#heartinhands

"Wanna know a secret?" For a moment, his voice is not his own. Aono-kun doesn't tell secrets, he only listens. He's a very good listener. He knows when to smile and when to frown. He can be anyone's friend. He'll let anyone do whatever they want. Yuri pauses her brushing and props her shoulders up primly, folding her palms in her lap like a lady. Her face, though, goes so red he almost feels bad. Almost.

"Yeessss," she squeaks out, cocking her head to the side so she can offer him a very cute image of her in profile. Her eyes finally slide over to the intangible boyfriend who seems to be sitting at the edge of her bed but is really nowhere at all but the place he was born. "Of course I do!" Aono can see in her eyes that despite her playful posturing, she's hungry for it, actually. When is Yuri not?-----God, that's so mean.

"Hhah--" Ryuuhei exhales a quiet laugh on accident and wishes he could take her hand and squeeze it to tease her. "You look like you're thinking of something bad--" She scoffs in reply, affronted!!! and grabs one of her bed pillows, pretending to whack him in the chest with it. Even though it phases through him, she still sees it as a fair punishment.

"Hey!!! That's not very nice!" She giggles and goes redder and that makes Aono feel like he must be blushing too because his whole not-body-but-definitely-something feels hot as frying oil. I should've warned you. His heart hurts and it shouldn't be able to, so he has to wonder if somehow he knows what hers is feeling instead. Is this how much it hurts to love someone? To love me?

"Sorry, sorry--" he giggles too and waves his hands at her in surrender. He couldn't even feel the pillow but it's more fun to pretend along with her. "Ask me really cutely, Yuri-chan," Aono laughs through gritted teeth. His smile always a look of pain too if you look too close. "I'll tell you one, seriously. I promise."

@heartinhands says, ❝  i’m  sorry.  i  should’ve  gotten  here  sooner.❞

When he shakes his head against the cold, dead grass, Sylvain can feel his head throb once or twice. That's good probably--He's so cold the rest is almost numb. "You know I'd wait forever for you." He can't even smirk, so it just sounds true. When he tries to flex his fingers, they don't hurt under his gauntlets. That's good. Is he bleeding anywhere? His hair feels sticky. "But, uh--yeah, I could've used your help, I think."

This is what you get for not using the lance, he can imagine them saying to him. If Medraut could wield it, Seiros, the damage she could do. Sylvain could ravage the battlefield, too. It just feels so wrong, twisted and evil. A living, breathing creature of a weapon. How much could he ruin with it? Is all of this worth doing that kind of cruelty? Sylvain's killed plenty of people in this war without it. Medraut's cool pale eyes flit over his still form as his armor chills against the frosty ground. Yeah, his head must be bleeding--She almost seems like she's spinning around him. Or leaning in closer, which they probably wouldn't want to do. Sylvain still isn't sure if he disgusts her or not anymore. But that's okay. He feels okay.

There's something about the aftermath of a storm that really brings a certain energy to the immediate area. Zora still feels the lingering scent of rain, the feeling of the wind brushing past them and everything that they see.

And the sight of a cul-de-sac after these kinds of storms really had them considering some strange memories and feelings that came up for them. People really take places like this as some sort of refuge when Z knows how eerie they have been in so many ways. From history. From their own experiences.

The images in their mind being both very clear and very blurry. They knew they had visions of places kind of like this but it never felt so uniform. More of a communal kind of feel to it. It always felt more lived, more connected in their younger days than the true structures they had seen in their travels.

Places made to organize the departure and divestment from cities. A thought that leaves them feeling irritable just considering it a bit more.

Even now, they had finally stepped out further into the 'neighborhood' so to speak to gather their bearings before heading back..determined not to stay too long in this location if they can help it.

There's another party, someone else who is outside, taking in the feeling of the storm. And although Z might normally be inclined to go on their own way, the thoughts in their mind just have them inclined to at least speak a little bit.

If only to wonder if he also feels a little something about how this weather shapes an area, a perception, a mood.

EMOTIONS   /   FEELINGS. the rush of adrenaline that spikes the second you realize the chance for danger--when it seems like you might not make it, but you know you have to, that you're so close. open-hearted respect for someone's efforts and hard-work, no matter the outcome. pure awe in the face of beauty. acceptance in the face of pain, disappointment, and struggle.

SCENTS. cigarette ash clinging to fingertips, how the air goes tinged with soft smoke when they cup your cheek. the sharp burst of iron when blood drips down your nose. hair gel that hardens as it dries, half-cologne, half-medicinal.

FASHION. leather in all forms for every kind of clothing, always cared for better than you'd expect. combat boots with the soles starting to fall apart. silver jewelry everywhere it can be: rings, necklaces, helix, you get the picture.

OBJECTS. the leather cover of a steering wheel that's wearing away in the shape of your palms. a metal comb that flips out on a spring like a knife. a long-expired driver's license that you keep forgetting to renew.

MUSIC. REDLINE, james shimoji (duh). johnny b. goode, chuck berry. deceptacon, le tigre. don't call, desire. lazuli, beach house.

BODY LANGUAGE. two hands behind the head, elbows jutting with ease. exhaling cigarette smoke into cool night air. smoothing out strands of hair that have moved out of place.

AESTHETICS. muscle cars with racing stripes flying down the road in a blur. sneakers spattered in mud after you've jumped in a puddle. getting caught on the kiss cam at a big competitive event.

COLOURS. yellow like a cartoon lightning strike, like pure neon electricity. black leather so dark, freshly conditioned and polished that it reflects light like a mirror. cobalt blue sea glass--rare, unexpected, uncanny.

tagged by @heartinhands and @manipulation >:)

❛❛ Somehow, I'm not surprised to hear you say that. ❜❜

it's not an ill - meaning criticism, far from it; he's said it far too casually to actually mean anything by it. There is, however, a note of wistful reflection in Vann's voice that stands in stark contrast to @heartinhands' far more definitive and, dare he say it, even carefree disposition. [ There's a kernel of merit in that outlook, however, especially among sorcerers: regret can be a heavy burden if allowed to fester, and later a breeding ground for the very curses that they exorcize. ] Perhaps that's how Gojo means it or perhaps he's simply ribbing a larger and more sensitive heart the way he usually does.

not to say that Gojo lacks such a thing, a sensitive heart. Never. If anything, Vann feels it's a bit of a problem at times, one that he manages in his own way.

❛❛ Ignoring it also gets you nowhere, though, ❜❜ Vann counters, as he always does, and watches for another moment as the bonito flakes over his takoyaki undulate, bidden by the heat. ❛❛ Like everything, there's a balance. After all, the difference between medicine and poison is the dosage, really and it applies to most things. ❜❜ He looks beside him, head tilted as he tries to catch Gojo's often inscrutable gaze. ❛❛ Don't tell me you're immune to it; I'll be hard - pressed to believe it. ❜❜

@heartinhands [ ℒ ]

ㅤㅤWintry climes bring about the early setting of the sun, a turbulently winding flurry of snow exacerbating conditions despite the chill being inconsequential for the undead, a cloying heaviness to the inky grey sky that’s nigh foreboding  (  comme si la main lourde du ciel descendait pour répandre sa colère—  ).  And yet there’s something altogether  wrong within this setting, a stillness present as the blond attempts to steady his easily meandering concentration, the din of cutlery meeting with crockery amidst the fading of indistinct chatter. Animated violet eyes peer through the broad window adjacent to the pair’s booth, tracing past the border of condensation settled around the edges, a haze present due to the comparably warming presence of mortal bodies and whatever  pungent sustenance is being prepared upon the griddle.  “ It smells terrible in here, I would not bring my dog to such a place. And yet, the food interests you. ”  Lestat remarks bluntly, cheeks hollowing while worrying at delicate flesh at the innermost corner of his mouth, line of vision not leaving the sight outside, noting how individuals walked in odd patterns.

       they  were  sitting  on  the  rooftop  terrasse  underneath  the  starlit  sky  when  he  said  it.  his  voice  was  quiet  and  his  head  was  turned  upwards  as  though  he  was  speaking  to  the  stars  and  not  to  her.  tifa  tore  her  eyes  away  from  the  tableau  nature  had  painted  to  look  at  him.  she  could  see  the  hues  of  blue  and  green  in  his  eyes  reflecting  the  constellations.  it  made  her  wanna  get  close  and  count  the  stars  in  his  eyes.  but  she  didn’t.

it  goes  without  saying  that  shinjiro  is  quite  confident  -  perhaps  entirely  without  cause  -  that  he  could  handle  the  truth.  his  life  has  been  nothing  but  facing  cold,  harsh  reality  -  what  could  she  have  to  offer  him  that  is  any  more  difficult  than  what  he's  already  faced?  (  shinjiro  has  no  idea,  truly.  he  can't  even  begin  to  imagine  the  depths  of  his  ignorance.  )

“  hit  me.  ”  he  says  it  so  confidently,  yet  so  urgently.  maybe  there's  a  part  of  him  that  truly  loathes  the  idea  of  remaining  ignorant  to  the  truth,  whatever  it  may  be;  a  part  of  him  so  used  to  understanding  cruel  realities  that  it's  almost  embarrassing  not  to.  “  there's  no  point  in  dancin'  around  it,  right?  either  say  it  or  don't.  ”