vibrant blossoms

Colour Soulmate AU - Jughead X OC

[A/N: Finally I’m back! However not with the stuff you wanted or asked for, I am a terrible writer. This is a little rough around the edges but hey-ho! 

Okay so this is going to be an anthology series of different pairings (any and all pairings) finding their soulmates and I’m going to be using a multitude of different soulmate tropes! Starting with the soulmate AU, I apologise that this is really wordy but I had to get in all the different elements of what a soulmate consists of. I also plan on probably keeping each post as a one-shot which is maybe a little mean but I kind of like how I ended this one, let me know what you think! Also American readers please excuse my English-isms.]

Word Count: 1895

The sleepy town of Riverdale was illuminated with lights and colours, Pop’s Chok-Lit-Shoppe flashed a warm neon red, reflecting against the hoods of the cars that sat parked outside in the cold dark chill. The words Twilight Drive-In sat prettily against a dark blue backdrop held above the rusting letters ‘Closing Soon’, the abandoned sign creaked under the pressure of a strong wind that struck it heavily. The large Town Hall stood proudly painted in the freshest of lemon colours, the shadows of the night illuminated the deceitful corruption that lay hidden behind the closed doors.

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I love soft spoken, shy boys so much. The easy silences between comments, the little looks of acknowledgement. Wow.

Whether your personality blossoms into vibrant eccentricity once you feel more comfortable, or if you stay a beautiful array of pastel nuances. You’re lovely and your shyness, your anxiety, your uncertain whisper of a voice are all aspects of your amazing self, and I hope you know that.

Please let me inside of the walls of your ice castle –
I know it will be freezing and unbearable for a girl, a so-called princess, in love with vibrant leaves and cherry blossom trees,
but I would do anything, anything to escape from the cruelties of an universe built on superficiality and hatred –
In your little corner of the world, at least, I feel loved and protected,
even if you can’t be bothered to glance at me
with your cold, empty eyes
We are not destined to be together,
for fate tends to be the cruelest to good people -
In spite of this, I am determined to be a little wiser,
and a little kinder,
to heal my heart and to thaw yours.
—  the darkest fairytale // soph

mikantrapper  asked:

For the prompts things, would you consider doing a Kanadia Flower Shop AU ; a ; I think it'd be really cute. Thank you in advance! ~

Sorry this has taken so long! I hope this is everything you’re hoping it might be, i’ve been thinking a lot about this since I saw it in my inbox ;u;.

I’m also doubling this as a birthday present for my fav!! Happy late birthday Dia ily ;o;!!

KanaDia flower shop au! here we go!

(Note: all italicized words said by Mari are said in English)

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Layered resin and paint blend in strikingly psychedelic paintings

Chicago-based artist Bruce Riley uses resin and paint to create vibrant, abstract shapes that blossom organically across large-scale panels. Pools of resin form the base of his creations, while drips and broad strokes of paint are layered in mesmerizing patterns that catch the light in interesting ways. Psychedelic and spontaneous, the paintings appear to grow and take a life of their own. They resemble anything from dreamlike visions to cellular, microscopic landscapes.

Riley emphasizes the importance of movement and exploration in the process of creating his works.

“You’re always investigating. It’s not about an end result,”
“The paintings aren’t about specific things. They’re all about kind of the same thing. I’m not really trying to define any ideas, I just let it flow.

That in which the words escape from me like a vessel a train of thought a ship of words a plane of emotions in a sea of troubles I do not see the way you see and do not hear the sirens call approaching as I come encroaching on the vibrant land that blossoms from the bosom of Mother Nature never stopping to breathe the green air of the tree covered forest where the fox lies in wake of its pray. One that has been coned out of life by those who wish to put a price upon that which is priceless. A soul is not a diamond that can be weighted in raw form that adds up to 0’s and 1’s in computers form fit plan that dictates it’s value, it’s worth to those who never owned it and those who won’t hold it in anything but contempt as a useless pawn of weakened decorum that never seems to fit in the gallery they have been instructed to mold and can never find the one that makes it hard to hold a pure compiling of subsequent thought which flows through on the end of a silver lining. One that can’t be seen or heard but felt through the earth as it was molded by ones who will be thought to have a gods worth in their veins but are just as lost as you and I in the manner of living a life that brings more than a momentary relieve of the pain the resides in the pit of there heart and never subsides but pushes the knife down deeper in to a scarred wound long ago healed toughening the skin but not enough for the blade to stop its harrowing decent into the black ethereal madness from which it was forged. A greying light above the land of that was was already toned down to a subtly sepia, washing away the only thing that made it more than broken and neutered by the rider of long hair and orange bandana. Never sweeping her heir from the will of man and resulting in the punctuation of inevitability. In who’s thoughts of the words linage lifts lives of loving to leave of absence it needed.

I’m in a lot of pain due to post-event syndrome, so I’m going to make everyone suffer too :3

Blame @sai-shou

I love you.

How many times had Frisk said that to her over the years, Amelia wondered? If she strung them all together, back to back, could they fill the aching emptiness in her chest as she watched the girl she loved walk away in the arms of someone else? If she played them over and over in her head, would it finally let her breathe again?

It shouldn’t, it shouldn’t, Frisk hadn’t meant those words the way Amelia wanted her to. They weren’t exactly hollow, no, but they might as well have been, so why did they still bring hope to her shattering heart?

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It wasn’t hard to notice the unusual abundance of beetles droning around between the weigela shrubs, especially since her attention was primarily focused on admiring the vibrant colouration of the blossoms. She wondered, observing the beetles and their different shapes and sizes, just how creatures of such a small size, were capable of surviving in this big world. Her thoughts were interrupted when she sensed a presence, her attention turned to the mysterious hooded figure. He seemed primarily focused on the beetles. 

❝ –Do you find them curious as well, ne? ❞

Made Up

This is what I do. A kind of secret I’m letting you in on. I line my lips with a Nars rose tinted pencil, I pat my eyelids with fine Lorac powder, I dab a rosy MAC stain on my cheekbones - which are lost these days but then like magic they appear, blossom colored, vibrant, almost like they used to be. I do this and more - so much more - after I brush my teeth, before I go to the gym, when I need to run to CVS for toilet paper, as I walk toward the ocean shore. I do this all the time. I am that woman.

You look nice without that stuff, my husband says, none the wiser that even when I appear bare faced, I am not. It’s painstaking, the blending, smearing, patting, so that nothing shows, but it’s always there, a fine layer of dust and shimmer like a veil, shrouding me from the world because I don’t know how else to do it.

At ten, I stand in Woolworth’s and choose a 99 cent lipstick, because that’s all I’ve got, a dollar and twenty-five cents, for tax. It smells like moth balls and plastic and leaves my mouth dry and caked, but now the corral will catch their eye and not the sad state of my front teeth. I want Mood Lipsticks and Kissing Koolers, but they’re too expensive. I want Dial-A-Lash and Jane eyeshadows. I want the whole aisle. I dream of Maybelline. 

At twelve, I run my fingers over my forehead and feel the bumps, like grains of sand, white and tiny, pimples sprinkled from temple to temple and I want to cry. I swipe my skin with a white sponge, now soaked with Max Factor Silk Perfection in Deep Beige, even though I’m miles away from anything beige. I paint my face trying not to look at it. I dream of Prescriptives. I dream of beauty you can’t buy at the supermarket, but I can’t afford it, just yet. 

At seventeen, I run into the bathroom, my boyfriend still sleeping, and I trace my fingers under my eyes and I fumble for my jar of concealer. My hands shake. I smooth my mouth with a tiny slanted sponge until my lips glimmer with Cover Girl Outlast Antique Rose. I pick the clumps of mascara from my eyelashes, tearing out one or two in the process. I reapply. I spend my teenage years doing this; reapplying. I love my boyfriend but he is new and he has never seen my face unmasked. I envy the boys with acne scars in broad daylight because there is nothing on TV to tell them they should hide their flaws. 

At twenty-one, Sephora changes my life. I can dawdle, my wrist a collage of colors and charcoal lines, my wrist stained for hours after. I am left to my devices, what will make me prettier better a painting come to life. I run into the store mid-auditions, after lunches, to freshen up, to try something I’d never buy like that forty five dollar Channel bronzer.

At 30, I am smart, sassy, outspoken, married, a new mom. I am better than make up but it’s an old habit and those don’t die, they can only dwindle if you look the other way, but I can’t. I am sleepless and sore from breast feeding, I am a walking zombie, but two coats of Great Lash calm me down.

I want to say make up brings me happiness, because it does. But I don’t know why I fucking need it so much. I don’t know why my purse is eternally weighed down by expensive compacts and cover up sticks and blush brushes. I don’t know why I can wear the same shirts for weeks and years but I buy new lip balms every few days and when I do I spend too much  - do you want a basket, honey? - and I give away all my old shit to the babystter’s daughters and I am joyful as I unwrap the new stash, the beautiful cellophane tearing like transluscent skin.

My mother curled her lashes with a kitchen knife and that was it. There was nothing to pilfer from her pocketbook or bedroom nightstand. She showed her freckles as they were. She had pretty, mauve lips that never saw a purchased shade, not until I began buying and sharing. So where, then? Where does it come from - me at the vanity, expert now, at how to become flawless. It is a vestige of feeling hapless, worthless, less than, a foreigner. The one way to mesh in, to blend in, was by literally doing just that. By snapping my fingers and voila; a better version, a face like I dreamed of - perfect, pleasant, like an American sitcom.

At thirty-seven, I go to a beach house with my family. I pack my pink Marc Jacobs cosmetics bag, just golden sun-kissed colors, copper shimmers, plus Bobbi Brown eyebrow pencil, plus a base, just in case, plus three different face creams. But somehow I’ve forgotten the mascara. The mascara is crucial. It brings out the blue in my gray eyes, and helps me look awake. It’s not waterproof but that doesn’t matter. For three days, i tan and swim and play board games with the neighbors and laugh and eat burgers grilled to perfection, all the while hoping no one notices my eyelashes, which, without help, look like thinning whiskers. I ponder running out for groceries and stopping by a drugstore, anything will do, Rimmel, NYX, whatever. But I don’t. I tell myself i can do it. I tell myself i am a grown up, I am curvy and newly bronzed from midday rays, and I am fine. My hair smells like seasalt and Pantene. I don’t need make up. I am laying in the sand, on the water’s edge, and it doesn’t matter what my eyes look like. My husband loves me and he’s seen me worse. It’s ok.

We get back home and I go upstairs and find the shiny tubes, so many, Black Noir, Volume Pump, Smashbox Photo Op. I take a shower and wipe my face clean. And then I cover it all up.

I go downstairs to feed the dog. 

Max Factor Colour Elixir Giant Pen Stick Swatches

Max Factor Colour Elixir Giant Pen Sticks 10 Couture Blush, 15 Vibrant Pink, 30 Designer Blossom, 35 Passionate Red, 45 Intense Plum, 50 Hot Chocolate

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sweet dreamer,

romanticism costs

less than the inflated ego’s depression, decompression

of overindulgence in the seam.

The vibrant soul, blossoming, here and now, is you and me, no more, no less.

Forget false and flagrant visions that would corrupt your truer form.

Forget the vision that is not your own;

you shall never know it as you might, if you were some other form,

but you are not. 

You are perfect in perfection’s endowment,

in the aligning of spirit and light and love and bravery and truth.

Eternal youth is yours 

in mind not absence, 

in life not longing, 

in gentle breath not gasping,

in soul not body.

Gallantry is more than what meets the eye;

it’s the braving of day and night 

toward a truer still appendage of vast, untapped worth.

Within you is a world beyond this world, into the healthier hether, of ethereal breath,

into the majesty of self belief. 

into the labyrinth and out again,

bearing vestments finer than jewels, less corrosive and corrupting,

bearing wisdom finer than fame,

fame, which in time becomes shallow and meekly worthwhile.

Gallantry is much more than a name, 

as love is much deeper than flesh.

Gallantry is beyond the mountains,

beyond the seas, 

beyond the cities,

beyond the ever changing temporal lobe,

and into the infinite expanse of cosmic growth.  

-Jerry Harris III

anonymous asked:

What are your thoughts on Historia's behavior? Do you think she'll remain like this forever?

Not much in the way of thoughts at the moment, I’m afraid. Just a whole string of disoriented sad feelings.

As it stands, Historia’s acting like she’s had the life snuffed out of her, and to be fair, she kind of has. That’s always been the flaw of Ymir’s “live for yourself” ideal: Historia has shown very little signs of considering herself worth living for.

Ymir has always wanted to live for herself. Her effectiveness is up for debate, but that’s her wish. Historia, on the other hand, wanted to die for herself.

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