in the interest of being transparent and honest : i was kicked out of the rp due to some ooc drama between me and one other person which i was hoping to rectify but then escalated and had another person join in and throw in an angry pointed tirade at me ( idk why bc i actually liked both ppl ooc it just seemed to go a bit bananas w miscommunication ) . it didn’t end well . but i have nothing but kindness to say for everyone else in the rp atm ! i made some really good friends and idk if they still like me bc i got booted before i could say anything really but i hold good vibes for them and the rp generally !!

hello, i'm usually very chill but angry tirade person here !!! you literally said that conversations about kieran and finch take up the gc every time you came online and made it hard for people to feel included. then say you feel that way because you want to " champion people " which is like a wild statement to make, because i feel like flea and i are always the ones reacting to people's threads, commenting about their characters, asking questions about them in the headcanon channel, and creating discussions and theories regarding other muses' involvement with the plot. and never was there any actual instances of conversations about kieran/finch ever drowning out anything. so maybe if you wanted to champion people so bad, you should have generated discussions like we were doing in the first place instead of projecting that our big scary gay muses were taking up too much space. and honestly, this whole shit really just comes down to you feeling uncomfortable with ships involving gay men. like, let's unpack that. you felt ostracized by flea because you weren't playing a queer man and said that you felt like being pressured into playing a queer man whenever she made jokes about ricardo being straight. mind you, no one actually wants to fuck ricardo whether he's gay or not ( you saying he likes new years because of drunk girls ... another thing to unpack, but i'll leave your own self-reflection with that ). like you are so vigilant to call out mlm fetishization in the rpc that you literally can't just allow queer male characters to exist without making it about your discomfort. you see our characters and god forbid we talk about them or plot relationships between them ( almost like we're in the same rp ? and as if we only plot with each other, because i'll let the record show all my plotting messages lmao. or even just flea and i's threads ... we barely even write with each other ), and go " yup, too much. " like i still honestly cannot wrap my head around the idea that i've made people feel excluded and unable to join in on conversations because it was all about kieran/finch. cannot remember a single time that ever happened. seemed like you just chose a gay ship to fixate and project your discomfort on. the only miscommunication is you making shit up and still saying you don't know why i was angry is kinda crazy. like, let's not act oblivious because that'd be bananas, sorry !!!

Outer Banks (S1-S2)

body  shifts,  languid  but  deliberate  in  their  movements.  gaze  never  leaves  foster's  face,  amateur  flick  long  forgotten  in  favor  of  mapping  out  every  curve  and  angle  in  his  features.   “  i  figured.  ”  lets  their  knees  knock,  fingers  brush  and  linger  a  second  longer  than  he  should  when  he  picks  the  blunt  from  foster's  hand.  a  hum  into  a  low  chuckle,  tension  thicker  than  the  smoke  seeping  through  teeth  and  circling  their  sorry  excuse  of  a  living  room.  “  something  like  that,  ”   all  subtlety  is  thrown  out  window,  tongue  in  cheek  when  carlos  inches  closer,  a  familiar  game  he  hadn't  played  since  driving  up  from  the  west  coast.  “  i'll  sit  around  and  get  high  anywhere,  but  a  pretty  boy  makes  things  more  fun.  ”

like this very moment, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗹𝗼𝘄 𝗳𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘇𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝘄, all alone and without finch and june to ruin the fucking scene. foster turned away from carlos for a second, leaning forward to drag his backpack off the floor⸻   and from its depths an old camcorder emerged, scuffed plastic catching the light, a relic from the antique shop, so clunky and unapologetically analog. but foster liked it enough, had a way of making anything feel alive in his hands. he flipped it on with a quiet hum, angling the lens toward carlos, canting his head as if framing a shot he had already imagined a hundred times.     ❝      look at the camera, baby,      ❞      he coaxed, soft but insistent, a small fond smile on his lips. he took a few moments, just quietly recording carlos, every mole, every beauty mark, their eyes, until the silence turned slightly awkward.      ❝      d'you know you've got the prettiest, deepest, darkest eyes i've ever seen ?      ❞      foster whispered, like a secret spilling out, looking at them through the camcorder's small screen.      ❝      like i could just tumble into them, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹 … 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿.      ❞      foster wasn't actually sure what he was chasing here  :  perhaps a reaction, or maybe just the way the low light hit carlos' cheekbones just right, but foster adjusted the angle, catching the curl of smoke from the burning joint and the faint glint in carlos' brown eyes. and foster adjusted the angle once more, arm held out to frame them both in the scene now, proximity narrowed as shifted closer than they ever were, plucking back the joint from carlos' hand to take a slow, deep inhale. the ember flared bright, enough to light the faint smirk curling the corners of foster's mouth. and he kept the smoke in his lungs, 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝘁𝗼 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗳𝘂𝗹, long enough to lean closer, closer, closer until their breaths tangled, lips touching, and the smoke slipping from foster's mouth into carlos', like a bridge connecting the little space left between them. all whilst he steadied the camcorder in his hand, couldn't let this moment slip away unbottled. 𝗮 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗺𝗼𝗸𝗲, open and unhurried, the taste of burnt paper and something heady mingling on their tongues, trying to see how long it'd take before carlos would choke on everything.

*      ❪       📻      ❫    ﹕  ❛ 𝗻𝗼   𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴   𝘄𝗮𝘆   𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁'𝘀   𝘁𝗵𝗲   𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹   𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗲 ? ❜   he   withers   in   disbelief,   reaching   out   to   grab   the   item   from   his   companion's   hands   and   trace   over   each   edge.   there   was no way.   had   to   be   an   explanation   etched   somewhere   on   it.   a    life changing, earth - shattering   reason   as   to   why   it   costed   an   arm and a leg.   he's   scoffing,   irritability   already   piqued   and   there   to   stay   as   they   move further down the aisle, white cane replacing the canine that typically accompanies.    ❛ i   mean   i   can   do   it,   but   i   shouldn't   have   to.   i   mean  —  what   the   fuck ?    how   is   anyone   actually   affording   this   stuff ?   you'd   think   with   everything   going   on   they'd   make   shit   cheaper. ❜    oh   yes,   dutch   gore,   a   ' man   of   the   people. '    never   raised   with   a   golden   spoon   in   his   mouth   ( albeit snatched   with   the   premise   of   giving   it   to   thy   neighbor — in favor of next of kin ). the   topic   turns   heads,   curious and uncomfortable with the voice   an   octave   higher   than   the   usual   conversationalist.

🪽ㅤㅤ   *ㅤㅤ   ﹙   📹    ﹚   ﹕        ❝      𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝘄𝗼-𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗱𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗿𝘀. it's from the criterion collection, dude ...      ❞      there wasn't a rise in his voice, unflinching and without fight as he held up the newest addition to his personal compendium, looking at it as if the boxset was carved from flesh and bone⸻  too precious and priceless, hands hovering close to dutch's to make sure it was treated with deliberate care in the other man's hands.     ❝      𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗽𝗮𝘀𝗼𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗶. it's worth every goddamn penny.      ❞      the reverence was palpable in his foster's words, a smile tugging on his lips with an indulgent amusement. a dead giveaway of another one of foster's soliloquys about the world's great filmmakers. well, too bad dutch couldn't really see it nor could he escape it.     ❝      no one did it like pasolini, man. dude turned hustlers into fucking halos, sex workers into saints, pimps into contemporary prophets, vagabonds into vessels of divinity. and the real fuckin' saints ? the ones actually canonized into the roman catholic hall of fame ? he dragged them down to the dirt, through the mud, and into the grit of the fucking world. he's basically gay italian marxist jesus.      ❞      then, a quick pat to dutch's cheek, a soft laugh spilling before hands carefully taking the collector's set from the other man's grasp.     ❝      but hey, give me a raise and maybe you won't feel too bad about the cost of my interests.      ❞      

HANNIBAL + handyman Will

TOTALLY FUCKED UP (1993) dir. GREGG ARAKI

DREW STARKEY FOR DAZED WINTER 2025

✦ ⋰ the weight on her chest dissipates as she registers the presence in front of her. ❝ henry, ❞ she sighs out, palpable relief in her voice. henrietta nivans— many people would consider her a force to be reckoned with. a  lot of them would be referencing a henry that seems impossibly far away now ; the one enjoying her years before feeling the call of the family names. another group would know her as she is now, a trailblazer who secured an impressive job out of college but made the bigger choice to return to her home. to their shared calling. back to maeve. in her eyes, this is simply  her baby sister,  come home to pick up the family crown. ❝ it’ll be okay, ❞ she echoes her words as she gazes at the house ahead of them one more time. utters it like a promise. she directs her attention entirely to henry then. hand moves from it’s protective placement over her heart to the other’s  shoulder, as endearing as it is intended to be comforting. ❝ they should consider themselves lucky that a nivans isn’t in charge, eh ? ❞ they. she treats the suspect as something inhuman ; spoken like an omnipotent figure, rather than a ruthless killer. it’s somehow easier than thinking that someone in red creek would be capable of that horrific crime. that someone in their town would send the people through this viscous grieving process again. ❝ of course i believe that everyone wants this solved just as badly as the next person, but i worry about… the available resources. ❞ ( and red creek’s historical track record. ) ❝ it seems unreal that some people never find the person responsible. i don't suppose you're here to tell me that there's buzz of a lead ? ❞

🪽ㅤㅤ   *ㅤㅤ   ﹙ 🪞  ﹚ ﹕  𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲𝘀  𝗵𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗮  𝘄𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱  𝘀𝗵𝗲  𝘄𝗮𝘀  𝗲𝘅𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗹𝘆  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻  𝗵𝗲𝗿  𝘀𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿  𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁  𝗵𝗲𝗿  𝘁𝗼  𝗯𝗲⸻   wished  she  really  was  someone  so  perpetually  unshakable,  someone  undeniably  reliable,  someone  who  could  part  the  seas  just  to  find  a  way  forward.  she  wished  she  deserved  her  sister's  belief.  but  she  knew  better.  but  as  much  as  she  wished  she  couldn't  recognize  herself  anymore  beyond  all  the  smokes  and  mirrors,  beneath  all  the  masks  and  veils,  henrietta  still  knew  herself.  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝘀𝗵𝗲  𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻'𝘁  𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲  𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁  𝘀𝗵𝗲  𝘀𝗮𝘄.  a  porcelain  doll  marred  with  cracks,  a  mosaic  held  together  by  pure  fucking  will  and  necessity.  would  maeve  still  look  at  her  the  same  if  she  knew  why  she  had  gone  home  ?  if  she  knew  how  henrietta  ██████  a  man's  ████  and  █████  ███  to  ██████  ███████  himself  ?  she  wasn't  only  here  for  a  longing  to  be  back  home  or  to  step  into  that  proverbial  nivans duty,  but  because  she  needed  to  reconcile  with  the  blood  on  her  hands. everything needed to be perfect from now on ﹕ that was the only way to wash off these crimson stains.  though, sometimes henrietta  wished  she  could  still be  little  oh  henry,  that  little  girl  who  could  tell  her  big sister  everything  without  shame. ❝      except  for  bronte  in  daniela's  case  ?  i  don't  think  sheriff  kelly  has  any  leads  yet.      ❞      and  even  that  lead  wasn't  really  a  lead,  otherwise  there  would  have  been  more  buzz,  more  pitchforks  and  torches,  if  they  really  considered  her  a  person  of  interest.  all  that  loose  thread  really  did  was  unravel  the  register's  credibility  for  breaking  the  story  that  way.  but  maybe  ricardo  garcia  was  puppeteered  into  making  that  exact  decision⸻  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗿𝗲𝗴𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿,  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗽𝘂𝗹𝘀𝗲  𝗼𝗳  𝗼𝘂𝗿  𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆  !  and  if  you  couldn't  trust  that  heartbeat  ﹕  then  just  who  exactly  could  you  trust  ?  and  henrietta  almost  wanted  to  applaud  the  genius  of  it.  but  if  this  violence  was  senseless,  without  purpose  that  served  her  vision,  then  she'd  rather  just  get  rid  of  whoever  was  beneath  that  boogeyman  mask  as  quickly  as  possible.     ❝      but  weren't  alaina  and  thierry  dating  ?  maybe  he'd  have  more  insight  on  who  could  have  killed  her.  have  you  talked  to  him  about  it  ?      ❞      unless  thierry  was  involved  in  that  slaughter,  𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲𝘀  𝗼𝗳  𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻  𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗹𝘆  𝗮  𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹  𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗮.  but  of  course,  henrietta  wasn't  just  going  to  ask  maeve  if  she  thought  one  of  her  best  friends  was  a  murderer.  instead,  she  placed  a  hand  over  maeve's on her shoulder,  smiling  softly.     ❝      we  don't  have  to  talk  about  any  of  that,  though.  you  can  just  tell  me  what  i've  missed  with  your  life  ...  then  maybe  i  can  tell  you  about  my  very  dashing  fiancé,  who  may  or  may  not  have  just  secured  ownership  of  whitepine.      ❞ 

The Doom Generation (1995) // dir. Gregg Araki

Jennifer Saunders, from “Wait a Second, Let Me Write It Down”

— Elizabeth Winder on Sylvia Plath in “Pain, Parties, Work” (via holeintheuniverse)

the  brush  of  kieran’s  shoulder  against  his  is  an amber pressed to frost , a quiet warmth  scraping against the edges of cold circling thoughts . kieran’s voice follows , unravelling into the stillness like a thread pulling apart the seams of the quiet . taylan doesn't listen to the words so much as let them wash over him , the offer of solving murders a ridiculous one , and  yet  it  doesn’t  feel  absurd .  it  feels familiar , a memory stirred back to life .  like  kieran  is  still  that  kid  from  their  past ,  the  one  who  never  stopped  showing  up , who never stopped pressing warmth against the coldest part of his world . something unguarded flickers in his gaze - an ember of regret , though he doesn't let it catch . he snuffs it out before it has the chance . the warmth remains , though , stubbornly refusing to fade . the mattress shifts beneath him as he moves , sinking low in the middle and drawing him into the gravity of the space they share . the pull is tangible , a tension beneath his skin that makes him itch , he should move , rip himself out of this too-small-space , but he doesn't . he stays right where he is , even as kieran's fingers tighten around his hold . it's grounding , or maybe stifling . taylan can't tell the difference anymore , can't draw the line between the comfort he need and the suffocation he fears . his breath falters , catching on the stillness between them . he  hears  the  soft rhythm of their  breathing aligning ,  shallow  and  steady , the space between pulling them into synchronicity . it not the panicked , burning gasps he remembers from the ice , the desperate claw for air . this is quieter , steadier , but no less suffocating .  “ yeah , sure . ” he  finally  murmurs ,  “ maybe it'd keep my mind off things . ” the weight of the statement drags behind him like a ball and chain . he won't talk about what he really means , won't speak of the way the though of hockey twists in his chest , coiled tight between longing and dread . he's been back to the edge a hundred times in his mind , circling like a skater testing uncertain ice . the weight of skates , the scrape of blades - it haunts him . taylan knows better than to step out onto that surface again . not without something to numb and smooth the edges . “ you on skates is a fucking disaster . you’d spend more time kissing the ice than moving on it . baby deer aren’t exactly known for their grace . ” his chuckle is faint , trailing off into something softer , laced with amusement . but his eyelids grow heavier with every passing moment , and the tiredness presses harder now , a heaviness that's deeper than sleep . curls around his limbs , dragging him under . before he can stop himself , his head tips forward , brushing against kieran's shoulder . the touch is light , almost incidental . exhaustion roots him there . tethering him to the warmth of the moment , too drained to pull away .

 and  now,  with  taylan's  head  resting  on  his  shoulder,  exhaustion  heavy  in  the  lean  of  his  body,  kieran  froze  for  a  moment,  started  by  the  intimacy  of  the  gesture.  then  he  smiled⸻   soft,  subtle,  not  quite  sad  but  close  to  it,  𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗵𝗶𝘀  𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱  𝘁𝗼  𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀  𝗮  𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀  𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁  𝘁𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗮𝗻'𝘀  𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗿.  the  touch  lingered,  unthinking  and  completely  natural,  just  simple  gravity  that  he  felt  down  to  his  bones.      ❝      we  should  get  some  sleep,      ❞      kieran  murmured,  low  and  warm  against  the  quiet  of  the  night.      ❝      we're  gonna  need  the  energy  when  selin  corners  us  tomorrow  and  gives  me  hell  for  sneaking  into  your  room  like  we're  twelve  again.      ❞      and  mere  thought  of  it  elicited  a  soft  chuckle,  𝗻𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗴𝗶𝗰  𝗳𝗼𝗿  𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁  𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲  𝗶𝗻  𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿  𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗲𝘀,  the  mattress  dipping  as  kieran  shifted,  pulling  taylan  down  with  as  he  lied  on  his  side.  touch  was  kept  gentle,  careful,  as  if  the  moment  was  made  of  glass,  exhaling  as  any  tension  finally  left  his  shoulders.  and  they  settled  into  the  bed  that  felt  too  small  for  two  men  too  tall,  their  foreheads  brushing,  the  space  between  them  almost  nonexistent. for  a  moment,  kieran  just  looked  at  him,  at  the  faint  lines  of  fatigue  etched  into  taylan's  face,  always  with  that  unspoken  weight  he  carried  like  an  armor.      ❝      i  kissed  finch  tonight.  well,  he  kissed  me.  i  kissed  him  back.      ❞      kieran  admitted  in  a  whisper,  the  words  cracking  in  his  chest  before  they  made  it  out,  𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱  𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹  𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲  𝗵𝗶𝘀  𝗼𝘄𝗻  𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱  𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲  𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗵  𝗯𝗶𝘁  𝘁𝗼𝗼  𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱,  raw  and  quiet.  but  hopefully  it'd  be  enough  to  distract  taylan  from  his  own  burdens,  to  lead  him  closer  to  slumber.      ❝      but  then  he  freaked  out  and  left  me  in  the  dirt.      ❞      kieran  smiled,  a  little  melancholic,  but  he  didn't  worry  too  much.  finch  couldn't  possibly  think  he  could  get  away  from  him,  especially  now  that  kieran  had  tasted  his  spit.  but  still,  a  hand  reached  out,  his  thumb  grazing  taylan's  wrist  in  slow,  looping  circles,  grounding  himself  in  the  comfort of warmth  of  skin  on  skin.      ❝      i've  never  been  like  you,  always  bein'  chased  by  all  the  boys  and  girls.  but  maybe  you  could  teach  me  what  to  say  next  time  i  see  his  stupid  fucking  face  ...      ❞      his  eyes  drifted  closed,  but  his  hand  lingered,  cradling  taylan's  wrist  as  though  letting  go  would  make  him  disappear.      ❝       ...  tomorrow.  𝘄𝗲'𝘃𝗲  𝗴𝗼𝘁  𝘁𝗼𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗼𝘄.      ❞      

ꜜ   ﹙   📹    ﹚   ﹕   𝗳𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿  𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱  𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿  𝗶𝗻  𝗵𝗲𝗿  𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆  𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁,  how  palpable  that  desire  to  dig  her  claws  into  his  flesh,  creating  a  tension  so  brittle,  like  the  fragile  shell  of  a  cicada  clinging  to  a  branch,  split  wide  open  to  reveal  something  raw  and  quivering  beneath.  and  unfortunately  for  her,  foster  didn't  feel  like  a  prey  in  this  situation,  zero  instinct  to  flee  or  fight,  more  likely  to  invite  that  risk  of  harm  closer  than  anything.  after  all,  he  had  always  loved  these  moments⸻  where  tension  coiled  so  tight  like  the  world  itself  might  just  break,  where  something  so  visceral  and  unspoken  pulsed  in  the  air.  hell,  watching  her  step  closer  felt  like  filming  storms  when  he  was  a  kid,  clouds  tumbling  and  churning  with  the  promise  of  turbulence.  and  here,  in  silence  between  her  breaths,  in  the  dangerous  gleam  of  her  eyes,  foster  felt  the  same  charge.  something  was  about  to  break.  but hopefully  not  his  camera.  𝗵𝗲'𝗱  𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿  𝘀𝗵𝗲  𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸  𝗵𝗶𝗺.  but  nonetheless,  foster's  wayward  smile  did  not  falter,  though  his  shoulders  dropped  slightly,  unwinding  under  her  glare  as  if  to  defuse  the  tension.  he  raised  his  camera,  clicking  open  the  side  compartment  to  reveal  the  film  nestled  inside.      ❝      it's  not  digital,  i  can't  just  delete  it.  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝗶𝘁'𝗱  𝗯𝗲  𝗮  𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗺𝗲  𝘁𝗼  𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲  𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗳𝘂𝗹.  have  you  ever  seen  8mm  films  ?  something  from  buster  keaton  maybe  ?      ❞      he  said,  low  and  steady,  voice  dipping  into  that  languid  warmth  once  again.  still,  foster  pulled  it  free  with  deliberate  care,  holding  the  cartridge  between  two  fingers  before  extending  it  to  her.      ❝      call  it  a  souvenir.  i've  already  got  the  scene  engraved  on  my  mind  anyway.  just—  don't  let  anyone  else  watch  it,  if  you  do.  you're  not  the  only  one  on  that  reel.  i'm  also  on  there,  fifteen  seconds,  very  compromising  and  intimate  position.  total  rated-r  shit.      ❞      foster  whispered  so  that  conversation  was  only  between  them,  before  spilling  a  laugh,  hopefully  made  it  clear  enough  that  he  wasn't  trying  to  capture  her  in  blackmail  material  by  handing  his  own.  𝗻𝗼𝘁  𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁  𝗵𝗲  𝗵𝗮𝗱  𝗮𝗻𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝘁𝗼  𝗯𝗲  𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗺𝗲𝗱  𝗼𝗳  𝗮𝗻𝘆𝘄𝗮𝘆.  and  his  gaze  swept  over  her  face,  lingering  a  moment  too  long,  like  he  was  cataloging  every  sharp  edge  and  soft  curve.  the  kind  of  look  that  felt  less  like  being  seen  and  more  like  being  known.  then,  attention  shifted  toward  the  bag  in  his  other  hand  then  at  her  little  sister,  angling  it  toward  the  younger  girl  instead,  the  contents  rustling.      ❝      got  some  good  stuff  in  here.  reese's  cups,  some  potato  chips,  a  whole  bunch  of  junk,  but  hey  ...  everyone  deserves  some  teeth-rotting  shi— stuff sometimes.      ❞      features  shifted  into  something  gentler,  amusement  sparkling  in  his  eyes  as  he  crouched  slightly  and  held  the  bag  out  to  the  little  shoplifter  behind  devon  with  an  exaggerated  flourish,  like  he  was  some  dashing  rogue  in  an  old  black  and  white  film.  a modern day robin hood, except he was more particular with who received his kindness. he  glanced  up  at  devon  then,  that  quiet  hum  of  tension  still  buzzing  between  them.      ❝      you've  got  nothing  to  worry  about,  i  swear.  i'm  no  fuc—  freaking  snitch. cross my heart, hope to die.      ❞      

jihoon  flicks  his  lighter  ,  the  flame  trembling  against  the  bitter  cold  as  he  lights  the  cigarette  dangling  from  his  lips  with  a  hand  stuffed  in  his  coat  pocket  .  he  hates  the  sharp  burn  of  smoke  in  his  lungs  almost  as  much  as  he  hates  the  winter  air  biting  at  his  face  ,  but  it’s  either  this  or  stew  inside  the  hardware  store  ,  staring  at  a  selection  of  couches  so  tasteless  they  feel  like  a  personal  affront  .  he  exhales  a  thin  stream  of  smoke  ,  watching  it  curl  and  disappear  before  his  gaze  shifts  to  someone  walking  toward  the  entrance.  he  watches  them  hesitate  ,  hand  hovering  near  the  door  handle  .  “  don’t  bother  ,  ”  he  says  with  a  light  snort  .  “  unless  you’re  in  the  market  for  buyer’s  remorse  .  ”

ꜜ   ﹙   📹    ﹚   ﹕   𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗮𝗶𝗿  𝗼𝗳  𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗴𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻  𝗰𝗿𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱  𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁  𝗵𝗶𝗺  𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲  𝗮  𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗸𝗲  𝗼𝗳  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗶𝗱  𝘄𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿  𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗱,  his  breath  fogging  as  he  stopped  in  his  tracks.  magdalena  gore's  fiancé.  a  seat  on  the  council.  and  dasom's  younger  brother.  dasom,  who  once  made  the  best  damn  amateur  films  foster  had  ever  seen,  unearthed  from  a  dusty  closet of upper michigan movies  at  the  video  store.  dasom,  who  could  build  a  world  out  of  a  shaky  frame  and  a  thirty-second  roll  of  tape.  dasom,  who  disappeared  long  before  foster  even  moved  to  red  creek.  and  maybe  it  was  a  little  pathetic  how he  could  probably  pick  jihoon  out  in  the  middle  of  a  sundance  crowd,  let  alone  here,  outside  a  wretched  hardware  store  in  the  dead  of  winter  while  the  other  man  probably  didn't  even  know  his  name.  but  foster  worshipped  dasom  and  her  tapes,  and  he  found  himself  pouring  over  old  yearbooks  and  clipped  newspaper  articles  to  learn  more  about  everyone  she  left  behind  in  an  attempt  to  make  sense  of  her  genius.  foster  grinned,  small  and  crooked,  canon  518  in  one  hand,  the  other  that  had  been  reaching  for  the  hardware  store's  door  handle  falling  back  to  his  side.  and  the  plan  to  pick  out  a  brand-new  couch  for  june  and  finch  dissolved  into  nothing,  forgotten  in  the  heat  of  sudden  possibility.  a  conversation  with  dasom's  brother  just  felt  infinitely  better  than  filming  the  experience  of  buying upholstery.  none  of  what  this  shithole  had  to  offer  was  architectural  digest-worthy  anyway.     ❝      i  was  going  to  look  for  a  replacement  to  my  friends'  moldy  little  couch—  but  if  a  trustworthy  handsome  hotshot  lawyer  like  you  thinks  there's  nothing  for me here,  then  my  oh  my,  i  think  i'm  inclined  to  trust  you.  i'll  just  buy  'em  a  bunch  of  creams  for  their  next  fungal  infection,      ❞      foster  stepped  closer,  a  laugh  catching  in  his  throat,  clouding  the  air  between  them  with  his  breath.  he  looked  at  the  cigarette  between  jihoon's  teeth,  and  foster  wished  he  could  just  held  his  camera  up  and  film  this  pretty  little  scene  before  him⸻     𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿  𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁  𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗽𝘀  𝗼𝗳  𝗱𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁,  𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲  𝗮  𝘁𝗶𝗻𝘆  𝗱𝗲𝗳𝗶𝗮𝗻𝘁  𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿.     ❝      so  what's  the  deal,  terrible  discounts  or  d'you  just  like  hanging  out  here  ?      ❞