump in his throat returned, “along with forget-me-nots, and blue salvia. It would be a horrible contrast, but I also thought of adding pink carnations.”

He paused, before bitterly chuckling to himself. “I don’t have your skills, though. You were always amazing with flower arrangements. I couldn’t hold a candle to you, and I rarely tell anyone that. I didn’t want to give you something that was less than perfect—you deserve more than that, so I settled with sweet peas.”

Jamil knew he was talking to himself. He always found it ridiculous how anyone talked to the dead, even if he understood the necessity to respect the ones who passed. This one time, he understood why people did this. Jamil just couldn’t bring himself to accept the circumstances that led to that revelation.

“They mean goodbye in flower language, but I prefer the other meaning. Maybe, in another life, I would’ve bought you flowers for a date. I was thinking of asking you on a date before. Did you know that?”

Another bitter chuckle. Another shaky breath.

“I was supposed to ask you that day. I finally found the courage to try, and what did I see? You…” The words were stuck in Jamil’s throat. He couldn’t force the words out this time. The clamor outside and the harsh slam of his parlor door echoed in his memories. He didn’t want his last memory of you to be your dying breath. He’d rather not remember that at all.

Jamil shook his head and continued, “I apologize for that. What you need to know is that I like you. I may even go so far as to say I love you, and I’m sorry I never told you earlier. I hope you can forgive me for that.”

The tattoo artist sat down in front of your headstone. He didn’t care if dirt and grass stained his jeans this time. He reached out to trace the name etched into the stone, with the same hand where the inked gardenia peeked out of his sleeve.

“I like your flowers. I like all of them. I still keep them with me. I wish I told you that sooner,” Jamil mumbled, voice cracking at the end. A tear rolled down his left cheek and dripped into the soil. His shoulders shook in a silent sob as he breathed his last words to you.

“Thank you for a lovely time. I’ll never forget you.”

[loveshotzz]

Eddie Munson x Fem! Reader

Summary: Your first day at Family Video goes better then expected and when Eddie invites you on a late night drive you can’t say no.

Series Masterlist

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: Still pretty SFW. Two idiots being vulnerable and flirting. TW : mentions of sexual assault in the past (no details just alluded to).

I won’t need a community label just yet for this series but I will soon so if you haven’t changed your settings please make sure you do. I had one of my fics flagged today.

Authors Note: This is the biggest story concept I’ve ever tried doing so thank you to everyone who’s been reading so far. I’ve never taken on a story with so many characters and moving parts so comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are all greatly appreciated. A special thank you to my wife @myobmaya and @sweetsweetjellybean for reading my rough drafts and helping me get out of my head.

Tag list: @emotionaldreamer @eddiesprincess86 @bimbobaggins69 @rach5ive @luckyysstarr @h-ness1944 @stolen-in-moonlight @bohemianrhapsody86 @maximizedrhythms @ms1oftheboys @b-irock @amethyst1258 @princesseddie @munsonology

Despite Eddie promising that the two of you would be inseparable you didn’t see him again after that. Even going as far as peaking out your window hoping to catch a glimpse of that wild mane of his shamelessly trying to orchestrate an ‘accidental’ run in. Convincing yourself it was because you were bored not because you wanted to see his dimples again. His van never seemed to be there between normal working hours, of course he must’ve had a full time job he was 20.

So when Friday rolled around and your Chevy Nova pulled into the parking lot of your new job with a loud squeal, you were ready for some solid human interaction. Reaching over to pop open your glovebox, your eyes lock with the rolled joint courtesy of Eddie’s Munson’s free weed. After work joints were a favorite past time of yours deciding tonight would be a good time to continue the tradition.

Your driver door opens with it’s usual loud creak, the cringe on your face never going away no matter how many times it happens. Wiping your sweaty nervous palms on the dark denim of your jeans, the converse on your feet bring you to the entrance.

Bells chime loudly when you walk in, standing in the front you glance around the store thats filled wall to wall with any kind of movie any one in this small town could ever want. There’s a faint smell of popcorn which you find odd considering it wasn’t an actual movie theater, with American Werewolf in London playing quietly in the background you don’t think you’ll hate it here. Racking your brain you desperately try to remember the name of the guy you were suppose to be asking for. The magic of being surrounded by movies finally fading with reality kicking in. You knew it started with an ‘S’ was it Stan? Stu?

“Is there some kind of beauty pageant in Hawkins I wasn’t aware of Robin?” The smooth voice of the boy resting on the counter in front of you catches your attention. He’s got the kind of hair a model would kill for and a smile that’s worth a million bucks. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, your smart enough to catch the green family video vest wrapped around his broad shoulders.

The striped polo underneath it definitely does the boy favors, with pants so tight they are almost enough to make your cheeks turn hot. Eye’s flickering down you catch the ‘Steve’ on his name tag. Holding back an internal groan you remember exactly who you were suppose to ask for.

“Steve Harrington?”

The smile on his face only widens with a flirtatious twinkle in his eyes as he pushes himself off the counter “And she knows my name already, this must be my lucky day.”

The girl he referred to as Robin catches on before he does, with a loud laugh her honey colored waves bounce as she throws her head back.

“Way to hit on the new girl dingus.”

Steve’s cheeks flush deep red when he realizes his mistake, hazel eyes going wide when they meet yours drowning with embarrassment.

“Oh man, this is awkward. Look that was super inappropriate. I’m so sorry, please don’t quit.” The confident demeanor he was putting on suddenly gone, leaving nothing but a nervous rambling boy in his place.

“Do you always hit on the customers?” Cocking a brow you cross your arms over your chest, the corner of your lips turning up. Just like Eddie you were enjoying watching him squirm. Something about humiliating boys bringing you joy, especially cocky boys like Steve Harrington.

“No-“

“Absolutely he does, you’ll get used to it.” The girl behind the counter cuts him off before making her way around. Her tuxedo top, rolled up to her elbows makes her look like an 80’s dream. With a black tie wrapped tightly around the neck of her button up tucked into her high waisted slacks she’s the epitome of cool even with the green vest.

“I’m Robin by the way.” Extending her hand she gives you a sweet smile showing her perfect white teeth.

“I’m y/n.” Wrapping your hand around hers, you glance back at Steve. “I’ll forgive you just this once, but only because it clearly hasn’t been working for you.”

Robin’s laugh echos again when she drops your hand, pinching the bridge of his nose Steve makes his way passed both of you going back behind the counter mumbling under his breath about grabbing you a vest.

“Look, if this is going to be a new dynamic here. The kind where you two gang up on me, I’m not going to be okay with that.” He doesn’t look at either one of you while he’s talking, rummaging through the drawers underneath the registers until he finds a slightly used looking vest.

“Aww calm down Stevie, we’re just having fun. It’s not like I haven’t made fun of your poor attempts at picking up unsuspecting women at work before.” Robin grins eating up Steve’s irritation.

The day is spent watching cheesy training videos in the small back room that looks like it hadn’t been cleaned in years, both of them taking turns checking in on you. When you make it on the sales floor after a few hours of mindless torture you realize Robin was right. Not only did you get used to Steve’s over the top pick up lines, but against your better judgment you couldn’t help but find yourself entertained by the relentless-ness of his determination. Watching Steve get turned down more times then you could count you were shocked at how fast your first day went. Laughing and falling into easy banter with the two of them, there was a small part of you that wasn’t ready for your shift to end.

—-

The night air has a sharp chill to it when the three of you close up, looking up at the clear sky you still couldn’t get over how many stars you could see out here. Losing yourself for a second it’s only when Robin grabs the back of your arm you remember where you are.

“Everything good?” Her eyes are soft on you.

“Oh- um yeah. We just didn’t have stars like this in the city. It’s beautiful out here.” Giving her a reassuring smile Steve snorts at your words.

“Hawkins? Beautiful? You absolutely just moved here.” Shrugging on his grey jacket he tosses his keys in the air before catching them with a wink.

“You love to show off don’t you?” Teasing Steve was becoming one of your favorite things. You couldn’t help but feel excited about the prospect of making friends with the two of them. Your new mysterious one missing in action.

“No need to show off sweetheart, I’m just that good.” Steve’s cockiness makes Robin give him a hard shove as the three of you make your way to your cars.

“A Chevy Nova? Niiiiice.” Steve heckles with a grin when he sees your car parked adjacent to his. Yours rusted and old, his shiny and new.

“Not all of us can drive BMW’s Steve.” Rolling your eyes, your fingers dig through your purse for your keys.

“Last I checked she actually has her own place. Aren’t you two the same age?” Robin smirks opening the passenger side door of Steve’s car.

Of course he was taking Robin home, the closeness of the two obvious best friends makes your heart swell with a mixture of admiration and jealousy.

“Yeah, yeah keep it up or you’re walking home.” Opening the driver side Steve leans forward arms resting over the door and the roof. “All jokes aside I’m glad Keith didn’t hire someone lame. Remember Tammy Thompson?” Looking towards his friend she makes an exaggerated show of rolling her eyes nodding her head.

“You did great!” Robin gives you a double thumbs up enthusiastically. The gesture making a small smile spread over your face.

You mimic Steve’s stance on your own car “Yeah, I didn’t hate it as much as I thought I was going too. Even if Steve did hit on me when I first walked in.”

Robin throws her head back loving having someone else who’s not charmed by his slick tongue and pseudo confidence.

“Look can we just forget that happened okay?” Pinching the bridge of his nose for the millionth time that day, you were figuring out this was a signature stance.

“Never, I’m never going to let you forget it Harrington.” Throwing him a wink you give Robin a small wave before getting into your car. Eager hands already reaching for what you’d been looking forward to all day.

Steve’s headlights flood the inside of your dark car, when he doesn’t make any moves to pull out it takes you a minute to realize that he’s waiting for you to leave first. He was making sure you were safe.

Maybe the city had hardened your heart but you weren’t used to strangers having your best interests in mind like this. The simple gesture is enough to make your chest tighten.

—

With the windows rolled down the bitter night air feels good running through your hair. Inhaling deeply you blow the smoke out into the darkness of the back roads, Bat Out of Hell playing so loud it makes your speakers shake. Your mind can’t help but wander to Eddie, the nickname Wayne gave him few nights prior seemed nothing short of fitting. The thought of the two men makes your lips twitch up despite your best efforts. The fleeting beginnings of happiness settling deep in your chest as your tires speed down the pavement, doing the unthinkable you let yourself feel it.

The hope you had felt after you met your new neighbors grows ten fold when you think about your first day with Steve and Robin. The new feeling of excitement radiates through your finger tips as they tap against the steering wheel. Singing loudly and off tune, you finally let yourself take the breath you had been holding onto for the past few years. You finally made the right choice, the first time in your whole life.

Hitting the entrance of the trailer park, you turn the music down not wanting to be on the receiving end of Wayne’s annoyance. When your headlights hit their trailer the boy you’d been trying to catch a glimpse of the past few days is right in front of you. A group of kids who couldn’t be any older then 15 surround him, with arms flailing animatedly all of them seemed to be getting into some kind of heated argument. Brows furrowing, you notice all of their matching baseball tee’s. Hellfire Club.

By the time you pull into your drive way you’ve caught Eddie’s attention. Chocolate eyes on you, the dimples you definitely weren’t thinking about show themselves when his lips pull up into a smile. Ignoring the arguing boys in front of him, he shoves passed them making long strides towards your car as you start getting out.

“There’s my new best friend!” Arms spread wide his smile only grows bigger showing his teeth.

His loud outburst makes the kids stop fighting, one with particularly curly hair covered in a baseball cap quirks his head at you.

“Who’s that?” His voice has a slight lisp to it and you can’t help but think it’s cute. The one he spoke to had long black hair that looked eerily similar to the metal head’s that was walking towards you.

“I didn’t know he knew any girls.” The only one without a Hellfire shirt speaks up, wearing the same letterman jacket as the guys from the other night piecing together that they must be in high school. The three boys watch both of you with curious eyes.

“Well, well if it isn’t Mr. disturb the peace himself.” A teasing smirk pulls at the corner of your lips. Crossing your arms over your chest you lean back against your car, the heat of the drive keeping the metal and your body warm.

“I’ll have you know, I don’t resent that title at all.” The wink he gives you makes your stomach flutter and you do your best to ignore it.

The smile on Eddie’s face only widens when he reaches you, standing in front of him makes you realize just how tall he actually is. Craning your neck up to meet his doe eyes, you can’t help but match his excited energy. Your own cheeks hurting from how hard he was making you grin.

“Care to tell me why your hanging out with children on a Friday night? And also why you’re all in matching shirts?”

“Why? You jealous? You want one?” Rocking back on his heels he clasps his hands behind his head making his shirt ride up, your proud of the self control you maintain when your eyes don’t flicker down.

“As metal looking as they are, I have no idea what Hellfire club is. Is it that satanic cult you were trying to get me to join the other night?” Arching your brow with a teasing smirk it was far too easy to slip in your usual banter with him.

Glancing over his shoulder you see the kids are watching you with baited breath.

“That’s a hefty invite to get, I don’t think we’re there yet. It’s the DND club I run.” You can’t help but take notice in the prideful look in his eyes when he says it.

“Don’t tell me that the Eddie Munson is a Dungeon Master. ” Batting your eyelashes at him you play into his ego just a little bit.

When his cheeks flush pink your own ego grows slightly.

“Yes M’lady you are in the presence greatness. I’m not just any Dungeon Master, I’m the Dungeon Master sweetheart. Just ask those destroyed little sheep over there.” Turning around he points at the three boys who quickly try to act like they weren’t opening staring at whatever was unfolding right in front of them.

Giving them a little wave you chuckle to yourself at how awkward they get before clambering into Eddie’s van arguing in hushed voices.

“Are you their baby sitter or something?” Eddie’s eyes widen at your question when he turns back to you.

“Uhh not exactly.” Fidgeting with his rings he stops making eye contact, the ground suddenly becoming interesting.

“What do you-“

“What are you doing right now?” Eddie cuts you off before you can press further bringing his attention back to you, excitement dancing in his brown pools like he just got a brilliant idea.

“Like right now, right now?” Pushing yourself off the car you look down at your watch. Red numbers reading 9:45pm flash back at you.

“Well not right this second but like 40 minutes from now? I just got to take these little idiots home but after that I gotta make some runs. I could use a co pilot...” Raising his eyebrows at you he watches the wheels in your head turn. “Besides I know my Uncle offered up my tour guide services free of charge to you.”

“You’re gonna give me a tour in the middle of the night?” Giving him a hard time, you already know you’re going to say yes.

“That’s the perfect time, all the assholes are inside.” Flashing you a toothy grin he starts backwards towards his van. “Be outside in 30.”

“You just said 40!” The butterflies can’t be ignored this time at the thought of spending the entire evening with him.

“I drive fast, bring whatever music you want. I’ll even let you set the mood that’s how nice I am.” Throwing a wink your way he turns around jogging the rest of the way to his van. The curly haired boy’s head sticks out the driver side window, a knowing smirk spread wide over his face.

“Oh okay buddy, I see you.” His eyes squint when his cheeks push up, a look of pure joy.

“Can it Henderson, get in your seat.” You can’t help but laugh at Eddie’s sharp tone with the kid, the sweet sound makes him turn his head one last time flashing you a quick smile before jumping in.

Starting his van with a loud rumble, you watch him peel out with Metallica back at the volume that got him flicked between the eyes. Completely ignoring his Uncle’s warning, something tells you it won’t be the last time you see that argument happen.

—-

“Are you seriously going to make me listen to Meatloaf?” Eddie scoffs grabbing the cassette from your hand.

“First of all you said I could pick the music, and I told you the other night that I loved him. Specifically mentioned Meatloaf while addressing your question about Metallica.” Crossing your arms your staring up at him again only this time next to the passenger door of his van.

Rolling his eyes his wiggles the tape in his hand “Yeah, yeah, yeah I guess I did say that.”

“I could just go have the relaxing night alone I had planned if you’d rather not listen to my music choice.” Arching your brow you pretend not to be hyper aware of his reaction.

“Whoa, whoa whoa sweetheart, lets not get crazy here.” Opening the door for you it creaks loudly just like yours. Eddie’s face turning into your familiar cringe.

The warmth of his calloused hand makes you jump when it comes in contact with your skin. Fingers wrapping gently around yours he helps you take the giant step into his van. Heat prickling at your cheeks too shy to meet his eyes you climb into the passenger seat. When he lets go and shuts the door you pretend like you don’t miss the feeling of his touch.

The smell of cigarettes and weed hit your nose first, there’s an underlining hint of drug store cologne that lingers faintly behind it. It was Eddie’s smell trapped and encapsulated inside the metal confines of his van. Inhaling deeply it’s oddly comforting to you, closing your eyes you let yourself enjoy it before he’s opening the drivers side door. Still not ready to meet his gaze you begin snooping around. Turning around in your seat you can’t stop grin that spreads over your face. With the back seats removed the empty space was filled with giant blankets and fluffy pillows. Warn in and well loved you could already picture him lounged out with a joint dangling from his lips lost in his music thats always being played too loud.

“Admiring my office?” You don’t realize how close his face is to yours till you turn around ready to respond.

Eddie Munson’s giant brown eyes are only inches from yours and it’s almost enough to make you forget how to breath for a second. The self control you were so proud to have doesn’t exist in the close quarters of his van, eyes dropping down to his lips it’s hard for you to look away. When his tongue licks over his bottom lip, you realize he’s doing the same thing.

“You call this an office?” Snorting your the one that breaks the tension. The breath he’d been holding fans hot across your cheeks. “This looks like Cheech and Chongs hang out spot.”

“I am a pot dealer if you don’t remember?” Shaking his head with grin he finally pulls out of your personal space. “Besides it weirdly makes the first time buyers comfortable, gotta keep them coming back sweetheart.”

Turning the key in the ignition the van shakes with the start of the engine, settling into your seat you reach over clicking your seat belt into place ignoring the feeling of Eddie’s burning stare.

“Yes?” Meeting his eyes you try to read the expression on his face.

“I’m just going to give you the agenda for the evening, you know as a good tour guide should.”Raising his eye brows he waits for you to nod encouraging him to continue.

“First, we’re gonna drive to my buddy Rick’s house so I can pick up some new supply. Then there’s just a few people I gotta drop off too, it’ll be super quick.” He waves his hand as he continues like the boring stuff was done. “But after that, I thought I could show you some of my favorite smoking spots. Places I like to go to clear my head.”

“I don’t know Munson, sounds like you’re trying to get me high in the back of your van.” corners of your eyes wrinkling you can’t seem to get enough of giving him a hard time. Others would call it flirting, but that’s not what you’re telling yourself this is.

“What? Me? You’re the perv that suggested it. I never said anything about going to the back of the van.” Eyes lighting up he nudges your shoulder with his own before putting the van in drive. “Put on your dad rock and light this joint, so far you’re a lousy co-pilot I have to say.”

You can’t stop that laugh from bubbling out of your chest, throwing your head back you haven’t felt this carefree around a person in awhile. There’s a part of you that wants to fight it but just like in your car on the way home, you’re going to let yourself feel it even if just for tonight.

——

The ride to Rick’s house was shorter then you thought it would be, but still long enough for you and Eddie to kill your first joint. With finger tips grazing each time you passed it back and fourth, your touches become more and more prominent as your inhibitions lower. Stolen glances lingering longer then they should, laughing probably a little too hard at each other’s bad jokes. The pure bliss of it all consuming you. So when you pulled up to the house that sat right at the edge of the lake, you were embarrassed of how much of you didn’t want him to leave even if it was just going to be for a few minutes.

“He’s super weird about people he doesn’t know, I’ll just be like five minutes I swear.” Leaving his keys in the ignition he gives your knee a reassuring squeeze. Rings hitting the lights on the dashboard the glint catching your eye when he pulls away.

“Putting a lot of trust in me not to steal you van.” You tease desperate to get him to stay even just for a few moments longer.

“Look, I know where you live okay? You wouldn’t get very far.” Eddie’s grinning from ear to ear when he hops out.

The smile never leaves your face when the wild haired boy runs up to the front door of the house. Taking advantage of being alone you start to really look around the inside of his van, empty packs of Marlboro Reds are littered all over the floors, there’s a half drank big gulp sitting in his cup holder, some kind of red liquid mixed with old ash from a mixture of cigarettes and joints. A guitar pick that’s similar to the one that hangs around his neck dangles from the rearview mirror. His dashboard is covered in band stickers, ranging from Iron Maiden to Wasp it was collage of all of his favorites. Running your fingers over the edges of each one you can tell they were strategically placed with the utmost care. This was Eddie’s safe space, and here he was inviting you to join him in it.

True to his word, he’s only gone for a few minutes before the loud creak of his door brings you out of your thoughts, clambering in with his toothy grin still intact.

“One stop down, two more to go.” Reaching over he puts the brown paper sack at your feet fingers brushing against your leg when he sits back up. Cheeks tingling when they linger for just a second.

There’s a brief moment of comfortable silence that falls between the two of you on your drive to his next destination. Eyeing his pack of cigarettes that sit on top of his radio you decide to be bold and help yourself. Besides, it was his fault you smoked your last one anyway.

Without missing a beat Eddie starts digging through his jean pockets for a lighter. Handing it over to you with a wink clearly not caring about your sticky fingers.

“Gimmie one too?” His eyes are soft when they look at you. Fishing out the two smokes you plop one in your mouth before reaching over waiting for him to grab his from your palm. Lighting your cigarette you look over confused when he never takes his own. His grip never leaving the steering wheel, he leans across the console with an open mouth. It takes you a minute to realize what Eddie want you to do. Unwilling to meet his gaze, with your best poker face on you slot it between his full lips. Ignoring the way they feel when they brush across your finger tips as they close around the butt. Shaky hands light his cigarette. The flame dances across his face in the darkness of the van casting shadows along his cheek bones and jawline.

Eddie Munson was handsome.

Inhaling deeply hollowing out his cheeks his eyes flicker between the road and you. Exhaling through your nose you focus on ignoring the way he’s staring at you until it’s obvious he wants your attention.

“I’m starting to realize you have a real staring problem.” You tease deciding that the only way you’ll keep your composure is by giving him a hard time.

Ignoring your remark he takes another drag of his cigarette before rolling his window down to ash.

“So what’s your damage?” It’s a loaded question when it leaves his mouth, even he knows that.

“Well you just jump straight to the point huh?” Averting your gaze you busy yourself with another hit ignoring the way you palms start to sweat at the thought of sharing with him. Too scared that once he finds out he’ll decide it’s too much.

“Come on, you’re 21 and you live on your own. You left the city to move to Hawkins of all places, there’s a reason for that.” Inhaling the last of his cigarette he flicks it out the window before rolling it back up. “Look, you tell me yours I’ll tell you mine?”

You don’t know if it’s the weed or if it’s the boy next to you, maybe even a combination of both that lets the well crafted wall you had built crumble just a little. Taking another hard drag you let the smoke sit in your lungs, the nicotine giving your brain the fuzzy feeling you were craving.

You exhale loudly before finally sharing something you’d kept close to you for so long.

“Things happened back home - consent wasn’t something that was respected at a shitty high school party. It’s been a few years but you know, it’s almost like you can’t ever fully come back from something like that. ” Refusing to meet his eyes you suck your bottom lip between your teeth nervously, despite your better judgment you keep going. Maybe it was the way he was actually listening.

“Somehow my genetics sparred me from being an alcoholic but my parents weren’t so lucky. It was all so much that I felt like I couldn’t think. Like I couldn’t breathe. I guess I just needed to get away from it all.”

Taking the last drag of your cigarette you finally let yourself glance in his direction. His face is set in a hard line, eyes staring daggers at the road, the whites of his knuckles show with the intensity of his grip on the steering wheel. Anger radiating off of him, you could practically see the smoke coming out of his ears.

Unclenching his jaw he finally responds to you. “I’m not their baby sitter.”

“What?” Voice laced with confusion you have no idea why the conversation is even taking this turn but your thankful that he doesn’t press you any further.

“The kids, I’m uhh I’m not their babysitter. I’m still in high school. You’re looking at Hawkins High’s very own super senior two years in the running.” Eddie pauses for a minute before he continues “You know with a Dad that’s in jail and a mom that died before I had the chance to really remember her what else would you expect from someone like me?” His tone is self deprecating, fingers twitching in your lap all you want to do is reach out and take his.

“Well, I didn’t stay long enough to graduate if that makes you feel any better. I dropped out, got my GED, packed whatever I could in my shitty car and drove to one of the smallest towns I could find. If anything, I’m impressed you still have the will power to go back.”

Eddie almost can’t believe the words that come out of your mouth. With not a single trace of judgment on your face, you were accepting him like he wasn’t the giant fuck up he always thought he was. Like the whole town thought he was and on occasion his Uncle. He can feel his emotions get caught in his throat. He doesn’t know why you picked Hawkins or how you even stumbled upon his shitty little trailer park, but he was thanking whatever gods brought you to him determined to get closer to you.

“Yeah?” He hates that he needs you to say it again.

“Absolutely, high school fucking sucks.” Stretching in your seat you look at him with an easy smile.

Neither one of you push each other further, having shared enough for a lifetime between the two of you in just a few short minutes. The heaviness of the secrets you both kept become a little lighter on your shoulders.

—

By the time you reach Eddie’s last stop you’re three joints deep when he leaves you in the van again. The sound of Paradise by the Dashboard light spills out of his speakers, turning the volume up you can’t help but get lost in it, this had always been one of your favorite songs growing up. Despite the complicated lyrics it reminded you of happier times. Trying your best to be Ellen Foley you don’t even realize Eddie’s walking back up.

“Jesus- you know it’s like 1am right? I could hear Meatloaf from Byer’s front door.” The annoyance disappears off his face when he sees you dancing like a stoned lunatic in his passenger seat.

Completely unaware of his presence, your arms flail around so uncoordinated he thinks you have to be trying to move like this, eyes pinched closed you’re belting out every line completely off key. There’s a part of him that wishes there was some way to record this to use it against you in future arguments and another part of him that wants it for himself, because the sight of you like this makes his heart skip a beat.

“STOP RIGHT THE- oh fuck!”

Eddie’s got a Cheshire smile when he watches the embarrassment of being caught sink onto your face.

“You done?” Biting his bottom lip hard enough to leave a mark, the corners of his mouth twitch up and you can tell he’s desperately trying to hold back a laugh.

“Oh my god, this is -fuck -this is embarrassing.” Reaching forward you go to lower the volume but Eddie slaps your hand away.

“No, no, please don’t stop on my or the neighborhood’s behalf. Keep going.” Nodding his head for you to continue his smile grows so much the corners of his eyes crease. With a roll of yours, you go for the knob again.

“Ha ha ha, very funny Munson that’s en- hey!” Another tap to your hand he bats you away again, sighing loudly you look up at him annoyed. “Eddie, what are you doing?”

Both of you stare at each other silently battling for dominance. Raising an eye brow at you he has no plans of backing down from this.

Let me sleep on it. (Will you love me forever?) Let me sleep on it. (Will love me forever?)

Eddie’s theatrics makes you jump and it takes you a minute to realize what he’s doing, it’s only when you hear how badly he’s singing that you realize he’s doing his best impression of Meatloaf’s voice. His dramatic flare has him jumping all around the empty street, gripping at his chest as he points at you.

“Eddie!!” Your hushed yell is broken by the cackle that bubbles from your chest, taking advantage of the fact that he wasn’t in the van anymore, you’re finally able to bring the music down to a normal volume.

“Hey! I was clearly in the middle of giving you the performance of a life time. Not. fucking. cool.” Pointing at you from the other side of the street he pretends to glare but the smile that pulls across his face ruins his performance.

“Get in the car before someone calls the cops, they might think someone was killing their cat out in the street.” Your grin is menacing when you wait for him to realize the insult hidden in your words.

“Last I checked, you’re the one who chose tonight’s music. Not my fault if I get a little carried away, if anything you should be happy.” Winking as he climbs back in, there’s a new kind of electricity in the air between you two.

A line you both crossed with out even trying tonight, it was just too easy to be yourselves around each other. So used to having to be ashamed of your short comings you both openly accepted them with out a second thought. The muscles in your face turning sore from the constant pull in his presence. You already know that you’ll wonder if tonight was a dream when you wake up in the morning.

“It was definitely a performance. A performance of a life time though? Jury’s still out on that.” The sound of Eddie’s laugh fills you with the kind of happiness that you thought you wouldn’t ever feel again. You wish there was a way you could save it.

“That’s fine, I have plenty more where that came from sweetheart.” The nickname sounds different this time. Less casual.

When your eyes dart to the clock on his dashboard your heart sinks a little. Despite not wanting the night to end the thought of having to wake up for work in the morning hangs over you like a giant rain cloud ready to ruin the birthday party. You wanted to live in this little bubble forever.

Eddie’s eyes follow yours to the clock and he knows exactly how you feel because he feels it too.

“Probably time we reel it in huh?” Chuckling awkwardly he waits for you to answer before he starts the engine. Part of him hoping you’ll just throw caution to the wind and want to keep the night going somehow.

“Yeah, unfortunately I started a job today, well I mean technically yesterday.” You knew you were rambling but the way his eyes kept darting towards your lips was making you lose your train of thought.

“She’s got bills to pay! No need to explain pretty girl, there’s always next time.” Eddie tries to keep it simple. Scared to come off too strong, he needed you to know he wanted this to happen again.

Biting your lip at the new endearment, you settle back in your seat too shy to meet his eyes. The low rumble of the engine brings you both back to reality as his van lurches forward.

“Thanks for tonight Eddie.” Your voice comes out quieter than you intend it to, clearing your throat you speak up a little louder. “This was more fun then I’ve had in awhile, so thank you.”

“What are best friends for?” Eddie wants to kick himself in the teeth when the words leave his mouth.

But when your hand reaches for his, small fingers slotting between his big ones it’s almost like you saw the internal battle written all over his face.

“Yeah, best friends.” You agree with a hum.

It’s a good place to start.

Chapter three

[hanaleeappreciationweek]

(this gorgeous poster is the work of our wonderful co-host @sazanes!!)

Welcome to our second edition of the Hana Lee Appreciation Week!! We celebrated it in the first week of October last year, but this time - such World Music Day falls on 21st June - we've decided to shift our appreciation week to a slightly earlier date. After all, music is one of Hana's first great loves! 💞💞💞

Last year, we held our first ever HLAW, and every single entry we received for it was a sheer slice of perfection!! We just can't wait to see what Hana stans have in store for us this year!!

As always, this week is about celebrating Hana Lee in all her glory and her complexity - her passions, her kindness, her confusions, her own journey to healing and confidence. We love every facet of her, and this week is dedicated to showcasing ALL of them!

Certain days will have two themes - you can choose either one for your content, or even do a combination of both! Any content is welcome - fanfic, fanart, edits, moodboards, meta, playlists, icons...even screenshots of your favourite scenes of Hana!! We also accept WIPs so if you're not able to complete the piece on time, you can always show us a WIP of the piece you were working on! As long as the content is focused on Hana and shows a positive depiction of her, the sky's the limit!

These are the themes we have in store for HLAW 2023:

19th June - Throwback

20th June - Skills vs Passions/Chocolate!

21st June - Music/AU

22nd June - Relationships*/Homes

23rd June - Hana's Perfect Wedding! (Small note about this theme here)

For Throwback typically, we accept old pieces on Hana, and invite the creators to briefly tell us about the process of creating their piece. Here's a throwback questionnaire you can use if you like!

The themes are meant to be inspirations for your writing - it isn't completely essential for you to send content for a particular day only specifically for that day. You can always send it later as long as you tag it with the day you meant the work for!

Make sure you tag @hanaleeappreciationweek in your content as well as co-hosts @lizzybeth1986 and @sazanes. Tag your posts with #hanaleeappreciationweek and #HLAW (along with days #HLAW Day 1, #HLAW Day 2, etc) as well so we don't miss any of your pieces!

For inspiration, take a look at our HLAW 2022 masterlist!!

Various fan content blogs also enthusiastically promote our events and have tons of fun events of their own during these months, so we highly recommend you check them out: @choicesficwriterscreations, @choicesflashfics, @choicesholidays, @choicespride, @choicesprompts, @choicesmonthlychallenge, @drake-walker-appreciation, @maxwell-beaumont-appreciation.

Once the week officially ends on 23rd June, we will keep the blog open for a bonus week, for anyone who struggles to finish their content during the week itself.

More than a month is left before HLAW begins, and we are SO excited to see what Hana fans will come up with!! See you all in June!

✅✅ signal boosts will be greatly appreciated!! ✅✅

--

*(Relationships in this context could refer to romantic, platonic or filial relationships!)

[rosekiller-addict]

(this post is related to a post i made earlier about how Marauders stans can recognize one another irl, for that original post click here then come back and read this)

heyyy everyone! here are some of my ideas plus some things i've seen so if y'all have any ideas to add on, please reblog or reply to this!

So i thought earrings/jewelry would be a good idea bc its small but noticeable. so any sort of star, moon, stag, rose, ect. type earrings would work (for example i have earrings with a star and moon on each side)

Obviously not everyone has their ears pierced so this could work for necklaces and other stuff like that (and i think there is stuff that you can put on your shoeslaces that might have star/moon/stag/rose stuff

As for the question!

@oh-my-wolfstar brought up that the question could be something like "did you get *enter item* from *enter made up store*"

I think this could be super cool, especially if the made up store was somehow a reference.

as for the answer to this question it could just be a simple yes but if we want to spice it up a bit it could be "no i got it from *another made up store*"

but yeah, please let me know your thoughts and reblog this so more people can see it! i think it will be super cool if we could actually do this irl!

[oceanlifeenthusiast]

OOC: things I believe Lovecraft has had breakdowns over

Accidentally saying "thanks you" to a cashier

Not knowing what to call sizes at Starbucks and accidentally referring to them as 'large' and 'small'

Bumping his head on a doorway

Being bumped into and not knowing whether to apologize or not

Having to tell the cashier they forgot his ketchup

Having his order messed up horribly (he ate it anyway)

Accidentally giving someone in the Guild the wrong tool because he was having a breakdown and ½ over what tool he needed to grab

Accidentally referring to a celebrity as another celebrity (the kpop stans destroyed his self confidence)

Not knowing a minor character's name in a movie (again the fans got em)

Accidentally knocking over something not breakable at a store

Etc :3

[matchacowbee]

Ok sup guys I wrote another tk fic LOL

I actually have had this one in my notes for a while, but I just finished it today :3

To have some context, this is inspired from the fractured but whole game scene where cartman is originally farted on (video) New kid is in this fic! he will be referred to as a boy.

Btw here’s -> the drawing I made that goes with this! a lotta Lee Cartman lately, that’s what I got for u this time for the fic lol. Hope you enjoy!!

Btw all of them have their superhero names in here, but Cartmans name is a little interchangeable in this fic, I’m sorry if that bothers anyone

Lee!Cartman Lers!Stan,Kyle,New Kid

Cw: kids cursing

———————————————————————

What’s your plans!?

The raccoon/cartman opened his eyes, as his blindfold was removed. He looked around seeing all his fellow allies standing around him. Well they might not be his allies anymore. He was tied up to a chair and placed in the front of the room in Freedom pal’s headquarters.

Cartman looked up at the rest of the freedom pals. They all stared back at him with vicious glares. He gulped and smiled nervously.

“Heh heh.. what are you guys doing?” He asked the crowd nervously. The human kite stepped forward, “we’re gonna torture you until you tell us your plans.”

“I told you guys, it’s not me it’s Mitch Connor!! I’m the raccoon!” He pleaded. Toolshed glared at him. “Welp we tried, get him New kid.”

The new kid walked up to the raccoon with a stone cold face. Looking directly in the raccoons face, he pulled out a feather from the pocket of his costume.

The raccoon looked the new kid up and down. “Really? You.. you think that’s gonna do anything?” He said nervously.

The new kid says nothing and continues to have a blank stare on his face. Taking the feather, he brings it to Cartman’s neck. Cartman grimaces, and grits his teeth to prevent any of his giggles from coming out. “St-stop yohou guys! Seriously!”

The new kid continues to go at it, and moves it across to the other side. Cartman scrunches up his neck and starts to shake his head about.

“I don’t knohow what Mitch.. heheh..wants!” The rest of the heroes watched, unsatisfied with the reaction they were getting out of the Raccoon.

“That’s it, we need to really get him talking.” Mysterion piped up from the corner of the room.

“Yeah cmon new kid! Really give it to him!” Tupperware shouted.

“Make him t-talk!” Said Fastpass.

More voices shouted at the new kid to increase the torment. Cartman began to have a nervous look on his face, as he soon realized what was in store for him.

The new kid dropped the feather on the ground and began taking off his gloves. Cartman let out a little sigh of relief, only to be met with the new kid tasing his stomach with his fingers.

“Wah!! WAhaiHiT! You-yohouh cant do thihis! It’s cheheeating!!” Cartman belted out, as he squirmed in his chair. The new kid poked at his belly rapidly, saying nothing. Cartman swayed from side to side getting used to his jabs in the same place, however flinching and yelping at each one.

“Oh my god, the new kid sucks at this.” Toolshed muttered.

“Step aside butthole! Let’s show u how it’s done.” The human kite said, ushering him to the side. Toolshed and Kite walked over to the Raccoon, one boy on each side.

The two hero’s slipped their hands underneath the rope which was holding the bigger boy down and began to scribble on his sides. This resulted in a much louder reaction from Cartman, as he screeched out and began to laugh loudly.

“HA-HAHAAH!! STOP! Y-yoOUHOHOU ASSHOHOLES!”

“See, this is how you tickle someone” The human kite said, while making eye contact with the new kid.

“Yeah, plus I have a lot of experience from dealing with you Kite.” Toolshed teased, smirking at his hero best friend. Kite glared and a light blush flashed across his face, but continued the onslaught of tickles to the raccoon.

Fingers ran along Cartmans torso and sides, teasing and scritching in vulnerable areas. Tears in the corners of his eyes, he continued to laugh out.

“FUHUHCK YOHOHOU ALL!! I D-DOHONT KNOW ANYTHINGHEHE!!”

“That’s it, he’s clearly not going to fess up anytime soon. We need to increase his torment.” Super Craig said in a monotone voice.

“GA-aH! A-are you sure?! Look at him!” Wonder Tweek questioned. The boys halted for a second. Tweek had a point, Cartman looked pretty exhausted.

“No, Super Craig is right, we need this information before this gets out of hand.” Said Mysterion.

“You heard that Raccoon!? We aren’t gonna stop until you tell us what’s happening with Mitch!” The Human Kite said to the tired boy.

Cartman grimaced under his mask as the swarm of boys began to walk closer. Except the new kid, who stood silently in the corner. Knowing what was bound to come, The raccoon decided to suck it up and come clean. He had no idea how much more he could possibly take. All of them against him might kill him, and the raccoon’s legacy couldn’t end due to death by tickles. Way too embarrassing.

“WAIT! I-I’ll tell you his plans, just stop! And untie me already!” The raccoon shouted out.

The others halted and looked at one another. “Okay, let’s hear it then..”

Cartman sighed, and told them the plans of Mitch Connor.

:P

[twinkpriest]

Omg.... Please share your headcanons about the goth kids

>:3c mwahahaha i hope youre ready anon (cracks knuckles)

also i need share credit bc all of these were jointly created in my bf @lilachawk and i's dms <3

general:

their group chat is called "the cavern of darkness", they named it that in middle school and never changed it. any time they refer to it in verbal speech they just call is "the cavern"

they do secret santa every year. they draw names from michael's plastic viking helmet

they all definitely have their non-goth-music guilty pleasures but the main one they all have in common is lady gaga. her 2009 vma performance won their respect

they're still decent friends with stan and get invited to his birthday party every year. sometimes they go sometimes they don't

michael:

november scorpio

i'm gonna ignore how all of the houses in town are laid out because i firmly believe he has an attic bedroom. every wall/ceiling surface is covered in posters and stuff. full bookshelves, lots of tchotchkes, old concert ticket stubs, that kinda stuff. maximalism baby!!

gay gay homosexual gay

has a long haired black cat named bella (short for belladonna). rescued her from a snowstorm

him saying his parents were separated in raisins was just him being #edgy & his parents shown in gk3 are his actual parents. they never got divorced. he was raised interfaith jewish and buddhist. 

he has ehlers-danlos. i always give him ring splints in my drawings. the cane is actually needed sometimes

drives his dad's old camaro. the engine is really loud and it holds up like shit in the wintertime but he’s secretly really fond of the car

got a part time job at the only respectable record store in town junior year

pete:

water sign. pisces or cancer

only child of a single father who does construction work. his dad doesn't quite understand the goth thing but he's supportive

bi king. had a normie girlfriend in highschool. not for long, but it was still a very weird experience for everyone involved

super into comics, esp indie stuff. dream job is definitely to be a comic book artist

if the shirt+bolo tie wasn't a giveaway, he's lowkey into western vibes/influences. he probably has one of those old dramatically fringed suede jackets that he found in a local goodwill

really puts the Y in diy, probably the best & most creative out of the 4 of them when it comes to altering clothes and making accessories and shit

bites his nails/picks his skin

has a pet rat named boris

a little transmasc pilled if u ask me....

henrietta:

probably a virgo

mean lesbian <3

she stays designated driver for most of high school but later on, her and michael kinda divvy up friend group driving responsibilities. she is still the default though, because when michael drives she’s an intense backseat driver

she drives her mom's horrible subaru most of the time but she 100% would be the person to save up and buy a hearse as her daily car

is always the first to hear about local shows. she just knows people

i looooove the recurring thing in fics where she is the one to dye pete's hair. she does the sally’s run & dyes/trims his hair and in exchange he fixes rips in her clothes or superglues the soles back onto her shoes or something like that 

loves those new age crystal incense dragon hippie stores you see in malls. secretly likes the cool fairy statues they sell in them

firkle:

april aries

SUPER into vulture culture. has too many bones and not enough space for them

likes harsh noise music. calms him down

sends the strangest, most esoteric memes in the group chat and the rest of them have no idea where he finds them or what they mean

sorry i have like nothing else for firkle he kinda eludes me

[boxwinebaddie]

IS THAT A SHORT HAIRED JERS ON PINTEREST?? 👀

Ding, Ding, Ding! We Haaave A Wiiiiiinner!

that Is a short hair jerseykyle on the pinterest!

**very long uncle nina rambling under the cut, a lot of it is about my creative process, rm, the side characters and ofc...short hair jersey.

also omgshjssks!!! y'all are Quick With It on the pinterest!!! i personally am Obsessed with it and tried to make it really well thought out and am very specific with the things i pin, especially in the face/aesthetic sections bc they’re v important for visualization to my personal hcs bc i feel very strongly about my hc about how the characters look, what they wear, even just what they care abt and i hope you like them. <333 i also try to add sections/pins as we get new information/i develop my rm!cast more — specifically the side characters because they got neglected while i developed stan/kyle.

sidebar abt a side character i was scared abt developing bc they’re not in my wheelhouse: i’ve actually been working on some stuff about tweek lately that i actually feel p excited abt it’s a little weird? but I Personally think it’s fun and fresh! i hope y'all it, omg <333

someone Also asked me abt craigory a while ago and idk too much abt him Yet other than that he that he’s 6’5” n lanky as hell, skates everywhere, smokes a lot, is bad at processing death specifically and every time ( a ) stripe dies, he buries her in a shoebox marked stripe like #13, goes to the pet store and buys a new stripe and pretends like that’s the original stripe: no change, like she’s not a completely different guinea pig. ooof. he studies astrophysics at harvard ( takes a greyhound to visit tweek every other weekend ) and is gearin up for a huge internship for NASA in washington all the way cross the country which freaks tweek out SO much bc he’s moving far away. :///

but, anywhore! please ask me about the side characters anytime! i love talking about them! and if you see anything specific pinned anywhere on the NCU pinterest, also feel free to ask me! obviously i have a sea on anons rn, so it'll take me a sec, but hmu anytime, y'all.

now...onto Short Hair Jersey which...tbh, i looked at that pin for a while because i was like, hm, this site model is very cute to me, i like his freckles v much...but he has short hair. regardless, i just said fuck it and pinned it to the board as another face reference and didn't do anymore deep thought about it...but ooooough that i am Thinkin...

i wanted to do a short hair jersey moment for a while. hair i feel like is very symbolic/can be analysed in rm, specifically with stan.

basically, you can kind of tell what era were in, his current mental state, and honestly, what point of rm where are in by stan's hair color.

ie. that white/silvery danny phantom color was pre!rm when scotty was still around/calm b4 the storm, blonde stan is post-scotty fallout when the toner washed out, electric blue hair stan is first style breakup sort of manic/mostly depressed stan, blue washing out/color oops, stan having just the tips of his hair blonde is healing stan w/ the dark brown coming in, red hair stan is crazy boy manic divorce stan and pink hair stan w/ the red washing out is cute boy, happy anti-valentines day ravesey reunion stan, with pink tip hair stan being very close to healing/college stan, and dark brown stan being healing/sober, thriving ( hw is hard, but he's okay ) ravenstan.

as far as kyle goes, i think long hair kyle is Default Kyle...short hair kyle is definetly...an Anomaly, a glitch in the matrix...a very, veeery bad sign, tbh. long hair kyle being jersey just sets him apart from my pep kyle and canon kyle tbh, i like his dark academia, maneater, philosophic ice king energy. and i was gonna say that maybe kyle stopped cutting his hair after stan passed away but...nah. nevermind.

bc sheils def had kyle get hair cuts & complains when his hair gets too long ( when kyle came to visit all he did was nag nag nag kyle about his long hair, smh ) but once he started college, i think it just got longer and Longer and he was Going to cut it but bebe BEGGED him not to because he looked so good w/ it long, v chic, giving off duty couture runway model fr. i love you sm, long hair jersey! mwah!

BUT I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED IT BE SHORT FOR AN IMPORTANT PLOT REASON. like not just Because, like, i think kyle agrees that his hair looks better long and likes it like that so he wouldn't just randomly cut it short...but he would if it was an important reason.

my first thought was that maybe he did it before the plane ride, like cut his hair short when stan dyed his blue so they could both be dramatic and quasi-secret broken up together buuuuut...

i had a far, far Worse idea. ;)

so towards the end of RM...

-- which sorry, side bar again, but i just wanted to say, bc i have anxiety abt it and get lots of anons asking me for answers abt things i don't actually know yet. I Did Not Finish Planning Out RM. like...at all. just because its so complicated. so the stuff in the middle is kind of only half way there, some of the stuff even before ravesey get together is kind of dodgy and the end, i have Concepts for ( and plot concepts in gen ) but they're not fully formed and need to be figured out by me. so technically, you are basically building a story with me, or watching me develop it thorugh your asks...i hope that's okay? --

but, *ahem*, towards the end of rm ( i'm so sorry, guys, i'm evil ), i had plans to...FATALLY WOUND JERSEY ;) saving stan in south park, there's some violence and drama and action towards the end that involves a lot of the other characters in southpark we left behind/side characters we don't know about yet...and i kind of wanted to do something Dramatic ala tangled saving rapunzel by cutting her hair off, like, idk some very dramatic and upsetting, heroic reason that jersey's hair gets cut short....

so i'm thinking...he gets also mortally wounded in some violent and horrifyingly sad and frightening way, maybe a shard of glass cuts the hair off...but, tbh, my most Final Canon Answer is the hospital team needs access to a lot of his upper body/head/neck region and they have to cut his hair short to save his life and operate or something. so he wakes up in the hospital with stan there...with shorter hair.

( he still looks fine as hell tho! don't get it twisted, i think it kinda still curls around his ears and stuff it's not too short but it's DRASTIC )

anyways...so...Yeah. short hair jersey. dramatic, i know! and i think him groing it out post rm is him going back to being healthy and i kind of wanted to keep it like that....buuuuuut...

I had an Even WOOOOORSE idea...

which was that around the time stan dyes his hair unhinged manic panic vampire red, kyle cuts his hair short again in a sort of He Liked My Hair Long, So I Cut it Short...way.

what do we think?

-uncle nina, torturer of beautiful boys

[sanguinessims]

Barbie Land in the Sims? Check it out!

Hey barbs 💋,

A few months back I started working on a little project: creating a custom Barbie Land (from the Barbie Movie) in the Sims 3.

I now decided to establish some sort of social media presence to post progress updates and in case I make any more worlds in the future, since I have a lot of ideas!

In this blog (and on my TikTok) I'll be posting pictures and videos as I work on the world. If you'd like to get involved, I would love to have you! Send me a message with any cool barbie ideas for lots,sims, or stories! And if you'd like to be a test player, please let me know.

Here are some pictures from my post on Mod The Sims that showcase a little of the world:

♥️Update 0: The Rough Draft

♥️Update 1: The Building Commences

♥️Some more info♥️

As you can see, there is still a lot of work to be done. Since these pictures I've made a couple of houses and another community lot which I'll share in another post!

This world will have 3 tiers to make it accessible and customizable for everyone.

Tier 1: 🎀 Barbie Basics - University, Island Paradise, Seasons, and Showtime. No store content. Only required mod will be rabbithole rugs.

Tier 2: 🦩Pink Standard - All of the above, plus Pets, Generations, World Adventures, and Ambitions. Midnight Hollow for Savvy Seller Collection. Maybe some store content?

Tier 3: 💎 Very V.I.P - All of the above, plus maybe Supernatural and Katy Perry Sweet Treats. A couple of store content, idk about mods.

♥️ Ideas ♥️

Taking Inspiration from classic Barbie dolls, playhouses, films, and media.

Inspiration from real life iconic people

Stan Twitter references

EGALITARIAN society. Everyone is equal!!!

Quite a bit of inspiration and references to the Barbie Girls online game. It helps to give me some artistic direction, and also I'm really upset that it got shut down. Maybe this world can capture some of the magic.

That'll be it for this post, follow if you're interested!

~ 𝒳𝑜𝓍𝑜, 𝒮𝒶𝓃𝑔𝓊𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 💋

[master-sass-blast]

Paint the Future.

Summary: "He’d locked away the sketchbook with the nursery designs. He’d needed to be present for you as you cycled through anxiety, grief, self-blame, and depression. And, if he was being honest, it hurt too much to have the sketchbook out.

Piotr flips the key into his palm and curls his fist shut –though he’s careful not to apply too much force. 'Don’t break it.' He takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly through his nose. Then, he kneels down and slides the key into the drawer’s lock with a quiet click."

aka Piotr has trauma from all the Reader's miscarriages, too, which start to come to the surface.

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

Rating: G but as a note there are mentions of miscarriage and reflections on Piotr's trauma from the Reader's previous miscarriages.

Word count: 3.6k.

Set after "The Long Awaited Arrival."

Piotr is a man of principles, high among which is organization. A tidy space makes for a tidy mind, in his opinion. He likes having order in life –which certainly includes his art studio and supplies.

Granted, Piotr knows that mess comes with art. Paints stain, pencils leave shavings and smear, ink bleeds and drips, erasers leave little scraps all over the place, paper tears, chalk gets dust everywhere… The work process is seldom clean; that doesn’t mean his studio can’t be.

Sure, things get chaotic when he’s in the middle of multiple projects, or if things with the Institute and X-Men get busy. But, as a rule, he keeps his studio tidy. Clutter makes it difficult to focus, which leads to mistakes, which leads to ruined drawings and afternoons spent brooding over simple slip ups.

He has a massive bookshelf that spans one wall of his studio space. He designed and built it himself. The bottom half is built like rows of cubbies; it’s designed to hold bins of his bulkier supplies –tubes of paint, extra erasers, tins of pencils, cases of markers, and the like. The enclosed sides mean that knocking something over is less likely, which means damaging his (often expensive) supplies is less likely. The top half are proper bookshelves, which is where he keeps his art reference books, less delicate supplies, and stacks of sketchbooks. The whole thing is painted white –which seems counterintuitive, given that he works with very pigmented tools, but painting the shelves white means that he can scrub the shelves down as hard as necessary without lightening the color of the paint. Aside from his art desk, which has a mechanism that lets him adjust the angle of the desk to his needs, it’s one of his best builds.

His angled desk sits in front of the windows, adjacent to the couch that you like to sprawl out on while he works. It has an adjustable lamp clamped to the top, and several wooden cubbies built onto the sides to hold supplies while he’s in the middle of working. The chair that goes with it was a custom-ordered piece; no other stool or chairs could accommodate his height properly.

He has a second desk that he keeps in the corner of his room, too. It’s a traditional desk he found at a thrift store, made out of dark stained wood with built in drawers. He mostly uses it for grading (or as a makeshift table if he needs a lot of supplies out at once).

But the desk also has a drawer that locks. And, fortunately enough, the key was still with the piece when he purchased it at the store.

Presently, he’s staring at the locked drawer. His chest feels painfully tight with nerves. He purses his lips, mind whirling with indecision.

He doesn’t keep anything in the locked drawer –save for one sketchbook he saw fit to isolate from the others.

He’d started some drawings about a year after the two of you had gotten married; by then, the two of you had settled into your new home and union. You’d started talking about kids. Even though you hadn’t started trying yet, he’d started making designs for the nursery –a mural to go on one of the walls and a few smaller thematic paintings to go on the others.

Piotr swallows hard, then stands from the couch he keeps in his studio and crosses the room to his other desk. He opens the center draw and pulls out the key to the locked drawer. He spins it in his fingers, absently studying the curves of the key’s teeth. It’s so small.

And then you two started trying. It took months for you to get pregnant –and then you’d lost the baby mere days later.

It’d been devastating –but these things happen, you’d both reasoned. Sometimes life was painful and unfortunate, but it didn’t mean that one couldn’t carry on. So the two of you had tried again.

And then you’d miscarried again. And again. And again.

He’d locked away the sketchbook with the nursery designs. He’d needed to be present for you as you cycled through anxiety, grief, self-blame, and depression. And, if he was being honest, it hurt too much to have the sketchbook out.

Piotr flips the key into his palm and curls his fist shut –though he’s careful not to apply too much force. Don’t break it. He takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly through his nose. Then, he kneels down and slides the key into the drawer’s lock with a quiet click.

But now you’re pregnant again. And, what’s more, your specialist says that things look promising. You can’t afford to take any unnecessary risks, and you need regular check ups, but…

Piotr opens the drawer.

The sketchbook leans at an angle, spiral binding down so the pages didn’t get creased. The cover –a generic sketch of a vase printed on the cover of every sketchbook by this particular brand–stares up at him.

He gingerly picks up the sketchbook and flips it open. It’s mostly empty; it hadn’t felt right to toss such precious drawings in with another, more utilitarian book. He checks them over, noting what he’d change now and what he’d keep, then closes the drawer and tucks the sketchbook under his arm as he stands. Maybe bit of hope is good.

***

He shows the sketches to his mother first.

He feels guilty for not showing you first. You’re his wife. You’re carrying the baby that the nursery will be for. Out of anyone, societal convention dictates that you should see the sketches first.

But it’s not like he’s not going to show you at all. No, he fully intends to show you so you can give equal feedback; you’ll use the nursery just as much as he does, after all. He wants you to enjoy how it looks, too.

But after… everything, he needs… a certain kind of support. A certain style of comfort.

He feels small, like he’s six years old again. He’s six years old, and he’s just fallen and scraped his knees on the concrete block that hosts the water troughs for the horses’ paddock. He’s whimpering and sniffling, and his mother has just scooped him up and is carrying him towards the main farmhouse to patch his wound.

He wants to feel like that again. Just for a moment.

As always, his mother delivers her verdict in as few words as possible. She peers down at the page, gives it a once over, then nods. “Looks good.”

Piotr sighs –albeit fondly–and rolls his eyes. “I was hoping for a bit more than that, mama,” he says in Russian.

“Then you should’ve asked your father,” Alex replies in kind. She smirks, then shakes her head before studying the main mural sketch again. “No, medvezhonok, it looks very good. You always do immaculate work.”

“It’s just a sketch,” he mutters.

Alex tsks. “None of that. Accept the compliment, malenkiy.”

“Spasibo,” Piotr murmurs, ears turning pink with sheepish satisfaction. He stares down at the page, but he can’t really take in any of the details from the sketch. His mind still feels distant; his gut feels like thorny vines are curling through it. He swallows hard, then tries to feign nonchalance. “Do you like it?”

“I’m not the one who needs to answer that.” Alex cocks her head back and studies her son for a moment. She crosses her arms loosely over her chest. “And I suspect that’s not what you’re really here to ask me.”

He flinches. He looks away, opting to stare at the ground instead. Nausea creeps through his gut. His breathing shallows. Why is this so hard?

“Alright.” Alex’s hands are on his shoulders, guiding him towards the porch. She nudges him forward until he sits on the front steps of the farmhouse. “Sit.”

“I don’t–”

“Yes, you do. You just went paler than snow.”

Piotr swallows hard. He closes the sketchbook and sets it aside. I don’t want to lose this baby, too.

“Hey.” Alex kneels in front of him when he lets out a tight, shuddering breath. She cups his face in her hands and gently strokes his cheeks with her thumbs. “Talk to me, medvezhonok.”

Piotr lets out a ghost of a laugh, lips briefly twitching into a smile. “Do as you say, not as you do?”

“Exactly.” Alex smirks, but the expression fades when Piotr’s frown returns. “What’s wrong, Piotr?”

He sighs, weak and wavering, then lets himself lean forward when his mother pulls him into a hug. He buries her face against her shoulder and closes his eyes. “I’m scared.”

“Okay.” Alex strokes her fingers through his hair. She kisses his temple, then asks, “Scared of what?”

“Of –of another miscarriage.” His throat constricts with grief and fear. He can feel his eyes burning with tears. “Of losing the baby. If –if I paint the mural, if we get the nursery ready, and then–”

“Tische.” Alex hugs Piotr tighter when he lets out a sob. She cups his head with one hand and rubs his back with the other. “It’s okay–”

“No, it isn’t!” Piotr snaps. He pulls back and scrubs his face roughly with the heels of his hands. “Nothing about this is okay!” He purses his lips, falling silent as the onslaught of emotion lodges somewhere between his chest and his throat. Nothing about watching my wife blame herself for things beyond her control is okay. Nothing about hoping things will be different, only for everything to be the same is okay. Nothing about losing over, and over, and over– He lets out a ragged sigh, then slumps against his mother. “How do you hope? How are you not afraid?”

“Bozhe ty moi.” Alex sighs, then kisses his temple before patting his back. “Hold on. Let me think.”

Piotr sits up, then shifts to the side so his mother has more room as she sits on the step next to him. He studies her –the way she braces her forearms against her knees, how she’s tucked her tongue against the inside of her lower lip, the tightness around her eyes–as she thinks.

When Alex is silent for several moments, though, he turns his attention to the farm; your uncle had found a beautiful, sprawling plot of land to teleport the Rasputin farm to. The whole space is surrounded by towering trees, encapsulating the house and farm plots from view. The house is positioned atop a hill that slopes towards the back of the property, where the farm, animal pens, and crop fields are.

It’s a beautiful day. Sunny, pleasantly warm, not a cloud in the late summer sky. There’s a soft breeze in the air that rustles through the tree canopies. Birds chirp overhead, and the chatter of squirrels and chipmunks are audible around them.

If he were in a better mood, he’d want to paint the scene in front of him. A nice big canvas –or, better yet, a large piece of watercolor paper, pre-soaked and stretched…

“I don’t know if I was ever not afraid.”

Piotr inhales sharply, abruptly tuning back in when his mother finally speaks. He blinks a few times to focus himself, then frowns when her meaning settles in his mind. He turns to face her. “What do you mean?”

Alex shrugs. She leans back, bracing her palms against the step behind them. “I remember… I was always on alert, I guess. Every time I was pregnant with one of you, I was always like ‘okay, this is happening, what do I need to do to keep everyone safe?’” Her mouth twitches into a brief, distant frown. She shrugs again, eyebrows raising and lowering. “I was scared, but I knew I had to move forward.” She pauses for a moment, then lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “You should’ve asked your father. He’s much better at platitudes than I am.”

“But he didn’t go through it like you did.”

“He did in his own way,” Alex corrects, “but I understand what you mean.” She cocks her head to one side, considering, then adds, “I think… it’s okay to be happy. I had to learn that one from your father –taking time to be happy with things, instead of always focusing on what’s going to go wrong.” She smirks, but the expression is distinctly melancholy. “You got that from me, unfortunately.”

Piotr shakes his head and wraps one arm around his mother’s shoulders. “I’d rather have part of you than none of you.”

“Far better things to take than perpetual pessimism,” Alex scoffs.

“I have your hair, too,” Piotr points out with a smile.

Alex snorts and rolls her eyes. “Yes, you do have that. But, to stay on target…” She smirks when her son chuckles, then continues. “I had to learn that it’s okay to be happy –to do things that make you happy. Even when you’re afraid. Even when things could fall apart.” Her expression goes distant for a moment; her lips curl into a faint frown. “I’m not so sure I’ve mastered it. Your father’s always been better at this type of shit.”

Piotr shrugs, then mulls the suggestion over. But… if we prepare the nursery… if we put in all that work and let our guard down… and then everything… He swallows hard. His hands curl into tight fists. He draws in a shaking breath, then quickly reroutes his mind to avoid the anguish of inevitable conclusion. “But –but if… if we do, and–”

“Nothing you do –or don’t do–is going to make that baby die,” Alex interjects, level-headed and unapologetically blunt. She cocks her head to the side, studying Piotr as he grumbles under his breath. “Would painting the nursery make you happy?”

He thinks about it –truly thinks about it. He lets his mind wander to a daydream he’d abandoned a while ago, back when it was first apparent that you might not be able to keep a pregnancy. He’s in the nursery space, sketching out the main mural while you work on some other details for another wall. He’s smiling, and laughing with you, and you’re overjoyed in a way he hasn’t seen in so long…

He’s happy. So much so that it terrifies him.

Piotr blinks –then quickly wipes his cheeks when the unexpected wetness of tears. He sniffs, then nods when Alex rubs his shoulder. “It would.”

She nods along, watching as he tries to collect himself. “Would it make her happy?”

“I think so.” Piotr smiles as he thinks of you. “This pregnancy has been… hard for her. She’s been very sick. I think this may… ‘boost’ her.”

“Then do it.”

“But if we…” His throat constricts with anguish, and it takes a couple tries before he can continue. “If we… if we lose the baby–”

“You’ll adopt.” Alex lifts one hand and wipes the tears off his cheek. “There’s more than one option, medvezhonok.”

Piotr shakes his head. “Not for mutants. We’d get blacklisted before we got anywhere.”

“You don’t know that,” Alex insists. She ducks her head, staring Piotr down until he meets her gaze. “Okay? You don’t know that. A lot has changed in the past decade, and you two would be perfect candidates. Don’t shut yourself down before you’ve even explored the possibility.” She waits until Piotr nods, then adds, “Besides, there’s plenty of mutant kids the government would be glad to have off their hands. Those fucking pigs would probably think you’re doing them a favor.”

He rolls his eyes, but the clouds of concern quickly overshadow any hope he might have. “But… if they don’t…”

“Then we’ll figure it out. All of us.” Alex arches one eyebrow when Piotr shoots her a quizzical look. “We’re here for you, malenkiy. The two of you have a lot of resources and connections that you haven’t even tapped into yet. If you want a family, we’ll do whatever we can to see that you get one.” She pauses while Piotr nods slowly, mostly to himself, then adds, “Besides, babies are easy enough to steal.”

Piotr’s head whips around, eyes wide with shock. “Mama!”

“I’m kidding.” She smirks when Piotr sputters, then claps him on the shoulder. “Be happy, Piotr.�� Her smirk falters for a moment, then settles into a melancholy smile. “Do what I couldn’t –didn’t. Be happy. Let yourself enjoy this time.”

I don’t know if I can. Piotr draws in a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. But… I can try. He nods, then leans over and draws his mother into a hug. “Thank you, mama.”

“Of course, baby.” Alex winds her arms around his shoulders, holding him tight. “Of course.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, malenkiy.”

***

You’re puttering in the kitchen when he gets home, humming along with a song playing on your laptop. You turn when you hear him walk through the front door, then pause the music before greeting him in English. “Hi, baby!”

“Privet.” He sets his keys and wallet in the dish the two of you keep by the front door, then strides back to the kitchen. He smiles when he sees you, then draws you into a hug. He basks in the simple comfort of holding you for a moment, then kisses the top of your head before letting you go. “What are you doing, myshka?”

“Making chocolate covered strawberries.” You hold up what looks like a mug of mostly melted chocolate chips, then gesture to a plate in front of you; it’s covered with parchment paper and laden with some –admittedly sloppy–chocolate covered strawberries and random drippings of chocolate. “Don’t look in the sink. It took me a few tries to get the melting process right.”

“I will not look in sink,” Piotr promises (even though he already saw the small collection of bowls and mugs filled with seized chocolate when he came in). He reaches down and gently rubs your swollen belly, then presses his lips together when you use a strawberry to scrape down the side of the mug. “Ah… myshka…”

“Yeah?” You ask. You place the chocolate covered berry –there’s practically a mountain of chocolate on the poor thing–on your plate, then lick a smear of chocolate off your thumb. You hum to yourself, content, then look up when he doesn’t continue. “What?”

“I…” He pauses, considering his words carefully. “Are you going to eat these all at once?”

You scrunch up your face. “No. I’m making these for the next few days –and to share, which you should be so lucky.”

“Indeed I am.” He kisses the top of your head, then clarifies. “I was merely concerned. It is important to watch sugar levels.”

“Gestational diabetes and all that, I know,” you agree, nodding. “But my bloodwork’s been good so far.”

“I know,” Piotr says, though the tightness in his chest and throat doesn’t ease. “But is good to be careful.” He waits until you use up the last of your chocolate, then clears his throat. “I… I have something to show you.”

“Ooh, what is it?” You ask as you carry your plate of strawberries to the fridge.

Piotr swallows hard as anxiety crests over the back of his head. He takes a deep breath, steels himself, then lets it out. It is okay to be happy. “I have sketches for nursery.”

“Really?” You gasp, delighted, and beam at him. “Let me wash my hands, then show me!”

He opens the sketchpad and sets it upon a clean portion of the counter. He puts one arm around your shoulders when you come over to inspect his work. “This is for main wall, and these are accents to go on other walls.”

“Oh my gosh,” you coo. You press your hands against your mouth and bounce lightly on the balls of your feet. “It’s Winnie the Pooh!”

“Da.” He grins, delighted that you recognized the references he’d pulled from. “I combined styles with traditional zhostovo art.”

“It looks so beautiful!” you gush. You clutch your hands against your chest. “Oh, Pooh’s house! Piotr, this is incredible!”

He bends down to kiss your temple. “Spasibo. Mama liked them as well.”

“Oh.” You twist to look up at him. “You showed your mom?”

Your tone and face are still bright, but he cringes all the same. Why did I say anything? “Ah –yes.” He lets out a nervous chuckle. “I am sorry. I know I should have showed you first–”

“I didn’t know there was some kind of rule about it,” you interject, face scrunched up in confusion. “I mean, it’s not like you were trying to get her approval before mine.” You pause for a moment, then squint your eyes in a dramatic, obvious caricature of suspicion and point at him. “Unless you were!”

“Nyet, nyet,” he laughs, holding up his hands.

You laugh along with him and lower your hand. “No, I know. I don’t think your mom even has the capacity for bullshit like that.”

He snorts. “You have that right. I think she’d rather chew her arm off.”

You chuckle and nod, then go back to fawning over his sketches. “These are so gorgeous, honey. Oh my gosh, I can’t wait to have these up on the walls! What kind of background color were you thinking?”

“Probably green or yellow. Goes best with colors of forest and flowers.” He places his hands on your shoulders, holding you close as you continue your fawning examination. His whole body still feels keyed up with anxiety and foreboding –his chest is tight, and his stomach’s churning–but he forces himself to take another deep, slow breath. It is okay to be happy.

And he’s going to be. One way or another, he’s going to be.

[international-sunrise]

god its me again, with lookism spoilers below the cut

the way everyone gathered with their respective rescues like they're a stray cat or this month's grocery shop is just way too funny y'all but the way jinsung arrived with johan in tow and was immediately like "dude why does it looks like hyungseok was trying to rescue jaeyeol and not the other way around????? why is he knock knock knocking on heavens door???????? what the fuck did you do to him???????????" and hyungseok was like "i promise you there's a very good reason for this :D" smiley emoji and all and jinsung is just "don't????? change the subject????? you almost killed him?????????????" just left me cackling for five minutes straight thanks jinsung i knew i could trust you

jihan walking in carrying jibeom and hudson in a carrier after alexander was deadass carrying both jake and samuel is peak comedy. the devil works hard and alexander works harder. if you're an a/c unit i'm your fan. number one samuel stan can't compare can't compete we aint shit compared to alexander.

also it's funny for me to think that while hyungseok was beating the shit out of everyone, himself included, everyone else was like trying to think about how to transport the rescues. jihan being the bright patootie he is brought a bed, work smarter not harder. alexander decided to brute-force it. jinsung used the bro-style-carry. vasco is now carrying lil hyungseok like he's a cat he just rescued out of a fire. these guys all share one single braincell and its bouncing like that old dvd logo. i hope that reference lands somewhere.

now what's important here.

i think this chapter pretty much confirmed that nº1 is, in fact, made up of parts and scraps of other generation kings. i mean this is pretty obvious but i guess it'll be confirmed in a couple more episodes and we'll have to be like -pretends to be shocked-, i think it will be more impressive if nº1 is not, as a matter of fact, made up of parts and scraps from the 0 gen and is instead made up of several random people and then enhanced by drugs. why do i say this? well usually the first is not the best, specially with experiments, and i really dont think they would have wanted to waste precious parts in order to make something that wouldn't work, so it could be very possible that nº1 is actually the first working prototype of what the workers first affiliate was trying to replicate.

and what were they trying to replicate you ask?

why, hyungseok's fake body, of course.

my working theory is as follows:

i think it's very likely that nº1 is an experiment that is being made behind charles back, by the workers first affiliate, because back in the day he somehow found a way, alongside jinyoung, to recreate the perfect super-soldier, and went around playing the world's worst puzzle and stealing pieces from others with the help of james lee, and now won't rely that information to workers so that they can get mass produced. however it seems like eugene doesn't know about the two bodies, or at least hasn't found a way to confirm it (maybe, hear me out, maybe if ptj hadn't killed jiho off! the shrimp the felony commiter the only one crazy enough to come up with that possibility! then eugene would already know and this plot would be so much far ahead!), therefore it remains as a possibility that he heard about some kind of super-soldier project and tried to find out who was behind it because super-soldiers are very high on the list of what evil little dudes do on their free time, and that's how he stumbled upon jinyoung.

jinyoung however, probably wasn't the entire brain behind the operation. that's why nº1 looks... that way. it's very possible that the other half of the operation was... hear me out: hyungseok's dad, who was supposedly killed by jinyoung.

i dont really think that it was james lee, because he's supposed to be the figthing genius, the one-man-army, the one going to the hardware store to collect the parts and pieces of their little fucked up science fair experiment that might or might not violate the geneva convention (is the geneva convention a thing in the ptj-verse i dont think it is...). i also don't think it was charles, because while he's behind the interconnected webs, that's kinda not in the same ballpark as human experimentation, that's like management vs the kitchen, have you seen management inside the kitchen like actually working? no, that's my point. gapryong was too busy trying to become the president in order to also be trying to bring back prometheus 2: electric boogaloo. which leaves us jinyoung, a farmacologist, and hyungseok's dad, occupation unknown but with ties to jinyoung, and was apparently killed by him as well.

even if jinyoung didn't actively murder him, you know what mom park said? he died sick. who in lookism would have the very specific knowledge to prescribe drugs that would worsen someone's condition instead of making it better, and also be in a position of trust in order to make it work, thus killing hyungseok's dad while making it seem like he simply fell ill?

oh yeah its coming all together.

i also find it extremely funny that, in a way, hyungseok did manage to both unite and dismantle the four major crews. all of the groups are dismantled, inactive, on the run or were absorbed by workers, and now three of the original crew leaders alongside samuel as a representative form a temporary alliance. "not even the four major crews-" bitch sit down didn't you read the big deal arc and the hostel arc, the power of trauma compels you -gets blasted-

also johan being like "ew cant believe i gotta fight alongside you people" kid you've been working with Jake for months now what on earth are you talking about did you also get your memory temporarily erased by the drugs. will anyone else forget about some important part of the plot-- put your hand down jake.

what you thought i wouldnt mention the emotional whiplash it gave me to have hyungseok suddenly remembering the friend he just beat up. JAEYEOL IT'S ME YA BOY bitch you left him about to board the first train without stopovers to the left of christ's throne a foot on the gutter and the other on the grave, wipe out those damn tears and get his ass outta there stop crying it's not the time stop kissing in the foreground

[ssweetener]

do you have any guesses for what the new album will sound like?

hi, i honestly don’t! which i think makes this album so much more intriguing. we have no idea what to expect. i saw that a few radio hosts who have been sent the song already described the lead as “different from the rest of her old stuff” so that has me curious of what direction she’s going and which body of work that statement is referring to coming from non ariana stans lol. considering this is going to be an album where she’ll be heavily involved with the production and the first rollout under her own (joan’s) management i’m very excited too see what’s in store :)

[seven-stars-in-his-palm]

hiiiiii, coming in here asking if you got any tips for possibly writing ford getting drunk and just generally how to write such a thing? I really want to have him do that in my next Forduary fic that I'm writing but I don't know where to start since I've never had a lick of alcohol and idk what my headcanons for him about this will lie, ie. whether he'd be a lightweight, whether he'd have drunk alcohol before this fic or how he acts under the influence (he'd be buzzed to tipsy most of the fic besides the end end, if that helps). for context, I was thinking he was going mad trying not to think of Stan on his 30th birthday and eventually caves in to drink some cheap whiskey from the convenience store while doing errands to forget. if you have tips or fics where that happens I can reference or even just headcanons about Ford and alcohol, I'd gladly take it, but it's alright if you don't. feel free to take this to discord but also answer this ask privately if you would.

man im gonna be honest with u i havent drunk a lick of alcohol either 😔 i just bullshit it most of the time and have gotten oddly good at it lately. i can, however, give you tips n tricks to make it seem like you do. and headcanons too--those go first ;)

(also please take this with a grain of salt as i too haven't drunk alcohol regularlu to know my shit. this all just research and thoughts on this specific situation. thoughts below the cut ! please dont come at me)

first off u gotta figure out the basics: adding the character + alcohol together; what would it do? i see ford as a "drinks to forget the outside world" type of drunkard. he's blissfully ignorant but still has the wired anguish within him, resulting into... a lot of feelings. he tasted it young, but didnt get Into It until the paranoia stint when taste didnt matter anymore and al he wanted was a decent depressant. however he can hold liquor very well, which is a problem considering the purpose, and has to drink a lotttt to achieve what he wants to the point he could get addicted. those are things you can make up yourself and therefore pretty easy: but actual facts? those are harder. here's some i've learned:

- there's a hugeeee difference between hard alcohol and a drink that happens to be laced in alcohol. for one, hard alcohol is served in small glasses/shot glasses while other drinks can be served on pretty much anything (but still small). an easier to understand real world example would be this: someone could, say, have seven shirley temples (an alcoholic beverage) without being incapacitated, but seven shots of vodka will at minimum knock you unconsious. five glasses of wine could do shit to you but five shots of whiskey will GET you. you gotta know what your character's drinking. pick a type you know and research if you must.

- hard alcohol has no taste. again, big diffence between these types. if anything it burns because, well, have you felt alcohol placed on ur skin while getting a shot or placed in a wound? that shit burns and it wont be any different down ur throat. if there js a taste you're barely gonna notice. alcoholics dont drink for taste--they've got more sinister shit goin' on.

- you gotta know what your character has. is it a regular small glass you'd see in a movie or a shot glass he takes from over and over? is he drinking from the bottle directly? how often is he taking a drink? is it bourbon? whiskey? vodka? rum? they alllll do different shit. you gotta KNOW (sorry if im repeating, but this is crucial)

- there are different types of addicts. there are binge drinkers, alcohol abusers, alcohol dependant (theres a difference), and u gotta.research which one u wanna portray. i say ford's an abuser: he has a somewhat consious level of what he drinks, but still doesnt stop because--well, its either being drunk off your rocker or having to succumb to Reality, which in this case, is genuinely dangerous (Bill.)

- there are also a lot of different symptoms, depending on the dosage. here's some ive screenshotted from a post a while ago:

so that's something. also, here's some sites thatcould help:

how to write drunk speech

a page in the CDC about alcohol and beer

a page on the national institution of health about alcohol (really nice, gives you a lotof the basics)

and the australian alcohol and drug association

also i will say that if it werent for bill, ford's relationship with alcohol would likely be very different and probably healthier tbh--again, it differs on why your character drinks, related to trauma or not. sometimes, they just do, and there's nothing you can do about it--but there's usually a reason when it comes 2 fiction. the point: know ur shit even if ur gonna be vague, and if u can help it, name names when it matters. dont say "he drank a shot of alcohol" say he "took a shot of whiskey" and such-like. look up what kind of hard alcohols there are and understand what would be on hand if ford were to get his hands on some of this stuff. i hope this helped, and good luck on forduary! <3