dinner is served

la cena está servida

adri lopez

[ID: A photo of Whitney Moore and Marisha. They’re posing in front of the bar in Matt and Marisha’s living room. Whitney is wearing a short dress patterned in black and white shapes, with a name tag labeling her as “Pee biscuit” and carrying an inflatable hobby horse. Marisha is wearing a knee-length dress with a black bodice and a blue skirt with a large floral pattern, and an enormous black sun hat with white edging on the wide brim. /end ID]

[ID: A photo of Marisha, now posing alongside a television screen tuned to the Kentucky Derby. She’s posing with one leg kicked up behind her. /end ID]

[ID: A photo of Marisha with Ashley, Mica Burton, Alex Ward, Adrienne Cho and Adri’s partner Chu. They’re gathered together to pose for the camera, everyone smiling broadly. /end ID]

[ID: A photo of Becca Scott and Marisha, taken selfie-style by Becca. They’re in a swimming pool, Marisha now in a swimsuit but still wearing her enormous sun hat, and grinning for the camera. /end ID]

@.marisha_ray: Scenes from the Derby Eleganza Extravaganza - Part 1 🐎 🌹

Nómadas

Es verano. Salgo de turno y Adri me despide con un trago de vodka. Para el hambre, para la sed, para que escribas, me dice. Cae la noche. Busco mis audífonos mientras camino con el delantal al hombro. Pasan motos de 400 cc y busetas cargadas con técnicos nocturnos de alguna planta química. Motos que rugen a toda máquina y en contravía; buses cuyos tubos exhalan nubes de gas venenoso. No encuentro los audífonos, los he dejado en el otro delantal, rayos. Paso por el nuevo café cubano y todo está cerrado. Lebón me ha vuelto a mentir. Ni modo. Es verano y mi vida un sueño, pero no mío, quizás el de alguien que duerme mejor que yo y de vez en cuando se revuelve inquieto en la cama mientras se ve caminando solo con mucho trabajo por delante. Me detengo. Mi cabello huele a salsas y cordon bleu, el plato del día. Miro por encima de la antena de radio y no hay luna ni aviones, no hay nada. El cielo de esta ciudad es un plano sin estrellas pintado por un pájaro de smog. Y en la tierra de esta ciudad hay bulla, hay alcohol y hombres jóvenes con los jeans rotos deambulando por los restaurantes mexicanos. Son nómadas, se infiltran entre los guardas seguidos por una camada de niños sucios y desnutridos. Los chicos miran y aterrorizan en silencio las mesas de los clientes. La gente se pone sus tapabocas, mira para otro lado, a la liga de futbol en la tele, a los meseros nerviosos, a los puestos de afuera donde parejas de universitarios sacan fotos de sus quesadillas y volcanes de chocolate. Los niños se retiran en silencio con la cara manchada y sin lavar, criaturas sigilosas y caminantes en una ciudad donde las mascarillas no se usan para cuidarse del virus pero sí para evadir a la gente pobre. Los nómadas se quedan, ofrecen dijes, pulseras de bronce y plata fake, y si los escucharas con cuidado, también ofrecen relatos de exilio, esoterismo y literatura pulp. Podrías oírlos: sus historias, sus puntos de giro, sus requiebros apremiantes; pero no, eso nunca sucede, entonces ellos sofocan un resoplido de encono y se marchan de mala gana, resueltos a canjear sus joyas en un cuarto pobremente adornado de la zona terminal. Allí una putita dariana, a cambio de fornicar y sin mayor esfuerzo, lucirá esas opacas sortijas despreciadas; entonces con veleidad se lo gozará y hará correrse mientras enarbola con sus manos el miembro anhelante de aquel nómada portador de tesoros, sus cristales, sus fragmentos de vidrio que él verá revivir sobre unos dedos diestros, navegantes de su cuerpo de animal migratorio; las esclavas y brazaletes, sus pulseras que nunca brillarán pero lo mismo engalanan el vuelo de un tobillo sobre las almohadas; sus collares de oro oxidado aunque prodigiosamente vivo en el rencor de un amor barato y afanoso; su botín decadente, su tesoro de precariedad y estrecheces que luego esta mujer bajará a vender en algún negocio de ultramarinos de la calle principal.

Esto pasa al caer la noche en Cali, al sur del centro del mundo, en esta ciudad salpicada de basura y discotecas, donde el cine ya no es refugio y las librerías cierran antes del prime time. Y pienso, mientras veo a un perro en la puerta del mercado mover con sus patas una taza vacía y sin agua, que nuestro verano es como el invierno de las sagas islandesas, donde los mismos dioses podían morir de frío en la calle. Que nuestros veranos son así de bárbaros y divinos, pero al contrario de las leyendas nórdicas, aquí la calle nos mata lentamente mientras la embriaguez y la torpeza de tener mucho o poco dinero nos lleva al inevitable aburrimiento del final de la noche. Porque sabemos que ese es el fin de tanta falopa, el aburrimiento de estar a solas y con la vida vivida. Y que la mejor forma de fingir esta cómica y relajada mortandad, cuando no te estás muriendo en serio, es sacarte todas las fotos, selfies, food shots, stories, todo lo que puedas antes de darte cuenta que ese desfile de imágenes en tu teléfono vale lo mismo que las sortijas fake de los nómadas, con la única diferencia de no poder canjearlas por una buena follada.

before T vs. one month on T

my jawline is hella nice now. adam's apple is more defined, body's lookin a bit less feminine. voice is slightly deeper, just little baby changes that are kinda hard to notice unless you've known me for a while

instagram/adri_nicolee

Me & my art :3

bruh 📸📸📸

Anonymously or not send me a 📸 and I’ll reply back w a Jooheon selfie/fantaken

(insert something cute)

(inserte algo lindo)

When you look cute 😊

karlie interacting with my fave angels will probaly be one of my favorite things at this years show haha

The writers/animators accidentally made it seem like Chloé likes Alix more than Adrien!

Before you say anything, I truly believe that Adrien and Chloé are (were as of as Season 4) genuine friends especially during their childhood.

This is to show that Chloé is obviously biased for some reason.

Adrien & Alix's Birthdays

When Chloe finds out it's Adrien's birthday, she makes it Sabrina's responsibility to get him a present & acts like she knew all along.

Just normal Chloé behavior right?

In the First Timeline of Timebreaker, look at her face when she finds out that Alix's watch (that she dropped) is a birthday gift/family heirloom.

She's actually surprised! We know Chloé isn't the biggest fan of birthdays.

So why did she lie about dropping the watch & not laugh at Alix for crying over it at all?

She called it "probably worthless" while talking to Adrien, why didn't she say so to Alix's face?

This scene makes it look like Chloé secretly cares about Alix.

And before you say she was "scared at the thought of getting in trouble", her dad is the Mayor of Paris who is known for making things work in Chloé's favor aka keeping her out of trouble.

Also, why would she be scared to get in trouble with Alix or the Kubdel family?

Back to The Bubbler

Chloé was dancing with Adrien. Happy to be close to him (trying to force a kiss), normal Chloé behavior!

But, where was she when Adrien was no where to be found?

Here, up close and personal with Alix for some reason!

Not looking for Adrien, not hiding behind Sabrina... just with Alix!

Why is that? Why animate them that close?!

Their interests

Chloé says she doesn't like sports (nor girls that play them) & yes, she's been seen in a Miraculous Comic (not sure if those are canon anymore btw) watching Adrien and cheering him on as he played LaCrosse.

But why is she here at this race (that Adrien isn't racing in), smiling as soon as Alix shows up...

But doesn't seem to care that Adrien's playing video games?!

She isn't even seen cheering him on!

If she were paying attention, she'd probably have Sabrina make sure Marinette doesn't spend anytime with Adrien right?

But she just didn't care. Not as much as she seemed to care about the race between Alix and Kim.

When they're infected

When Adrien's "infected", she screams like everyone else sure, but she seemed way more sad when her dad was infected.

Note: She doesn't even rush Ladybug to save Adrien (like she does in another Season 2 episode)

When Alix is infected, this girl looks like she's about to cry.

Note: During the whole bus ride, Chloé says NOTHING until Alix is infected.

The lies Chloé has told

Chloé clearly has no problems lying to and about Adrien.

She lies about remembering his birthday, lies to get his autograph to lie about him to other girls, lies about him liking her romantically, lies to him about being nicer to others, and the list just goes on.

She basically used her friendship with him to show off to others with lies.

Clearly it wasn't always like this, but it's just sad to look back and watch those scenes.

Lying to just Alix seems to be a different story for Chloé.

The two times Chloé lied to Alix were to make herself seem better than she actually is.

In Timebreaker, she lies about dropping Alix's watch despite witnesses seeing her drop it. When Alix blames everyone (not just her), Chloé is seen smirking as she skates away.

In Reverser, Chloé lies to Alix about bringing her selfies to the art club (again!). Saying that would be "Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous!" She refers to her own selfies as utterly ridiculous to avoid being predictable to Alix of all people. Why would she do that if she didn't care about what Alix thought of her?

Note: She doesn't try to ruin Alix's life when she had the whole art club laughing at her, she just left.

Consider This

Alix has done alot of things that hurt Chloé's pride & she's done nothing about it...

While all Adrien has to do is call her out on her behavior twice & now he's Adri-Nothing.

It really makes you think

pre-T vs. 6 WHOLE MONTHS ON T BABEY

four chambers buck/eddie (minor), eddie centric, an analysis of the diaz house, (home is about the people, not the space), 1.6k ______________

Eddie holds his heart in physical spaces. Frames, photo albums, ticket stubs. It’s less about the sentiment and more about the proof, evidence of the better moments, and a tangible reminder that they won’t be the last. He carries an old photo of Chris in his wallet and a yellow sticky note from Buck in the back of his phone case, scratchy, all caps writing — “Had to leave early, didn’t want to wake you up. There’s coffee on the counter for you. See you tonight.” — with a heart scribbled at the bottom. He carries his love outside his chest, but hides it in his pockets, under his shirt, and around his neck.

It’s scattered throughout the living room, his heart is in a comfortable place. The warm brown coffee table and throw pillows on the couch. Soft lights, lamps in every corner. An ash filled fireplace and charred brick, as if to say, “yes, there is life here, believe me when I say there’s life.”

[ao3 link]

Out in the living room, his love is most evident on the bookshelf. Loved ones held not by the hand, but by mahogany frames and canvas wrapped photo albums. Two albums, to be exact. The first is from Texas, from his childhood. Family photos year by year, some members disappearing, new ones flooding in, staying whether they want to or not. Some people who only continue to exist in these four-by-six slots, neatly encased in plastic, notes and dates scribbled over the back.

There’s photos of young Eddie cradling a baby Sophia, photos of Sophia and Eddie with Adriana spread across their laps, and a particularly memorable one of Eddie spoon feeding baby Adri ice cream when a baby her age definitely should not have been eating ice cream. First days of school, weekend trips, and middle school phases he’d rather forget. Newspaper cutouts of his baseball stats, team photos with trophies in hand, and senior pictures of him in his jersey. Team captain. He never really wanted it, but he accepted the offer all the same.

Shannon starts to appear around this time, prom photos together, though she wasn’t his date, just a friend of a friend with some sort of connection. Selfies taken on an old film camera from her mother, candid shots of Eddie, smiling, laughing, free, a side of him kept hidden from everyone but her. A few more photos strangers were kind enough to take for them, some strangers proving to be better photographers than others.

Another family photo, this time with Shannon in frame. Off to the side, attached only by Eddie’s arm around her waist, but in frame all the same.

A sonogram of Christopher before they had a name, engagement photos because that’s what they were supposed to do, and a single wedding picture taken from a courthouse bench.

Shannon still makes herself known in the last few pages, though her and Eddie no longer exist in the same frame. Her and Chris. Him and Chris. Chris alone. He’s off to Afghanistan.

Blank pages, accidentally skipped. A photo of him accepting the Silver Star he never wanted, added to the album despite his better wishes, alongside a handful of army memories he’d rather not look back on.

It’s in his heart, all the same.

The last few pages are filled with the only pictures Eddie took himself. Every one, every single one is of Chris. The time lost in those skipped pages finding its way back into the album, one day at a time. First days of school, weekend trips, and all his childhood interests coming and going in phases.

The second photo album carries his second chances. It’s not a memento from Texas or a gift he’d rather not receive, no. This one he chose all on his own. He chose Los Angeles, he chose Chris, he chose the 118, and with them, he chose a fresh start, a blank page. Family photos of a different kind.

Second page, third slot down, Buck makes himself known. He first exists in Eddie’s heart somewhere along the bottom shelf. Three, four, five pages in, Buck never disappears. In the firehouse, after work, trips to the zoo, he never disappears. Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Years, he never disappears. The couch, dining room, and kitchen, Buck never disappears.

It always comes back to the kitchen. Before there was a home, there was a kitchen and dirty dishes. Eddie washes the dishes by hand, one by one. Buck sits on the countertop, stacking dried plates, sorting cutlery in the drawers. He leaves every cabinet open — “it’s way more efficient, Eddie,” — and carries three mugs in each hand.

His heart skips in the kitchen. Flinging soap bubbles while rinsing plates, stealing from simmering saucepans on the stove, his breath hitches when Buck swipes a thumb across Eddie’s cheek, brushing away the suds. His breathing stops altogether when his hand lingers a moment too long.

New beginnings are also found in the kitchen, heavy palpitations bleeding from the sink onto the dining table. Anticipation exists between the tiles, melting the glue he’s used to desperately hold himself together. Buck plays music while he cooks, varying from swing to classic rock. On the good days he sings, out of key, but he sings. He whistles along with the guitar or the saxophone or velvety voices he doesn’t dare to replicate. Buck dances too, waiting for songs to end and timers to ring.

Anticipation flooded the room when he asked Eddie to dance along, a soft blues tune playing over the speaker. Hand to the waist, to the shoulder, hand draped in gentle hand. It was an easy choice; Buck leaned in and he leaned back, holding Eddie like he would never have the chance to do it again, kissing him like there was no sweeter air in the world. The first, “I love you,” was breathed against the counter, just above a whisper. “I always have,” followed shortly behind.

The brightest piece of his heart is held in Christopher’s hands. Rainbow carpets and terrariums, posters plastered on every wall, solar systems and galaxies hanging above. Buck pinned the mobile to the ceiling, Earth, Venus, and Mars dancing around each other, glowing as the room fades to black. The planets spin and spin just above his bed. It makes sense, really, that Buck would hang the stars for Chris.

Eddie didn’t decorate his room, unlike the rest of the house. No, the color, the light, the books lining every shelf, all chosen by Chris, constantly shifting as his interest wean and wane. He’s more than willing to provide, because who is he to deny an action figure on the dresser or plant on the windowsill?

His heart is full with Chris. His heart is empty in his bedroom. Everything Eddie has he gives to Chris. (Where else would it go?)

Barren walls and flat sheets. Empty walls, empty frames. Clock on the nightstand, a lamp on either side, nothing more. A dresser, a closet, it’s a bedroom, nothing more. Most days the curtains are drawn. Most days the door is kept shut. It’s best to keep this hidden, best to leave it bare. He had a rug once. Never managed to unroll it.

It functions as a space, that’s all he needs. Eddie sleeps, and sometimes he dreams. Sometimes he wakes in a sweat, sometimes his hands shake until he’s too exhausted to shake anymore. He resorts to self soothing then; counting ceiling tiles that don’t exist and pacing about the room until holes bleed through his socks.

Buck moved from the apartment to the couch, and eventually made his way to the bedroom. They started out two feet apart but always woke together, somehow making contact and swearing it meant nothing. Even in his sleep, he finds his way to Buck. (Of course it means something).

He first kisses Buck in the kitchen. He kisses him again in the bed. His bed, their bed. He sleeps with his head against Buck’s chest, this time with intent, counting beats instead of ceiling tiles as he sleeps, no sweeter lullaby to be heard. He sleeps through the night, no dreams at all. Buck opens the curtain when he wakes up. Eddie leaves it that way.

The changes are subtle at first, and Buck plays it off like it’s all accidental. “Your room has the best sunlight,” he says, moving plants from the kitchen to the dresser. The ivy cascades down the sides and the cactuses bloom in the new light. In the silence, his heart begins to beat again.

Buck covers his own nightstand with receipts and chargers and photos and reminders. “Printed this for myself,” he claims, filling a picture frame with him and Eddie and Chris, “but I made an extra copy.” He leaves it on Eddie’s side of the bed. It’s less and less barren each day.

The rug under the bed is a welcomed addition. Soft and full, Eddie doesn’t question where it came from. A mirror makes its way to the wall. He can count his scars in the reflection; two in the shoulders, one on the hip. Wrist and thigh, hand and head. With each day the sight is more bearable.

Buck ripped off the sheets, the dark navy sheets, and swapped them out for something brighter. He claims they’re softer, claims they’re more breathable, though Eddie knows the truth, the truth being that they’re lighter on his chest and make his heart beat even. One, two, three, he can climb out of bed each morning a little easier.

“Good morning,” Buck whispers, and Eddie, half awake, half dreaming, feels his lips brush against his temple before moving to the kitchen. One beat, two beats, three, he can climb out of bed each morning a little easier.

besides all the ruckus, heres a pic of me enjoying the outdoors & enjoying my studio uwu

Hope everyone’s doin well 💌