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her-midas-touch · 4 months

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Moonlit Escapades (Part-1)

(A little bit of fun camp wolfstar: In which Remus Lupin definitely shouldn’t be out of bed and just maybe Sirius Black isn’t that annoying)

@loving-the-marauders here’s something you might like <3

There’s an insistent rapping at his window. Remus starts, bleary-eyed, tearing his eyes away from the clock on the wall, it’s outline just barely visible in the fractured moonlight pouring in through the gap in the curtains.

He squints.

Sirius Black’s wide eyes stare back at him from the other side.

“Bloody hell,” Remus scowls “You again?”

It comes out louder then he intends. The bed creaks as someone stirs in the bunk above him. Remus bites his tongue.

Sirius can’t hear him, but he grins stupidly anyway, jerking his head back, beckoning Remus to meet him outside. Then he disappears, without waiting for an answer.

That isn’t the problem. Remus knows where to find him. It’s not the first time they’ve snuck out here at camp.

Remus should know better and this is exactly the sort of stuff that he absolutely should not be doing. It’s one of his parents’ stupid summer rules. He’s been following them long enough to have them convinced that he can be trusted for a summer.

He’d had to beg for it.

But screw that, right? That’s what he’s here. Change. And anyway he can’t sleep, so.

The back door’s usually open and he already has a spare key, a wonderful little thing he’d discovered earlier in one of the dusty drawers in the abandoned looking storage units packed away at the corners of the camp grounds.

He doesn’t have to go far.

“What now, Black?” Remus crosses his arms.

Sirius clearly doesn’t appreciate the new nickname; Remus can tell that much from the way his nose wrinkles in displeasure. It’s kind of cute.

Wait. Remus gives his head a shake. Focus.

“You wanna do something?”

“Do I have a choice?” Remus huffs, glancing around impatiently. The rickety wooden roof of the abandoned shack, which they’ve snuck behind—Sirius’s idea of a hideout—makes a painful creak at the slightest gust of wind.

He’s being a little paranoid.

It’s abandoned, and rumored to be haunted—probably another lie to keep campers out—so chances are, no one’s going to sneak up on them.

“Hey.” Sirius frowned “I’m not dragging you. You didn’t have to come.”

Which is true, except, it’s kind of pathetic, imagining Sirius awkwardly standing outside his cabin and waiting, even worse if he never bothered to show.

Remus has had it happen to him enough to have the good sense not to put anyone else through it. He’s simply gracious enough to save Sirius the embarrassment. That’s all this is.

“Where’s James?”

“Said his stomach still feels funny. Matron’s been watching like a hawk, or he would’ve snuck out anyway. And Pete’s been no fun. Too tired, apparently.”

Remus is quiet for a minute.

“Where are we going?” He asks, eventually. There’s no point denying it ; He’s curious. He isn’t the only one who knows it though. Sirius smirks.

“To the lake,”

“The lake,” Remus repeats.

“Yeah,”

“What for?”

Sirius looks at him like he’s asked the dumbest question in the world.

“To swim. Duh.”

Remus blinks at him.

“You want to take a swim." Remus repeats again, slowly

"In a random-ass lake. That probably has brain eating amoeba.”

It’s not a gross exaggeration. The amount of moss and swampy plants creeping up the bottom of the bridge is indication enough of what lies there.

“It does not. Probably,”

“In the middle of the night?”

Sirius doesn’t bat an eyelash “Problem?”

Plenty actually. But that can be worried about later.

“No. Not really.” Remus grins “Bet I’ll beat you there.”

He breaks off into a run.

Sirius’s voice chases him.

“Oi, cheater!”

He’s barefoot too, minor scratches on his feet from the scattered gravel, and wet dirt clinging to his heels.

The wind is cool against his already- stinging cheeks and he laughs, because this is the most alive he’s felt.

He hears another laugh, closer by now, and he knows Sirius isn’t far behind.

He risks a look behind him, and there Sirius is, flushed and focused.

Watching him.

And that’s when Remus spectacularly trips over his feet.

Sirius’s laughs draw nearer. That bastard.

He still stops to help Remus up. Only to immediately break into a run after doing so.

“Bloody cheater,” Remus whispers under his breath.

This time, there’s no venom behind it.

#wolfstar #wolfstar fanfic #wolfstar oneshot #marauders era #sirius black #remus lupin #sirius x remus #remus x sirius #the marauders #writing dump #just silly little guys #and more obliviousness #part 2 is going to be a lot more fun imo but I want this on my blog too

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jakekiszkasleftnutsack · 1 year

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Insomnia

Josh Kiszka x f!reader

۵♡۵♡۵♡۵♡۵♡۵♡۵♡۵♡۵♡۵♡۵♡۵♡۵♡۵♡۵♡۵

Summary: It’s challenging to maintain the status quo when on tour with your best friend and his rowdy band of brothers, and shacking up has brought about its fair share of speed bumps.

Warnings: 18+ GRAPHIC SEXUAL CONTENT, swearing, Sammy slander, bottom!josh, unprotected sex, somnophilia if you squint, fingering, teasing, desperation, a little fluff on top

W/c: 4.2k

A/n: This one shot is brought to you by this little request from a thousand years ago sorry, anon come get yo juice. Love you all so much, thank you for your support and keep those requests coming!

Edited by the ever fabulous @gretasamfeettt

Theme Song: Sleep Walk - Deftones

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Knock, knock

You rap your knuckles quick and quiet against the unnaturally thick hotel room door.

“Josh!” You whisper in the harsh fashion of a scream. “Josh, it’s me, let me in!”

Normally you wouldn’t be bothering him this way since he’s very insistent on getting enough rest before show days, but in your current situation, you’re not exactly left with an array of options.

You’re standing barefoot in the hotel hallway clutching your bag to your pajama-clad chest. Strands of damp, stringy hair stick to your cheeks. Small beads of water drip onto your oversized t-shirt and the plush carpet below.

Knock, knock, knock

He’d only resigned to his room a little under an hour before you, you can’t imagine he’s already asleep.

“Josh, please wake up!” A bit more urgently this time.

When the door finally cracks open and your half-naked, groggy looking best friend blinks at you with the most disdainful expression you’ve ever seen, guilt instantly washes over you.

“I’m so so sorry, I know you said you wanted to turn in early but I didn’t know what else to do I just panicked! Sam came back, he just…” The word vomit rockets out of you a pitch or two higher than your normal speaking voice.

He listens wordlessly with narrowed eyes, from either contempt or the bright hallway lights, you’re not sure which. As he takes in the sight of you, disheveled and frantic, his expression shifts to a sort of concerned fear.

“Woah woah, y/n what the fuck? Are you okay?” He interrupts you mid-sentence, something he only does to you when trying to prompt you to arrive at your point.

Forcing yourself to take a deep breath for his sake and that of the situation that's found you still standing outside Josh’s door with no shoes, your next sentence is quite a bit calmer.

“I’m fine… Can I please stay in here tonight?”

“Are you kidding?” He opens the door wider so he can slip into the hall to wrap an arm around your shoulders and usher you into the room. “Tell me what happened.”

The room is shrouded in darkness as he helps you find the edge of the bed, and once you’re sat where he deems you safe he flicks on one of the bedside lamps attached to the wall nearby. He situates himself at your side, cross legged and facing you so he can take your hand in his. Eyes wide but oh so soft, his expression coaxes you into a state of comfort while also preparing for the worst.

“Y/n, please tell me what the fuck is going on so I can decide whether I need to knock my baby brother’s teeth in.”

“Calm down, it’s not like that.” You huff an exasperated giggle, because of course he would find a way to make you laugh. Even though you know he’s only half joking. “I told you I’m fine, he’s just a menace.”

“What else is new?” He snorts flatly, followed by what you think he might have intended to be a subtle eye roll. Ignoring him, you toss aside an eye roll and proceed.

“After you left we had another round, but then Jake and Danny wanted to keep going and Sam was talking to some girls, and I was tired so I just went back to my room.” Josh nods along, listening to every word carefully with knitted brows. “When I got back I wanted to shower, I was in there for like.. 10 minutes, until Sam was banging on my door. He had his arm around one of those girls from the bar and was begging me to switch rooms so he could ‘do the dirty’” you made exaggerated quotes in the air with your fingers, “his words not mine.”

He raises his eyebrows at you in delighted confusion. “And why didn’t you tell him to fuck off?”

“He said he lost his room key.. I just let them in so they weren’t standing in the hall while I put my clothes on, I left them alone for two seconds and they were already making out on the bed!” You’re talking with your hands so animatedly that he watches them fly about with a smirk, it’s a habit of his own that you subconsciously picked up after spending years around him.

“Okay, okay, but I still don’t get how you wound up at my door.” He bites his lip to stifle his laughter. The weight of the situation isn’t lost on him, but he’s always finding ways to rile you up and poke a bit of fun, you being so organically frazzled probably has him beyond tickled now that he realizes you were never hurt or in danger.

“I wasn’t about to stick around and watch, Joshua.” He loses his composure at the shrill of your berating tone when you punctuate his name, but you can’t help but chuckle right along. Though you feel foolish, you can’t ignore just how outrageous the whole ordeal probably sounds to him.

“Can’t say I blame you there.” He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “Remind me to tease dear Samuel in the morning, I’m not letting either one of you live this down.”

You jut out your lower lip in a puppy dog pout instead of answering. Though you know he’s trying to make light of Sam and his tomfoolery, the embarrassment that should be all his sits here on your cheeks. Sam would be getting the brunt of the jokes as soon as he’s not underneath his special friend, but still.

“Y/n, you are the worst negotiator I’ve ever met…” He trails off and shakes his head while searching your pouting features. The corner of his mouth quirks up but he otherwise looks on, it seems like he’s lost in thought, or maybe reading some fine print that’s shown up on your face. It’s safe to assume he’s just trying to hold back all the jokes swimming around in his little Joshua brain that are too harsh to say out loud.

Josh isn’t known for his self-restraint when it comes to keeping his thoughts to himself, but he’s always been a little more considerate of you and your feelings than he is with his brothers. For that, you’re grateful.

His phone rumbles against the bedside table disturbing his train of thought, you can see from the lit-up screen that he has a text from Danny. When he leans over to retrieve it you take the opportunity to find reprieve in the bathroom.

۵♡۵♡۵♡۵♡۵♡۵

You puff your cheeks and sigh at your reflection as you stand in front of the mirror. There’s makeup still smudged under your eyes from your shower, your hair has halfway dried in the air making the top frizzy from not being properly treated. The shoulders of your oversized band shirt soaked from where your damp hair sat atop them.

What a fucking headache, you think, as you promise yourself you’ll beat Sam’s skinny ass into next week.

You contemplate whether you could take him in a fight while you turn on the faucet to splash some cold water on your face. Blindly grasping, you reach for the closest towel and use it to wipe the sludge from under your eyes. Slowly, you’re starting to look less unhinged. You flip your hair over and use the towel to dry the ends as much as you can manage, there was no time to blow dry or run any product through it when your nighttime routine had been so rudely interrupted.

Opting not to sleep in wet clothes, you strip off your top and discard it on the floor since you have neither the care nor the energy to fold it neatly. You snatch up a white t-shirt of Josh's that had met the same fate as yours earlier in the night. It fits you mostly fine, apart from your tits filling out the chest. The fabric lies taut against them, and the color of your nipples slightly shows through when you check yourself out in the mirror. Paired with your barely there checkered shorts that allow your ass to peek out the back, you’re barely dressed.

Fuck it, it is what it is. You regard yourself before stepping back out into the room.

Still palming your hair through what was obviously meant to be Josh’s bath towel, you glance around taking in the room for the first time. The white light cast from the lamp barely reaches halfway across the room, but it’s enough to reveal his suitcase open and slightly picked through at the edge of the bed near where you had dropped your bag carelessly on the floor. The once pristine hotel sheets are drawn back and crumpled, confirming your suspicions that he was already tucked in when you arrived, maybe lightly snoozing with heavy eyelids. An image of the scene playing through your mind pangs that sliver of guilt again that you’re probably inconveniencing him. He would never admit something like that, even if it were true.

Josh is still cross legged on the bed and immersed in his phone, but something else piques your interest, replacing your previous thought almost entirely. Though Josh’s bed is slept-in, the identical one beside it is entirely undisturbed. Jake still hasn’t returned.

“What do the boys have to say?” You inquire about the text he seems very invested in typing out.

“Hmm?” He hums in response before looking up to where you stand in front of him. Almost as soon as he looks up from the screen, his eyes nearly fall out of his head when he makes direct eye contact with your chest.

He clears his throat. “I see you changed”

“Yeah, my shirt was pretty wet.” You bite your lip when his eyes linger a bit too long.

Josh has only looked at you like this a handful of times, in the way he knows he shouldn’t, in the way that friends just don’t look at their friends. Even though he’s only ever dared to look when he thought you were too distracted to notice, you’ve noticed his eyes on you when they should be elsewhere. But this? There’s no escape from this stare down for either of you, and it’s forcing you to look down the barrel of a gun that’s been pointed at you for years.

“Would you like to borrow my shirt?”

You could pretend not to notice, possibly ignore the situation entirely just as you’ve already done once or twice.

But where’s the fun in that?

“Yes Joshy, may I pweeeeeease borrow your shirt?” Hopping onto the bed next to him to sit on your knees, a little too exaggerated so your tits bounce more than necessary, you flash your sweetest smile.

He swallows hard, unable to stop his eyes from losing their focus on your face, but recovers fast. “Of course you can, thank you for asking me first.”

“You’re more than welcome, dickhead.” You snap back in your best sticky sweet yet sarcastic voice and purse your lips teasingly for good measure.

You’d be lying if you said you had never thought about Josh that way, the idea of him being so desperate to be near you is more than enough to ignite your mischievous side. Without directly asking him there’s no way to be completely sure of your hunch, but you know he’d forgive you if you were wrong.

Bringing the topic back around to your earlier question that he had curved, or maybe forgotten about entirely, you gesture to Jake's empty bed. “Where are the guys? That was Danny, right?”

“Oh yeah, yeah, um-“ He looks away, jostling his curls in the process, and hits the lock button on his phone before setting it facing down on the bedside table. “He just said not to wait up, Jake jumped on stage with the cover band at the bar so they might be out for a while still.”

“Hmm figures, okay. We should get some rest, you guys have a big day tomorrow.” You can’t help but roll your eyes at the thought of Jake’s ego. Deciding not to take up any more of Josh's night, you move to make your way over to Jake’s empty bed, but he places a hand on your arm to stop you.

“Ya know, we should- maybe we should leave Jake’s bed open for him, just in case…” You stare back at him blinking, processing his words and apprehensive expression. The timid nature he’s using to reach out to you is so unlike Josh, always the confident one. He almost seems embarrassed to be asking. “...If he stumbles back in here drunk I’d rather have you a safe distance from the fallout.”

You crack a smile. “Okay Josh, for safety.” Your eyes briefly lock before returning to where you previously were sitting.

You clamber up to the head of Josh’s bed and situate yourself under the white sheets as he slides in next to you. The two of you had slept in the same bed plenty of times, so there’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. A platonic sort of intimacy has always existed between you, Josh is very passionate, but you’re in uncharted territory now.

Somehow, in some way, Josh wants you and there’s no telling where this new development is going to lead.

He flicks off the light, leaving you in pitch darkness when he settles fully into bed. It’s a modestly sized queen, in true hotel fashion so it seems almost accidental when you adjust your position to nudge your backside into him. Your bodies are so ridiculously close without actually touching that you might be sharing a pillow by default. You throw a careless glance over your shoulder to find Josh's hand has been evicted from its resting place and is now hovering somewhere over your waist by default, rigid and unsure of where it belongs.

“Are you comfortable?” He asks in a jokingly mocking voice.

“Almost. You can touch me if you want to.” Like a scared animal he relaxes into you, his hand settles just above your hip and brushes over a small section of skin your shirt doesn’t quite cover.

Despite your fight to keep your eyelids from closing, the comforting scent and warmth of the bed welcome you into a dreamless sleep.

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A muffled sound brings you to a hazy state of consciousness. It takes you a moment to come to, but it’s accelerated by a nearly imperceptible rocking motion whose origin you can’t quite discern. The sound repeats, coming from Josh who is stirring behind your back.

“Um, y/n?” His voice is shaking.

“Hmm? Everything okay?” Your tone is sweet and melodic, ignorant of the position he’s put you in. Closing the gap between your bodies, you adjust the smallest bit to investigate and firmly socket your backside against him in the process. At the same time, a carnal groan escapes him. Being that you’re still half asleep, the sound throws you off, almost frightening you.

What’s wrong? Is Josh hurt?

It’s then that he freezes, going stiff as a board when he realizes his mistake, and you realize that Josh has an iron grip on your hip and a fully erect cock nestled between your legs.

“Oh, god.. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you.. I-I don't know what I was thinking. I’m sorry doll, please go back to sleep.” That panicked voice is back, so sad and filled with shame, you hate hearing it. You hate it so much that you want him to lock it in a box and throw it into the sea.

He shouldn’t be this scared of me.

“No, no it’s okay, keep going.” You place your hand over his before he can pull it away and guide it across your skin, helping him map the various dips and textures. Underneath the light fabric of your top, his soft hand eventually wanders on its own to find the swell of your breast.

He squeezes carefully at first, testing the waters with increasing intensity, and haphazardly circles his thumb over your nipple, sending shivers and goosebumps all over you as your nerves come alive. You whimper, causing him to freeze yet again.

“Are you sure about this?”

So apprehensive, so worried that he’s offended you, but you know the greedy truth lurking right behind the wall he’s put up to keep you safe.

“Aren’t you?” Maintaining your position, you slide your tiny shorts down your legs, and barely seconds later he resumes pleasuring himself against you. He moves his free hand from pinching your sensitive nipples down your stomach and into your panties to experiment with the slick that’s grown there.

“That’s right, good boy.” You rotate your own hips in tandem with his movements so his fingers catch on your clit with each circular motion.

“Jesus.. fuck. I want you, mama.”

Something about the way he said it, could have been the pleading desperation in his voice, the hungry bucking of his hips against your ass, or even the way his panting breaths have been radiating over you, but something tells you that what he really meant to say was ‘I fucking need you more than I need air to breathe, and I need you now’.

“Fucking A, Joshua.” You sit up and throw the thin blanket to the side, allowing you to rise to your knees and push him onto his back. There’s no version of this encounter where you’d let him shy away from the reality of it. Everything is out in the open between you, similar to his beautiful exposed cock that’s only visible because your eyes have adjusted to the darkness. You’ve seen it before circumstantially, but years ago when you were both very young. It’s smoother, and much prettier now that he’s done some growing.

Situating yourself over him, you let his member fall flat against his abdomen. You lower your sopping pussy to grind against it, letting it slot itself between your folds through the delicate lace and Josh’s noises of protest.

“Come on, Mama.”

When you divert your gaze to him rather than his cock, ready to scold him for whining, you’re face to face with each other for the first time since falling asleep in his arms. It’s perplexing seeing something so familiar through a different lens, and it’s written all over your faces like a small child seeing Christmas lights for the first time, alert and full of curiosity.

Just above those baby cow eyes, small beads of sweat appear on his brow and his moans have become decidedly more agitated, proving to you that he’s earned his reward. You pull your soaked panties to the side for him but remain hovering just out of reach. “Alright. If you want it so bad, take it.”

He double takes between your face to your cunt like he’s expecting you to cover yourself and say you’re just kidding with him, but when you don’t he accepts your words like a challenge.

Taking himself in his hand, he lines up with your core, only the very tip reaches far enough to dip slightly past the entrance. After so much anticipation he slides in with ease, just a slight lift and he’s falling apart underneath you. He stabilizes himself by holding onto your hips while he brings his own up to meet them. Your moans begin to match his with each powerful thrust straight to your center, and before long he’s struggling to maintain his composure. The pace dissipates, half thrusts start nudging your g-spot as the head slides back and forth stretching your walls.

“I can’t- I’m gonna cum.” He throws his head back on the pillow with his confession, and you can feel him start to tense as you tighten around him.

In one final act of mercy, you take over and ride him for a few pumps until your pulsating walls are milking hot ropes of cum from his cock. Even as he doubles over and pulls himself from you, one last shot lands on your own dripping sex. Immediately he reaches for your shirt, pulls it over your head, and uses it to clean up his mess from everywhere it may have landed.

“I didn’t need the shirt anyway.” You joke as he balls it up and tosses it somewhere on the floor to be thrown in the trash in the morning. He rolls his eyes and pulls you onto his chest while reaching for the blanket to cover your naked bodies.

“You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that.” He sighs and pulls you down to perfectly settle against his skin.

“Well.. I have a pretty good idea.”

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The sun shone through a slit that the curtains failed to cover directly onto your eyes, slowly bringing you out of a heavy but peaceful slumber. Josh is tucked neatly against your back, arm draped over your waist and one leg tangled between yours. A smile creeps its way onto your face at the position, he always was the cutest sleeper.

As carefully as you can, you lift the sheet and attempt to shimmy your way out of his grasp. He stirs anyway, and you immediately settle back into his touch, turning to face him as his eyes flutter open.

“Good morning, sweet girl.” He mumbles almost incoherently, closing his eyes again in favor of the darkness.

“Good morning, baby. Last night was not very ‘just friends’ of us, was it?” You tease through your smile.

“What ever do you mean? I always fuck the homies goodnight.” He mumbles again sleepily, but his playful inflection matches yours.

You giggle and place a peck gently on his lips, leading him to pull you tighter against him, humming in a pleased sort of way. You think he might’ve been waiting for physical reassurance from you that everything is fine, that he could touch you the way he wanted because he kisses you again.

When you both pull away, he smiles and stretches one arm out with a yawn. “What time is it?”

You shrug and turn towards the nightstand, reaching out for his phone since yours didn’t make the narrow escape from your hotel room. A double tap on the screen reveals the time to be an hour before his alarm is set to go off.

“Time for a quickie?” He’s lining up sweet slow kisses across your shoulders and back, and you hum agreeing to his proposition.

You let your eyes linger on the screen and bite back a chuckle when you notice his phone background. He must’ve recently changed it from what was a landscape portrait he took during the last tour to a snapshot you recognize as one taken by Jake outside a bar just the other day when the five of you got drunk in a city you’d never been to before. Sam was in the background yelling at something out of the frame while Danny rolled a joint on the curb, Josh sat next to him and you were lying down on the concrete sidewalk with your head in Josh’s lap. You smiled up at the camera, but Josh smiled down at you. His smile seems to hold new meaning now and that thought quickens your heartbeat faster than you can push it away.

A new text comes through his phone, obscuring the memory. It’s from Danny.

‘How’d it go?’

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crynwr-drwg · 6 months

Text

Message from the EZLN regarding recent gossip and rumours. Full text below:

P.S. THAT WARNS. – We were already going to tell you what this whole thing is about, but reading, seeing and listening to the string of atrocities that the «specialists» in everything and knowledgeable in nothing say and write (about supposed withdrawals, dismantlements, advances of organized crime and «returns to the past” – Coletos had to be the majority -), we decided rather to let them continue burping.

With their deep analysis and well-founded research, the zapatologists state: “an example of the Zapatista defeat is the loss of indigenous identity: young indigenous people already wear cowboy boots, instead of walking barefoot or in huaraches. And they get ready to flirt, new pants and shirt – or ironed! -, instead of wearing blanket pants and buying their wives according to indigenous uses and customs. And they ride motorcycles, instead of carrying their women coletas bosses on their backs. The only thing left is for young indigenous women to wear pants or, what a horror!, play soccer and drive vehicles, instead of serving the coleta ladies. They even dare to dance cumbias and ska instead of Bolonchon, and sing rap and hiphop instead of psalms and odes to the landowners. And, as another sign of the loss of their indigenous identity, they even pretend the absurdity of being subcommanders, commanders, and women commanders! And pretend to govern themselves. And they don’t ask permission to be however they want to be. And they travel and get to know other lands. And they work and earn their pay without a ‘tienda de raya’. And they do not have them in concentration camps, like in Gaza, so that they do not pick up “Sinaloa” ideas, that is, foreign ones – because the mayo-yoreme in Sinaloa, are all about narcocorridos, my man –. Because of Zapatismo, we anthropologists will no longer have any jobs. What a shame. And all because they did not follow the revolutionary vanguard of the proletariat or MORENA, same thing. A serious mistake of Zapatismo not to obey us. Because today, the indigenous people no longer look down when you bump into them. They look at you with irreverence, with defiance, with rage, as if we were the intruders and not them, as if we were the criminals and not them. Before, only the Zapatistas did that, now any ‘Chamulita’ stands up to you. And, as Marxism-Leninism-Stalinism-Maoism-Trotskyism-all-isms say, any indigenous person who is not like the anthropology manual says is a narco.”

We know for sure that, later, when the full meaning of this stage is known, they will have the minimum of honesty to say and publish: “We do not have the slightest idea of what they did, what they do or what they will do. The best thing would have been to ask the Zapatistas and not the anti-Zapatistas.” Or are they not honest?

Tell those “journalists” that it is always better, although more uncomfortable and not profitable, to interview the actors, not the spectators, ‘villa melones’ and lazy paramilitaries. Investigative journalism is a professional job that often requires risks and discomfort. But, don’t worry, we understand that everyone looks for a living the best way they can.

So, as a greeting to the “zapatologists”, we continue with these P.S. made with love:

P.S. OF THE CAPTAINTY OF PUERTO DE MONTAÑA. – We had prepared a series of clever phrases to make fun of the political class as a whole (government and opposition), but now we think that there is no point, since each flock has its shepherd or each shepherd has its flock. Or does someone naively believe that the matter is between two shepherdesses?

Our silence in these years was not, nor is, a sign of respect or endorsement of anything, but rather that we strive to see further and seek what everyone, men, women and ‘otroas’, is looking for: a way out of the nightmare. While you learn, from subsequent writings, what we have been doing, perhaps you will understand that our attention has been elsewhere.

But we understand that more than one suffers from what we Zapatistas call a “theoretical torticollis” which is caused by looking up, too much, and affects good judgment, common sense, decency and honesty – in addition to being addictive and creating chronic dependency. We understand the limitations of your horizons of analysis. One thing is the desk, the academy, the journalistic column, the commissioned report, the government position, the revolutionary coffee gossip or social networks, and another thing is reality.

The latter not only does not pay, but it also charges very expensively. Shakira has already said it: ‘la realidad factura’ (reality costs), and it does not include VAT. Sorry.

We will not make firewood out of the fallen trees up there. Reality, that implacable fool, will do its thing and the last splinters will be those that organized crime takes from the “cobro de piso” in the proposals of each of them.

Some masturbate with the ‘mañanera’ (morning presidential conference). Others with destruction, deaths, murders, rapes, disappearances, hunger, war, diseases, pain and sorrow. None of them have a viable and serious political proposal, they just entertain… until they don’t anymore.

And, since we are talking about autoeroticism: given the choice between Bertha and Claudia, well, Wendy.

-*-

Okay, cheers and now what am I going to do with my costume to dance corridos tumbados? “Compa, que le parece esa gorra?”… What? That’s not the way it goes? Don’t I tell you? It is the loss of indigenous identity. I hope anthropologists arrive soon to save us.

From the mountains of the mexican southeast.

The Captain

(Looking very handsome with his cowboy hat, not for bragging. Ajúa my people!)

Mexico 40, 30, 20, 10 years after

P.S. «CONTEXTUAL». – Televisa being Televisa and anthropologists being anthropologists:

https://www.nmas.com.mx/noticieros/programas/en-punto/videos/ezln-cierra-caracoles-avance-crimen-organizado/

#EZLN #zapatistas #Zapatista Army of National Liberation #Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional #anarchism #anarchblr #chiapas #anti imperialism #anti capitalism #agrarian socialism #libertarian socialism #socialism

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atlas-library · 3 months

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Lunaire (idol!au) with mics:

(this is a shit post, I'll format it later.)

Panda -> Accidentally sends his mic flying every time he dances

Yuuta -> Accidentally hits himself with his mic after hitting the public with his high notes

Toge -> Purposefully keeps his mic as far away from his mouth as possible so he doesn't blow up someone's ears he has a powerful voice, okay

Maki -> The only one in the vocal line to play with her mic like a rock star

Yuuji -> Tries to flip it like Nobara but makes it fall instead (otherwise he's good)

Nobara -> Queen of mic flipping, she does acrobatics with it as she raps

Megumi -> He's okay around mics, they just hate him and stop working (he switches with Toge since he has a soft singing voice)

random hcs below the cut

yuuta probably has a chipped tooth from a mic hitting his mouth

(i didn't expect to love this hc but actually, yuuta has a chipped tooth, thank u)

toge once tried to sing with his mouth near the mic, but ended up blowing it out after a high note

yuuji tried to flip his mic like nobara does but ended up hitting his forehead instead

panda was once heard yelling "SHIT" after sending his mic flying to the other side of the stage. he ran there in his panda suit and apologised

he once hit yuuta with it (chipped tooth origin story??)

when she has long hair, maki is often seen grabbing strands of hair on her mic (she does too many hair flips)

yuuta was once singing and looking badass, until he slipped and went "I'm so coOFRGH—"

everyone tried to hide their laughter. toge choked on his spit after trying to be serious

megumi stares at his mic every time it stops working. he stands like 🧍‍♂️ until it gets fixed, or toge lends him his own mic.

sometimes you can hear toge's platforms slamming the ground as he runs to the other side of the stage

he wears 3 to 6 inches platforms, thank u

also wears heels so sometimes they're all walking to the scene to accept a trophy, and you just hear "click click click" in awkward silence

i know this is about mics but toge is seen doing cartwheels with 6 inch heels on a regular basis. meanwhile yuuta could be barefoot and trip on air.

coming back to megs, he's just cursed. he tried switching mics with maki right before a performance, turns out it was the mic in his hands that still wasn't working.

definitely sang "someone is getting fired~" as a joke after he got given a new mic that still didn't work

okay that's all, send asks/comments/reblogs if y'all wanna learn more about this chaotic group

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emblazons · 10 months

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🎶✨️when u get this u have to put 5 songs u actually listen to, publish. Then, send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers 🎶✨️

Hey Emilia! 💞 I’ve been listening to a lot of new / random stuff lately, so this was timely—plus I love sharing music, so…lmao you caught me at a good time!

1) Orange Juice by Noah Kahan. Serving 2012 indie hipster vibes but in the good way. A little folky-melancholy love song I heard in a TikTok and enjoyed enough to save—and has stayed in rotation a week or so.

2) Blóðberg by Sigur Rós. Sigur Rós is and remains one of my favorite bands of all time—and their first album in a literal decade came out literally the day before my birthday this month, which I consider a personal boon from the universe. This song is strings and melancholy, rich vocals and walls of sound…and feels like standing barefoot + drenched the wake of a waterfall. It’s perfect.

3) You Wish by FLYANABOSS. Do not judge me 😂 This song is hype as hell for the gym (i need hype girl music for that always. That is a very specific ‘i am lifting heavy things and spending half an hour running’ vibe lol) and those videos they do dancing / rapping through a million places are so fun. I catch this song playing in my head at work sometimes too though so. Lmao it’s catchy fs.

4) Englishman in New York by Sting. Listen. I had a moment with The Police / Sting after finishing S2 of ST because of “every breath you take,” but…I’ve actually loved this song since I was a kid (shout out to my uncles) and have always been obsessed with the jazzy vibes and drums juxtaposed against Sting’s voice—especially considering it reminds me of rainy days in the city….and has a surprisingly wholesome message. 12/10.

5) Siegfried by Frank Ocean. This song resonates with me so hard right now—and actually reminded me a lot of Mike when I thought about it (@amaragf had me talking her ear off about it a bit ago lmao). It wasn’t on my radar in spite of me being a solid Frank Ocean fan for years (I even saw him live…in his old touring eras lol), but. Now I feel it on a spiritual level. Has a lot of “forced conformity is killing the queer kids” vibes, which…probably explains a lot of why I like it so much now that I think on it HAHA

—There’s plenty more where that came from but. Those were among the ones on repeat the most lately lmao.

Thanks for the ask!

#this was fun! thank you!#tag game #music #aliecenthightower

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biillyhargroves · 2 years

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okay it might be because they’re my current brain rot fixation but eddie x chrissy literally are the title ‘i’m half-doomed and you’re semi-sweet’ idk if they’re a pairing you write for so no worries if not but 👀

ohhh yes yes yes! a little context: we're working in a Chrissy!lives scenario (because my brand is resurrecting dead characters tbh). she's attacked, snaps out of it, and gets so freaked she runs. Eddie is under suspicion for her disappearance. aaaaaand action!

i'm half-doomed and you're semi-sweet (fic requests open) | (lyric prompts)

Max wakes with a start, ears ringing, heart hammering. In her dream, she heard gunshots — bang, bang, bang — quick and loud, near-deafening. But the sound doesn't leave. It's real. Max tosses the covers aside and pads barefoot into the kitchen, cups her hands around her eyes and peers out the window to find...

"What the fuck?"

She snatches a hoodie off the back of a chair, one of Billy's, oversized and threadbare and still smelling faintly of cigarettes and stale beer. She slides on her sneakers, doesn't bother tying the laces, and steps outside. It's early morning, the sky hazy and dreamlike, and Chrissy Cunningham is pounding her small fists against the door of the Munson trailer.

Max calls, "Chrissy?" and Chrissy whirls around. She is still in her Tigers uniform, though the white is smudged with small patches of dirt. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, tangled and messy, and her eyes are wide as a deer's caught in headlights. She looks like she might bolt. Max stills, sensing her fear. "It's — It's okay," she says, trying to soothe herself as much as Chrissy. God, she looks a mess; lightyears away from the girl in the senior photo that's been circulating on the news.

"S-Something," Chrissy starts, tears welling her eyes. She shakes her head, wrings her hands, looks around the trailer park like she might find answers somewhere along the dirt roads. "Something happened."

Max says, "I know." She takes a step forward and Chrissy shifts backwards, hands at her heart. Max pauses. "You're...looking for Eddie, right?" When Chrissy doesn't answer, Max adds, "I saw you go in there. A few nights ago. I'm not, like, a stalker or anything. I just...live there." She jabs her thumb over her shoulder. "Um. You've been on the news. People think—"

"He didn't do it," Chrissy says suddenly, her a flash of fire in her eyes. It's there for a second and then disappears, and her voice is softer when she says, "It was..."

"Something else," Max finishes. "I...I know that, too."

Chrissy looks at her, confused. Max recalls the flickering lights, the strange sounds. She'd thought it had been her imagination, or hallucinations escaped from some bad dream. She knows now, of course. She knows that it was all real, that Eddie hadn't done anything wrong, that something was lurking in the shadows.

"Eddie's okay," Max says, and Chrissy takes a sharp breath.

"Can you—" she starts, and Max nods.

"I'll take you to him."

***

The walk to Reefer Rick's is quiet. Chrissy is fidgety, nervous. She jumps at every little sound and keeps looking over her shoulder. She'd tried to make half-hearted conversation with Max, a way to distract herself. "I know you," she'd said, eyes squinted as she looked Max up and down. "Your brother. He died in that mall fi—"

"It wasn't a fire," Max had said too quickly, too harshly, and Chrissy had clammed up. Max apologized a half a mile later, said that Chrissy would understand soon — that maybe she understood already. Chrissy remembered the strange voices, the creature with its long claws, that hand coming toward her face, and she thought she did.

Max had fetched a flashlight from her mother's emergency stash before they'd left, and now the beam arcs up harshly against the metal shed. Max signals for Chrissy to stay quiet as she sidles up to the window and peeks inside. She stretches her arm out, raps her knuckles against the door.

"Eddie?" she whisper-calls into the dark. "Eddie, it's Max."

There is movement inside — the rustling of a tarp, boots on the ground — and then the door swings open. Eddie looks half-asleep, his eyelids still fluttering, and his voice is gravelly and pinched. "Mayfield, what the hell are you—"

His eyes land on Chrissy and every emotion that Chrissy has battled over the last forty-eight hours come bubbling to the surface. She can feel them all welled in her chest, rising in her throat, and she lets out a desperate sob as she launches herself at him. Max, for her part, moves out Chrissy's way, leaves a clear path for Chrissy to lock her arms around Eddie's neck, to bury her face in his shoulder.

"Jesus," Eddie breaths. His arms hover around her for a moment, and then he folds Chrissy against himself. She cries against him, and he rubs circles into her back. He looks over Chrissy's shoulder at Max, who simply nods into the shed and offers to keep watch outside.

***

Eddie sits beside Chrissy below the window. It's dark inside the shed, but the first rays of morning sun have begun to stretch through the grimy glass and spray the bleak walls with a soft light. Chrissy has her knees drawn up. She fidgets with her hands, and Eddie taps his against the floor as he glances between Chrissy and his shoes and back again.

He'd explained everything to her. That her family had reported her missing and plastered her face over every single news outlet in town. That they'd traced her last known location to the trailer park off Kerly Road, that someone had spotted her with Eddie Munson of all people.

"It wasn't Mayfield," he assures, pointing to the door that was slightly cracked open, Max sitting on the other side scuffing the toe of her sneaker into the dirt. "She...she gets all this stuff. I mean, stuff like it? I don't know. It's all—"

"—weird," Chrissy supplies. "Insane."

"All of the above," Eddie agrees. Chrissy sighs heavily, leans her head against Eddie's shoulder as he tells her what the kids told him: there's another world underneath Hawkins, a world of monsters. They've fought these things before. "This time's different, I guess. Narrative complexities. The story must go on."

Chrissy shivers, and Eddie puts his arm around her. She lets him, scoots closer to him and snakes one arm around his middle. "I feel doomed," she whispers.

"Chrissy the Doomed," Eddie tries out, and then shakes his head. "Nah. That doesn't fit."

"I am, though," Chrissy says. "It hasn't gone away. That...that clock. I can still hear it. Whatever this thing is, it's...it's after me. I know that."

Eddie can't dispute her, so instead he stays quiet. He listens to her breathing. Her head falls against his chest and he tucks it beneath his chin, pulls her closer. She stretches out her legs, tangles them with him, and again he lets her. It feels good, being this close. It feels good to know that Chrissy is here, is safe. A flash of her glassy eyes ripples through his head and he squeezes her to assure himself that the worst part, the bad part, is over. For now, at least.

"You're not doomed," he tells her. "We'll figure this out."

Chrissy raises her head and instantly Eddie misses the warmth of her against him. She levels her gaze with his and she asks, "Promise?"

And because he needs to believe that it's true, because he needs to believe that this girl with the pom-poms and the thousand-watt smile, this girl who sought comfort in him, this girl who nestled into his arms like that is exactly where she belongs, is going to be okay, Eddie says, "Promise."

Chrissy half-smiles — a consolation prize amid the madness. She glances down, biting her lip, and when she looks back up she leans a little bit closer and lets her lips graze Eddie's.

"Thank you," she whispers, and she settles against him once more. Eddie holds her as the sun rises, and together, with bated breath, with fragile hope, they watch the new day begin.

#wndasmaximoffs #answered #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #max mayfield #eddsy #chrissy x eddie #i hope this is ok!!!!#i am physically incapable of not including max apparently #but honestly this was a fun lil verse!!!#lex writes fics

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kestrel-of-herran · 2 years

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so glad chungha came out with a personal album!!!

bare & rare pt.1 is stunningly versatile, its diversity of styles perfectly representing the full spectrum of chungha's vocal abilities. the songs feel completely honest in their emotion while flaunting catchy and ear-tingling instrumentals. the bright and bubbly "sparkling" encapsulates chungha's most widely beloved pop sound and the disco-esque "california dream" is a vision of neon lights and a barefoot dance on the scorching sand. the slow build-up of vocals in "louder" and "goodnight my princess" is deeply moving in its respective direction of happiness or grief. the bold vocal explosions of "crazy like you" and "love me out loud" juxtapose with the tensed verses and instrumentals to create a sense of conflict, of being pulled apart and put back together, of cleaving. and the matter-of-fact rap-styles or "xxxx" and "nuh-uh" solidify chungha's musical experimentation after "bicycle" and make a statement of her willingness to expand in new genres and rhythms.

bare and rare pt.1 is a gorgeous gallery of styles and moods, a multi-dimentional portrait of an artist. i can't wait to learn these songs by heart.

#chungha #bare and rare pt 1 #sparkling #bare and rare #chungha bare and rare #kim chungha #kpop album review

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barefootcosplayer · 5 months

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Rapture as a haunted house…….

#I cannot stop imagining a woman whose parter was stolen to be one of the first big daddies #he was a construction diver who one day doesn’t come home #and I imagine her in bed hearing those hollow stamping steps #and she sees when she wakes a puddle of water under her front door and two boot prints on her welcome mat #like if this were 2016 I would have already written a 2k poorly worded but emotionally honest fic about Sander Cohen being haunted by his #murdered lovers in fort frolic #but sadly I am an adult and instead have to go to the antique store #perhaps later #<- unlikely tho this backslide into bioshock is probably bc I’ve been living alone for two weeks #and I’ve got a couple more so maybe I will be writing bioshock again at some point #I’d have to replay the games….#myb….#barefoot raps the news #the potential for hauntings rapture is just immense it would be so fun and so pretty

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heretiics · 1 year

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𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒.

FULL NAME: Yeva Melikyan NAME MEANING: Yeva is the Armenian and Russian version of Eve meaning “life”, “living one”, “source of life” or “mother of life” (from Hebrew “haya/הָיָה” = to be/to exist or “kháy/חַי” = to live/alive) AGE: Forty SPECIES: Human GENDER: Cis woman (she/her) ORIENTATION: Aromantic, pansexual OCCUPATION: Medium, cult leader BIRTH DATE: 19 June 1983 BIRTHPLACE: Yerevan, Armenia HOMETOWN: Glendale, Los Angeles ETHNICITY: Armenian-American MARITAL STATUS: Single (divorced many times under different identities) RELIGION: Atheist EDUCATION LEVEL: High school PREVIOUS RESIDENCE: Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, New York CURRENT LIVING ARRANGEMENTS: RAP SHEET: Fraud (under two exposed identities)

𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄.

FACECLAIM: Angela Sarafyan HAIR STYLE: Dark brown with subtle light golden-brown highlights. Long, reaching her elbows EYE COLOR: Green HEIGHT: 5' 8" / 173 cm BUILD: Willowy SCARS: Circular wounds/scars on her hands and feet corresponding to those of the crucified Jesus Christ. STYLE: Usually in white dresses and often barefooted SCENT: A warm, dark blanket of moss. Reminiscent of getting lost in a forest— tree sap, oakmoss, tree sap, cedar, fir, wild violets, benzoin, and lilac. VOICE: Has a low, velvety tone that is both soothing and alluring, with a subtle huskiness that adds depth and character to her speaking voice. USUAL EXPRESSION: As Yeva, her expression is often described as ethereal with a serene calmness. She has a gentle smile that hints at a peaceful and contented inner state. POSTURE: Upright and relaxed DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS: Her bright green eyes often unsettle people. There is a natural ease and fluidity to her, moving with an effortless grace.

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇 & 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄.

PSYCHOLOGICAL CONDITION(S): Antisocial Personality Disorder specifically psychopathy (undiagnosed), Narcissistic Personality Disorder (undiagnosed) DRUG USE: Psilocybin (magic mushrooms), cannabis ALCOHOL USE: Rarely

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘.

TROPES: Face of an Angel, Mind of a Demon / False Prophet / Phony Psychic / Fake Faith Healer / Scam Religion / Divinely Appearing Demons POSITIVE TRAITS: Resourceful, adaptable, assertive, dedicated NEGATIVE TRAITS: Beguiling, insatiable, callous, self-serving MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral evil ZODIAC SIGNS: Gemini sun, Scorpio moon, Libra rising THEME SONG: Money Power Glory by Lana Del Rey

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃.

She has many names, but the one she was born with is Arpina Serkis. Arpina’s parents migrated to the United States from Armenia and looked to start a new life in the city of angels. As a family of con artists, that is.

Ever since moving to LA, they have traveled from state to state whenever they’d get exposed. Her natural talent in acting proved to be handy, but she was also trained by her parents. Making ends meet outweighed their conscience. More than that though, Arpina loved being something other than herself. She started simply: conning romantic partners, business partners, and friends. She’d eventually end up helping her parents scam masses of people. One such documentary (code word for a con job) was a mega-church with her dad as the head pastor and Arpina pretending to be a nun. Subsequently, the family had to go on their separate ways, as sticking together would make them easily identifiable. The racket they orchestrated had been too large in scale for them to remain incognito.

She continued on her own, adopting different identities as needed, still swindling out of pleasure and not for survival. The last place she expected to end up in is Babylon, Texas, but it is the furthest place from her last solo documentary, which involved a dangerous crime organization.

The first time she stepped into Babylon was around a decade ago. She hasn’t left since then, not with a lucrative business and a credulous crowd. She became Yeva Melikyan.

With the help of Jack Motel in exchange for a cut of her earnings, Yeva has set up shop in town as a medium, but it is a fraud. She doesn’t actually have psychic abilities. Most cannot see through her act, while some think that they can. Whispers among locals would call her a phony. While they are never certain, always speculating, they would tolerate it if it meant bringing foot traffic to their forsaken town.

Yeva also claims that a being from the heavens would speak to her, which is true in part. An entity does make itself known to her, but it is far from godly or heavenly. She only sees— or more like hears— it when she’s high on mushrooms or weed, so she chalks it up to a hallucination and doesn’t think it’s supernatural. Nevertheless, she used this as a way to build and co-lead* her own cult called the Mighty New Sky, which is a more profitable racket. It currently has a sizeable following from both locals & tourists alike, Yeva mainly targeting the hopeless and desperate. She lures them in with the sweet promise of Salvation, among other things. She would tell people that it is the son of God who speaks to her, and she also claims to be a reincarnation of the Virgin Mary.

Yeva thinks that the town is as much a fraud as her, but she will never voice these thoughts (you gotta believe what you sell, after all.) She doesn’t believe in anything supernatural or paranormal, despite substantially benefiting from it and being in close contact with one.

*The other co-leader of the cult is a wanted connection. If interested, feel free to message me!

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒.

cw: self harm

Her cult's place of worship is an abandoned church located at the outskirts of the town, near a residential area. It looks like this. Only those in the cult would be aware of its location. It is one of those "if you know, you know" places to those who have been in town long enough.

She is called the “Holy Mother” or high priestess by her cult.

Conning people doesn’t come without a cost though. Without anything to ground her, she would at times end up believing she is the person she’s portraying as.

She’d follow the saying ‘fake it till you make it’ a little too faithfully. For her holy act to become more believable, she’d go as far as self-harm to fake her stigmata.

𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐒.

header quote

#* YEVA — divinely beautiful it is also divinely heartless;#self harm tw #intro;

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vatt-world · 17 days

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rap verse

Hope on my mind, like a song so sweet, Through the day and night, it's what I seek to meet, In the quiet moments, it's all I find, A melody of hope, in my heart intertwined./ ////

On this heartbreak anniversary, feeling blue, But I won't let it define what I do, Gonna rise up strong, gonna find my groove, Turning pain into power, that's how I move.

Every beat of my heart, every tear I shed, Reminds me of the strength inside my head, I'll keep pushing forward, won't stay down, In the face of heartbreak, I wear my crown. //// From this moment, let's break free, Write our story, just you and me, No looking back, no holding back, In each other's arms, we'll stay on track.

With every breath, we'll rise above, Chasing dreams, fueled by love, From this moment, we'll take the lead, In our hands, the power we need. /// Unbreak my heart, let the healing start, Find the light in this endless dark, Through the echoes of memories, I'll find my way, Turning sorrow into strength, day by day.

No more chains, no more strife, I'll reclaim my joy, embrace this life, Unbreak my heart, set me free, From the weight of this pain, let me be. ///

In Amarillo, with the morning light, Colors dance, painting the sky so bright, With every sunrise, a new day begins, In the heart of Texas, where the spirit wins.

In Amarillo, as the world awakes, Whispers of dreams, with each breath it takes, On dusty roads, beneath the endless blue, Hope blossoms anew, like the morning dew.

In Amarillo, where the wind sings its song, Carrying tales of the ones who belong, In the quiet moments, where peace is found, Amarillo's beauty, forever unbound. //

Hard to handle, but I wear it like a crown, Breaking barriers, never backing down, With a rebel yell and a heart of gold, I'll take on the world, and break the mold.

Smooth talker, with a wild side to boot, In a world of rules, I'll write my own truth, Hard to handle, but I'll ride the wave, With a spirit untamed, I'll be brave. ////////// n a sea of faces, it's you I see, In the silence of night, you're my soliloquy, Only you can make my heart beat fast, With your touch, all my worries pass.

In a universe so vast, you're my guiding star, In the depths of my soul, you're who you are, Only you can make me feel complete, With your love, my life's replete. ///

Sun-kissed days and starry nights, In the warmth of summer's embrace, we take flight, Golden rays paint the sky, as we roam, In this summertime magic, we find our home.

Barefoot adventures, with sand between our toes, As the ocean sings its sweet melodies, we're in the throes, Of endless laughter and boundless joy, In this summertime magic, our spirits buoy. ///

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jongnorp · 2 months

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WELCOME HOME, LEE HYEON!

You've got the keys, unlock your new world!

NAME. LEE HYEON. DATE OF BIRTH. 20021118. OCCUPATION. MAN RAPPER & VOCALIST OF NEWAVE. NATIONALITY. SOUTH-KOREAN.

FREE FORM.

act 1: mid-2014.

familiarity is defined by ramyeon wrappers strewn across hardwood floors and sticky-notes saying we’ll be home late, so don’t wait up. do the dishes before you go to bed. hyeon thinks he could perfectly forge his mom’s signature if he wanted to, given how she communicates with him more through handwritten notes than she does through speaking. he tests this idea for the first time when his failing math report requires a parental signature; he turns it in a day later and mr. goh doesn’t question it for a second. (“i’ll do better from now on,” hyeon assures time and time again, but the words hold no meaning. he must have some kind of genetic predisposition to falling through on his promises — god knows he isn’t the only member of the lee family who can’t be trusted.)

all in all, it’s fine. life is fine. nothing outright bad happens and the no child left behind policy at his school ensures that even after flunking not one but both semesters, hyeon still moves forward with everyone else and his parents never hear about it. he might tell them, if they asked — just to see if they’d react. if his mom would offer to find a tutor, if his dad would scold him. but he thinks it’s more likely that neither of them would do anything at all and he doesn’t want to watch his words go in one ear and out the other in real-time, so he doesn’t bother.

act 2: late 2016.

there’s a lot to be said about lee hyeon when the most interesting thing in his life is a second-degree burn left by a pot of boiling water. it’s his own fault: he’s standing barefoot in the kitchen, spending another night cooking ramyeon whilst balancing the landline between his ear and shoulder. he’s talking to his friend about some far-fetched idea of becoming rap gods, partners in crime — they’ll call themselves sweendakk and king crab. it isn’t funny in retrospect, but they’re fourteen and stupid, so they’re both laughing until they aren’t. suddenly, hyeon’s cursing under his breath, unsure of what to do as the water scalds half his leg through his jeans and seeps to his feet.

a week later, his mom stands in the dimly illuminated doorframe of his bedroom, looking in at her teenage son who refuses to look back. “i heard about your burn. why didn’t you call me or your father, hyeon? you act like we’re just people you happen to live with instead of your parents,” she says, and hyeon detects some dull concern lurking beneath the surface. a rare display. it pokes at something in his chest and in his throat, makes him feel sentimental and nauseated.

“don’t act like it matters now,” is all he can muster up in response.

he realizes that hostility festers in dim corners and he’s angrier inside than the daylight shows. he asks reddit if making his mom cry means he’s a bad person, and enough people say that his worry is enough to confirm that he isn’t, so he never apologizes.

act 3: late 2018.

he relies on the internet to fill a void. the realization comes too late, when his friends are discussing how fast the channel’s subscriber count is growing and he’s doing everything he can to suppress his grin. truth is, it feels good to be seen by someone other than the same four guys he’s been hanging out with for as long as he can remember; better still when some bullshit rap they put together under the title ‘the minor inconvenience song’ goes viral. their video & recording equipment is subpar at best, and years down the line hyeon will recall his lyrics as lacking tact; but at 17, he’s on top of the world.

confidence gets you far—for hyeon, it gets him through auditions for the third season of high school rapper. it’s the first time he turns his back on his friends, and the first time since the youtube channel’s creation that uploads come to a stand-still.

if you ask him, he has better things to worry about.

act 4: mid-2020.

high school rapper comes & goes; humbled by third place, hyeon has just settled back into the familiarity of skipping class & filming with his friends (now a little different around him, he notices—but they deny any suspicions with such confidence that hyeon ceases his questioning) when he catches wind of some company called canvas labs. a new, innovative label looking for talent; he files them away in the back of his mind as a shit-show waiting to happen.

but it’s funny, the way things work out—still chasing the high he felt when his song went viral & the thrill of being on tv, he’s particularly susceptible to sweet talk. and that’s just what he’s subjected to some summer evening on his way out of a venue in gangnam: the interaction is a blur with hazy remnants of ‘talent like you’, ‘high school rapper performances’, ‘come audition’ and ‘canvas labs’ burning a hole in his subconscious. he doesn’t want to be an idol, really. he’s always talked shit about their insincerity, but now that he’s gotten a taste of the spotlight, it doesn’t seem so bad.

he laughs about the agent with his friends, but he scours the internet for details as soon as he gets home.

within months, he’s a trainee.

act 5: mid-2023.

the practice room bears witness to every ugly moment of hyeon’s journey, so it’s only natural that he’s staring at his sweaty reflection in the mirror when his phone starts dinging. he suspects that it’s his groupmates, but it turns out that it’s an old chatroom he and his high school friends had stopped using years ago. it goes without saying that they’ve only decided to use it again to get his attention, and the messages that roll in confirm his suspicions.

> hey, what’s wrong with lee hyeon??? > but i like you... what a funny song hhaaha > gives me a fucking headache, but i listened for our hyeon > too bad he never reads our texts anymore, right? > ofc he doesn’t, he’s too busy selling his pride for attention > even so, it’s wrong to forget his friends!!!! > hyeon, are you reading? it’s not too late to come back. you don’t really want to be an idol, right?? these songs don’t suit you at all.... think!!! > tbh i didn’t even think he was telling the truth abt training til i read his profile online > i saw that it said he played soccer...... lololol we only played like seven times all throughout high school > ig it’s all he could pull out his ass since he deleted the yt account ^^ maybe he’s embarrassed abt who he really is

is he embarrassed? he figures that he must be by the way each message feels like an ice pick chipping away at his pride. layer by layer, his flaws reveal themselves. he’s hungry for attention, he’s stubborn, he’s shallow, he’s selfish: he detects these hidden call-outs in the messages as they come and he knows that they aren’t trying to hurt him, they’re just trying to get through to him. but he doesn’t want to listen and he doesn’t want to feel guilty, either, so he ignores the bubble at the bottom of the screen telling him multiple people are still typing. he goes to the chatroom settings, clicks leave.

he wonders what kind of conversation will surround the message lee hyeon has left the group.

#JONGNO:WELCOME #FC: HWANG INTAK

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activatebutterflyshield · 7 months

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Day 5! Okay, this WIP is really hecking long (5000+ words and counting) so I’m splitting it up into a few posts over the next few days. It was a response to a @/writing-prompt-s’ prompt, but I lost the original post. Again. Whoops!

Debt (Part 1)

Albatross got up to answer the desperate rapping at the safehouse door. Everyone but Magpie was sleeping off the training, but the right-hand man was too worked up to rest. Pulling on his peaked hood, he looked through the peephole Magpie had installed, and saw… Lily of the Valley?

She was certainly the plant-powered heroine, but the ragged figure looked almost nothing like the fearless super they had time and time again faced in open battle and negotiations alike. Lily’s long hair was limp and soaked in the rain, framing a face of running makeup and eyes red from crying. She wore plainclothes, jeans and a t-shirt, but they were muddy and torn and maybe even scorched besides being fully soaked through. Her arms were covered in bruises and a few hastily bandaged cuts. She was also barefoot, her feet swollen and red from running across the Los Angeles concrete.

Without hesitating, Albatross threw open the door as fast as his clawed hands could undo the four locks and two deadbolts. It slammed against the wall, and Lily flinched at the noise before looking up. Though the hero was nowhere near Albatross’ six foot four inches, she had always projected confidence and power to equal every member of the Murder of Crows. But now she was far tinier than her five foot two frame, hunched and shivering in the storm.

“A-Albat-t-tross?” Lily stammered, stumbling forward slowly, “I-I-I didn’t know where else to—“

Her words cut off as she fell into the warehouse, caught safely by Albatross’ waiting arms. He supported her with one wing and one arm as he re-bolted the door, before picking her up easily and striding into the common area.

Magpie looked up, his never-still fingers still clacking the keys of his computer. “What was that no— Lily?”

Albatross nodded. “Soaked through, beat up, and robbed blind, I reckon. Wake up the Murder. I gotta lay her out somewhere…”

The techie was up and off to the resting rooms before Albatross had finished speaking, computer station abandoned. He laid Lily out on the second-hand dining table the Murder used for meals and planning, carefully inspecting her injuries.

Four sets of running feet hammered down the hallway as the rest of the Murder burst into the common area. Swallowtail came first, her arms full of spare clothes and first aid equipment. Magpie and Harpy entered next, followed by their leader, Midnight Raven. All of them came to Albatross’ side at the table.

“Oh, Lily,” Swallowtail muttered, wringing her hands as Harpy began first aid, “What happened to you?”

Magpie had broken out his camera, taking detailed photos of the heroine’s injuries. “A super must’ve done this, no way could some punk burn Lily in the middle of a storm with a Zippo.”

“What do you make of this, Raven?” Albatross asked him.

“Well,” the leader of the Murder responded, casting his eyes over the unconscious Lily, “She either trusts us, or was in such a bad position that we were the best option. But I agree with Magpie; those burns were made by a super. The shape’s around the size of a hand, and they’re where a mugger would grab someone, on the arm and around the torso.”

Harpy looked up from applying a new bandage to a large, rough cut on Lily’s forearm, not even pausing while he spoke. “I think one of the gangs is responsible for this one, boss. Claw marks, burns, bruises, and mud? We’re nowhere near a park, so that’s at least three different powers, possibly more.”

Raven nodded. “How long ago do you think this happened, Harpy?”

“Not more than an hour ago, I’d say. If she ran straight here and collapsed, and given her condition, I’d bet on no more than thirty minutes ago.”

Raven nodded again. “Alright then. It’s what, nine-thirty? Get some rest. We’re up and moving as soon as Lily tells us more.”

Lily came too around twelve hours later, laid out on a slightly threadbare couch and under a well-worn blanket. She felt her arms, wincing as she grasped new gauze bandages over where the masked attackers had clawed and burned and stabbed at her.

A familiar deep voice and a strong hand on her shoulder interrupted her. “Don’t, it’ll just break the scabs.”

Lily jerked around, instinctively trying to pull out seeds from pockets that didn’t exist, nearly falling over in the process. Harpy reached out to steady her.

“Careful. I don’t want to have to dress them again, Lily of the Valley.”

She righted herself with some difficulty before staring in disbelief at the villain who had apparently treated her wounds. “W-What? You… dressed my wounds?”

Harpy nodded. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I? Never mind, Raven would like to hear about what happened to you last night.”

Lily only became more confused. “Why would he want to know? A-And why would I tell him, anyway?”

Another deep voice answered her from somewhere else in the room. “So that we may uphold the golden rule in your place, Lily London.”

The heroine spun around again, managing to keep her balance as she took in the figure of the Midnight Raven, flanked by Albatross and Swallowtail, each of them familiar adversaries. The Raven was tall, but shorter than Albatross, and even without his mask on, his face still seemed shrouded in shadow.

“Why would you ever do anything for me, Shadowpinner?” She hissed, trying to wriggle out of Harpy’s firm grip on her shoulder.

Swallowtail cocked her head at the heroine. “She isn’t acting like the Lily who I remember.”

Raven nodded. “Indeed. Magpie?”

A shorter man stuck his head from around the doorframe the other villains had exited from, long bangs covering his eyes and slightly glowing circles slowly spinning around his head. “Yeah?”

“What exact injuries did you see on Lily last night?”

“Uhmmmm…” Magpie trailed off as he worked to recall the memory, “three claw-like cuts, two burns, more than ten distinct bruises, several mud smears, and what looked like a needle injection site.”

“A-An injection site?” Lily stammered, stopping her struggle, “Like a vaccine?”

“Or a drug,” Albatross realized.

Raven’s nod confirmed his suspicions. “Magpie, are there any drugs that require injection and can cause confusion in the victim out there on the streets?”

His head ducked back behind the doorframe for a few seconds filled with the clacking of keys before it came back out.

“Indeed there is, boss. A little liquid called Syrup, aka Honey, aka Simple Stuff, aka a lot of other names that reference its viscosity and supposed sweetness. Created by one of the family gangs, the Golden Hornets, whose power has something to do with intensifying the strength of already available drugs. It makes people drowsy, then confused and overly paranoid when injected, but taken orally, it’s basically a painkiller.”

“That would explain Miss Of the Valley’s behavior,” Harpy said, “But not why she got beat up. Who has access to this Syrup?”

More key clacking preceded the response. “A decent number of people. It seems the Golden Hornets are just the producers, and they sell it to other gangs, most notably the Dog Whistles, the Sawsharks, and the Quicksilvers, who then sell them on the street. But… there has been some, er, disagreements over the right to distribute Syrup. Mainly between the Dog Whistles and the Lion Queens.”

“Never heard of the Queens before,” Swallow commented, “are they upstarts?”

“Yes. All the police reports have them as being no larger than 20 members, not a proper gang yet, and wanting to carve a place for themselves.”

“You got any photos?” Raven asked.

Keys clacked again, longer this time, before Magpie’s head returned. “Some. Not very quality, just security footage and some lucky newsie’s action shots.”

He turned to Lily, still frozen in Harpy’s grip. “Could you describe what your attackers looked like? What they were wearing and such?”

“If you stop manhandling me, Cloudjumper.”

Harpy let her go.

Rubbing her shoulder and suspiciously eyeing each of the villains in sight, Lily sighed as she sat up. “There were seven I could see, but only four attacked me. Every one wore a standard kerchief mask, yellowish-brown and shiny. They wore some kinda uniform, but all I can remember is that they had coattails and high boots, and that they were colored dark brown. The four who attacked me were all as bald as Golden Lighting and African-American, but the three who didn’t had lots of hair, dark in color.”

Her hands hovered over her bandages as she continued.

“The one with claws was tall with a furry tail, and their eyes were hazel. The one with earth powers was shorter and had armor of some kind on their arms, with brown eyes. The one who punched me was medium height with a short mantle of sorts, and had really dark eyes. And the one who injected me had blue eyes. I couldn’t tell if they had other powers before I got away. And at least one of the long haired ones had wings, not feathered.”

Magpie had ducked back behind the doorframe in the middle of Lily’s account, his keyboard noises ceaseless for thirty seconds after she finished. Harpy gently patted her shoulder as they waited for the techie.

“Jackpot!” Magpie’s head re-emerged, and his crosshairs were spinning like tops. “I got an ID on everyone you described! Long-Wings is probably Melody Mitchel, a commander among the Lion Queens. And the four toughs are definitely some of her known lackeys; Terryl Tyson is Tail-Claws, Renell Rose is the Earth-Armor, Stefan Smith is Ten-Punches, and Violet Victorson is Blue-Injector. All have been arrested, but not charged, as members of the Queen Lions gang, save Melody. This is the clearest picture I could find.”

He shoved a bulky laptop out on a swivel chair, its screen showing a gory blown-up newspaper photo of ten figures dressed in the coattailed uniforms fighting with ten other figures dressed in the silver and grey trench coats of the Dog Whistles.

One had a full head of frizzy hair and bat-like wings, leaping from a rooftop with shoeless feet baring clawed paws. One had a furry tail and was but a streak as they shoved a hand into the chest of a Dog Whistle, blood flying. One was far shorter than their opponent, guarding their head from a heavy tail’s descent with their oversized rock gauntlets. One had a short mantle over their uniform and was fist fighting a Dog Whistle with curly horns. And one was just a shadow in an alleyway, holding something and standing over a slumped form.

Lily backed away from the photo as the Murder crowded close.

“T-Thats them, for sure. They’re the ones who… got me.” The last two words came after a pause; the heroine was still denying that she had been bested.

Raven nodded. “I assume that you already know where these Lions hunt, Magpie?”

“Yup.”

“Well then.” The villain turned to Lily, who was eyeing him with suspicion again. “What would you do, Lily London, if you were able, and if the Wild and Free were by your side?”

There was no hesitation in her answer. “Get them. Get even with my attackers, and knock the whole of the Lion Queens down a few pegs.”

“Then that is what we shall do.”

#worldbuilding #layered earth #writeblr #writblr #prompt response

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vajigglejjaggles · 11 months

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I can be both soft and hard at the same time. Just because I’ve shown you parts of me, doesn’t mean you understand the whole. I’m complex. I will hide the parts of me that I feel are too ugly to be seen. If all I’ve shown you is my soft side, it’s because I didn’t want you to see how destructive my thoughts, words, and actions can be.

But maybe I shouldn’t hide that part of myself. I do want to be loved, fully, one day. All of me, good and bad.

I love wide open spaces, forests and prairies. Anywhere in nature that makes me feel “home”.

I cry, a lot. I cry when I watch commercials about babies and animals. I cry over the state of the world. I cry over injustice. I cry when I feel genuine happiness, like a cloud hovering over me letting lose, whether happy or sad. I cry when I feel something just a little too much.

I love wild flowers, not cliche bouquets of roses. I love the smell of honeysuckle on a hot summer day because it reminds me of my childhood, before the reality of the trauma I grew up in set in.

I love horses and dogs. I love the smell of a puppies breath.

I love music, and how it makes me want to dance uninhibited, completely ignoring my lack of rhythm and balance.

I love the pain of a tattoo or piercing needle, because it helps the pain I feel inside escape without the result being an ugly scar I have to explain to whoever sees me naked next.

I love thunderstorms and standing barefoot in the rain, letting it wash away all of my intrusive thoughts.

I love riding down back roads, windows down, music drowning out my voice as I all but scream the lyrics that resonate with my soul.

I love dressing up, pretending like I’m classy and put together all of the time when in reality, I’m a chaotic mess of tangled hair in jeans and a plain tshirt.

I love my family even though I wish me were less dysfunctional & tighter knit. I envy the daughters that have good relationships with their parents and siblings.

I love to laugh. I’ve spent so many years not laughing, I will take any and every opportunity to let that hideous laugh erupt from my chest. When I’m left wheezing, gasping for air is when it’s the best.

I love fire, watching it burn wood to ash.

I love 90s R&B, country, alternative grunge, rock, indie, pop, hip hop, rap…but neo-soul will always have my heart.

I love ambient lighting, soft glows..easy on the eyes and mind.

I love driving around the city late at night, when the streets are mostly empty and I can imagine what life would’ve been like if I had left my hometown after graduation instead of following the path I found myself on.

I love love. I haven’t experienced it in two decades. Not the passionate, requited kind anyway. I love learning someone. The good, bad, and in between. The way they smell, the way they breathe when they’re at peace. How they like their breakfast, or coffee. What songs they listen to when they’re happy, sad, or in between. Their love language, so I can love them in whatever form they best receive it. Their dreams and passions, the things that make their eyes light up when they think no one is watching. All of the things that make them sad, so I can be the buffer between them & whatever it is that takes their smile from their face.

I love kissing. Passionate and full of emotion. I spent well over a decade accepting that I would only ever be kissed on the cheek - like some acquaintance. So when we agreed to divorce, I promised myself I would never indulge in anything that lacked passion and feeling ever again.

I love traveling, learning about and experiencing new cultures and ways of life.

I love talking, deep think pieces, not surface level chitchat.

I love tequila and the way it blocks all of my inhibitions.

I love twilight, fireflies, and the smell of hot pavement after a summer rainstorm.

I love books. Transporting to other worlds, feeling every emotion with the characters. The way the pages smell, the way the spine cracks when you open it. I used to read multiple novels a day, it was the most peaceful escape.

I love skating, riding horses, riding bikes, wading through a creek, watching rollie pollies, laying in green soft grass and making out shapes in the clouds.

I love showering in the dark by candlelight. It’s relaxing & intimate.

I love when someone tells me something reminds them of me.

I love my son. Some may think I’m a helicopter parent who isn’t allowing him to grow up but in reality, I’m just trying to preserve his youth and innocence for as long as I can. I’m lucky enough to have family who would do the same & make sure he is okay if anything ever happened to me. But, I don’t want him to look back at life and wish he hadn’t experienced “grown folk” issues so soon. I will support his innocence for as long as I can, because our children deserve to JUST be children while they can. I’m going to foster and feed his individuality, give him the space to figure out who he is and not who society wants him to be, defend him & protect him. It’s my job as his mother to make sure that I am not sending out another broken man into the world. He will know that emotions are healthy, be secure in who he is so that he doesn’t allow the opinions of others to influence his character or personality, and make sure that he knows how worthy he is. I cannot expect him to be good to others if I don’t show him that he should be good to himself first.

I guess I’m more than what I allow people to experience.

#me

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