being a kid and hearing adults say stuff like "woah 2011 was 4 years ago haha" didn't really convey the fucking horror of a youtube video crossing my recommended labelled "9 years ago" and it's from 2017. that's not true. 9 years ago is 2010 or something. don't lie.
OHHHHH the phrase "go off half-cocked" refers to a gun that fires before the firing pin is fully in position. that makes sense I thought it was like. a different thing
I'm a sucker for a good "you think you're in one horror subgenre but it's actually a different horror subgenre". character struggling to accept that maybe demons are tormenting them suddenly finds out it's actually aliens. trope of all time tbh
I love when people whose first languages have grammatical gender use the wrong pronoun in English. "this river is so green because he is fed by glaciers" aw the river is Just A Little Guy. your version of my language is better
I'm a lil short on time today, so here's a quick story with a bit of a sillier tone! [I laugh maniacally.] Promise me... that you'll like it :3 I'm just playing of course you don't have to
@engportevents <3
Nationverse, sometime in the 16th Century
˗ˏˋ꒰♡꒱ˎˊ˗
"Arthur, this is for you."
From his stance upon the shore, João watched in anticipation as Arthur's face teetered between that of a wince and earnest contemplation. He stared at the item in João's palms, emerald eyes flickering to his partner's face briefly, before returning to his hands in subtle longing.
"A pot?" he asked finally.
João was sure that, perhaps in Arthur's mind, he sounded absolutely thrilled. As though this clay pot were the apex of all his wants. Sun-dried, and sweet as a raisin to his heart. And his question was merely speculative of his lover's clairvoyance.
However to João, Arthur's tone was forced. And ignorant.
João frowned. "No, not just a pot," he spat, "A Cantarinha dos Namorados."
He shoved the clay pot into Arthur's hands. Nimble fingers finding bearing around the dried, orange clay. Gripping onto floral, white indents and protruding ornamentations. João had opted for the largest pot he could find. Unabashedly taking up space and time in several workshops, till he was satisfied with his proposal gift. A large base for their shared prosperity. A thin, but long, snout for their myriad of struggles, but none that they could not face head-on.
What a shame it was, then, that Arthur was oblivious.
"A pot for… lovers?" Arthur spoke, translating the Portuguese words in his mind. As though they were painted artwork, and he, a cheap imitator.
"Do you have a single romantic bone in your body?"
Arthur tutted, "Come now, Port. Were my sonnets not enough?"
His sonnets. João prickled to remember Arthur's sonnets. Imbued in Iambic Pentameter, and performed to him through voice cracks and flushed, full cheeks. Not poorly written, and in truth, quite endearing. Yet innumerable in their collective.
"They were far too much, Amor," João sighed, then immediately moved to close the distance amidst himself and his lover. Knowing much about Arthur's tendency to drift when not aptly secured.
He gripped Arthur's shoulders, the clay pot in his lover's arms being the only separator of the two. Under morning sun, Arthur's hair lit like raging fire. Wild and persistent as he was. Unfettered by that which scared most. Yet in all his bravery, João watched his worry peak like magma through the cracks.
"This pot is a… proposal of sorts," João soothed, rubbing warm friction betwixt Arthur's blouse and skin, "I am promising myself to you. And when I eventually return, all gifts I bring for you may be stored in there. As symbolic of our grand love."
Arthur's eyes searched his, before gazing down at the pot between them, "So you aren't planning to bring me anything larger than this?"
Arthur was shoved away with little regard for if the pot disembarked from his grip. Laughing in reply, but only holding his proposal gift tighter. Apologies escaped with his mirth, placing the pot down gently, protective of their love. Then reaching out to João, who had dug his boot into the sand and crossed his arms in firm denial.
"You are simply ungrateful."
"I love it. I love it," Arthur coaxed, pulling at João's arms and wrapping them around his waist. Arthur cupped his hands around his lover's face, beckoning his gaze, pale fingers lost in umber curls. "I love you. Thank you, it's wonderful."
"You are selfish," João muttered, but let himself be persuaded all the same. The cotton of Arthur's blouse stuck on his palms, pulling the Englishman closer. Close as they could be with bothersome fabric dividing their skin.
"Only when it comes to you, Love," Arthur replied, undaunted by the descriptor, "You are only mine."
Solemn was the wind this morning. With hardly any fight, or any screeching wail. It hung close around their garments, their hair. Entangled their bodies and teased their skin. And served as reminder to João, that it was time to leave.
And Arthur understood too.
"João," he tucked a curl behind his lover's ear. "Promise me…" Arthur's voice wavered, "Promise me you'll come home. Soon."
João smiled, unable to respond.
He tucked his face into Arthur's, aquiline nose trailing freckled cheek. Their skin warm under coastal heat. Arthur's red with burn. João's lips placed a kiss on his jaw, subtle and small, as if hardly there.
"You can go," Arthur sighed, "See the world." His fingers tightened around João's skull, "But don't fall in love with it. Come home."
João laughed into his lover's neck. He arose, determined to memorize Arthur's eyes. "There could be nothing out there more lovable than you."
And beside the clay pot, two lovers kissed goodbye.
"Sea Matryoshka (A whale eats a seal that eats a penguin that eats a fish that eats a calamari that eats a sea cucumber, and finally, there's aplankton)" Nesting dolls created in Semenov, Russia for the Helsinki-based studio COMPANY.
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