This??? Scene???

squit game 2 teasers got me acting Unwise…….

behind the scenes, s1 vs. s2 💘

jungkook ⟡ speak yourself in shizuoka making film

cr. namuspromised

nothing makes me go crazy more than a joel miller edit w an ethel cain song in the background……. like this was made for ME

Dust & Devotion

This was heavily Ethel Cain inspired I listened to Strangers by her on repeat

You lay on the mattress pressed against the worn wooden floor, your fingers tracing the deep cracks in the old boards, feeling each rough edge beneath your touch. The room was small, but in its quiet, it offered refuge from the nightmares lurking beyond these walls. You and Joel had found this place by some stroke of luck, an ancient cottage that felt torn between being a chapel and a farmhouse, unable to settle on either, caught somewhere in between—a sanctuary for the weary.

As you had stepped into the house, a strange kind of stillness fell over you, broken only by the crunch of glass beneath your boots. The walls were lined with worn, faded crosses, their wood splintered and edges chipped as if they’d borne witness to countless silent prayers over the years.

Religious memorabilia dotted the room—small, withered icons coated in dust, a cracked rosary tangled around a rusted nail, and framed portraits of saints, their eyes gazing somewhere far beyond this broken world. Many of the pictures hung askew, their glass frames shattered, jagged edges catching what little light crept through the boarded windows, casting fractured reflections onto the floor.

The hall itself was narrow, and every step brought a quiet symphony of decay—the soft groan of the floorboards, the creak of loose nails. A faint smell of mildew clung to the air, mixed with something old and faintly metallic, as though time itself had grown stale within these walls. You felt almost like an intruder here, disturbing something sacred, though forgotten—a relic of faith left to wither in the shadows.

Joel muttered his usual “Stay here,” his voice low and gruff, a command softened only by the familiarity of it. As always, you waited, lingering in the entryway as he moved further in, his steps deliberate and cautious, each one carrying a quiet vigilance. You watched his broad frame melt into the dim shadows of the room, his shoulders tense, every movement precise.

He scanned each corner, his head tilting just so, eyes narrowing as he checked every possible hiding place. You held your breath without meaning to, a small ritual of your own, waiting for that assurance, that single word that meant safety.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, his voice cut through the silence, firm and unmistakable: “Clear.” Only then did you feel your shoulders relax, the air finally leaving your lungs as you took a tentative step forward, drawn by the quiet relief that came only with his presence.

Now as you lay, you heard the familiar creak of footsteps from downstairs. Joel was moving around, probably hunting for something to sharpen his blade with. You could picture him clearly, brows knit together, that perpetual scowl etched into his face like it was part of him.

More movement followed, his footsteps a steady rhythm, growing louder with each step as he climbed the creaky stairs. You could feel the weight of his approach, the subtle tension that always came when he was near.

When he finally reached your door, he gave a soft knock—a restrained sound, just enough to announce himself without breaking the stillness that lingered in the room. You shifted, pushing yourself up onto your shoulders, back straightening as you awaited him, anticipation pooling in the quiet space between his knock and whatever he might say next.

“Come in.” Your voice barely escaped you, soft and fragile, as it always seemed to be around him.

He pushed the door open just a crack, enough to meet your gaze. “Water’s working,” he said in that low, gravelly tone. “But it’ll only be hot for a minute, so if you’re wantin’ a shower, better take it now.”

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, and he nodded—a silent answer, as usual. Joel had a way of saying more with a tilt of his head than most could with words. You’d come to understand it in the time you’d known him.

You padded softly down the narrow hallway to the single bathroom, a neglected relic from another time. It was grimy and unkempt, the tiles chipped, the porcelain stained from years of disuse. The mirror was fogged with age, and something blackish lurked in the corners of the tub.

Yet, it was water, a rare luxury out here, and that was enough.

You paused, catching sight of yourself in the mirror. How long had it been since you’d seen your reflection so clearly? You tugged off your clothes, frowning as your gaze lingered on the hair on your legs—a trivial thing, but somehow, since Joel, it felt like something.

You caught yourself eyeing the counter, wondering if, somewhere, a clean razor lay forgotten, a stupid - pointless hope.

With a sigh, you stepped into the shower, feet curling against the cold, gritty surface. You turned the knob, anticipating the rare reprieve of hot water, but nothing came. Just the creak and groan of the pipes, the faint splutter of disappointment.

Frustrated, you stepped out, cracked open the door, and called out to Joel.

“What?” His voice bellowed back from some corner of the house, thick and unmistakable.

“Shower’s not working,” you shouted, annoyance leaking into your tone.

You could hear the muffled groan of him rising, could imagine his joints protesting as he pushed himself upright. His footsteps grew louder, and you realized suddenly how exposed you were, grabbing for your sleep shirt and hastily pulling it over yourself.

“You decent?” he asked, voice closer now, rough around the edges.

“Yeah,” you muttered, tugging the shirt down over your thighs.

He stepped in, casting a quick, assessing look over you. Your hair was loose, tumbling down your shoulders, ready to be washed. You caught him looking, just for a second, something shifting in his gaze. His eyes lingered at your legs, and you felt a pang of self-consciousness—the pricks of hair, the way your arms instinctively crossed over yourself.

He’d noticed, in those small, fleeting ways, how you’d started to care about the tiniest things—things he knew wouldn’t have crossed your mind before. The way you tugged at your sleeves when your hands felt rough, or how you’d sometimes run your fingers over your legs absently, a flicker of irritation passing over your face when they weren’t smooth. He saw it in the way you’d bite your lip and avert your gaze whenever you felt exposed, adjusting yourself, hiding those little imperfections you’d never have thought twice about.

Joel noticed, too, how you seemed to eye the worn-down counters in each place you landed, almost as if searching for some scrap of luxury—a mirror, a razor, a brush that hadn’t been cracked by years of dust and grit. He couldn’t quite explain why it mattered to you, but he noticed it all the same.

Joel couldn’t give a damn if you had hair on your legs or if your hands were rough from calluses.

He was a man, not some boy caught up in a picture-perfect idea of what a woman should be. He knew better. Life had taught him that women were more than delicate, pretty things meant to be displayed; they were fierce, resilient, built from the same grit that held the world together. But still, a part of him felt that quiet ache, that twinge of regret that the softness you’d once carried—the gentle things you’d once let yourself want—had been taken from you, piece by piece.

But as always, Joel said nothing, just knelt down with a quiet exhale, hands deftly working the knob until the pipes coughed and sputtered back to life.

You watched his hands, rough and weathered, calloused from years of hard work and survival. His fingers were thick, his nails perpetually rimmed with a faint trace of dirt, as if they carried the remnants of every struggle he’d ever faced. Those hands—hands that could grip a weapon, hold the collar of a man with an unyielding strength, fend off whatever the world threw at him. And yet, despite their harshness, you couldn’t help but wonder if they’d ever be gentle enough to cradle you.

You found yourself drawn to the thought of them, of what it might feel like if he allowed his touch to soften, if those hands could lay down their burden, even just for a moment. It was a ridiculous, hopeless longing, yet it lingered there, deep in the marrow of your bones—a wish that those same hands, capable of such violence and grit, might one day trace your skin with a tenderness they seemed almost incapable of.

There was something in their roughness that beckoned you, a quiet desire for the impossible, for warmth to spring from what had been hardened and scarred. And it haunted you—the idea that those hands, fierce and unforgiving, might hold you like something precious, just once.

The water finally trickled, then flowed warm. He held his hand beneath it, testing the temperature, his voice low. “It’s warm now. Better get in while it lasts.”

You nodded, avoiding his gaze, murmuring a soft “Okay.”

As he left, he left the door slightly ajar, his figure starting to disappear down the hall. But before he turned away, he glanced back, catching a glimpse of your bare shoulder and the slope of your back as you stepped beneath the stream, the thin pink curtain closing around you like a final curtain on the only softness left in this world.

said youre a wild mustang...

PAUL MESCAL Ph. by Greg Williams for Hollywood Authentic (Nov 15, 2024)

LEE JUNG JAE 이정재 — MARIE CLAIRE 2023

for someone who loves sleep, i do not sleep enough at all

Too anxious to make phone calls but not afraid to post fanfiction of gay cannibals on the fucking internet