#I hope the meme I’m referencing is. Apparent.

[appleleef]

this is what happened right

[ugh-yoongi]

riding fakie | ksj

(or, the one where you think you’re getting a fake boyfriend, but you end up with a whole lot more.)

→ pairing: seokjin x f. reader → genre(s): enemies to lovers (lite), fake dating | humor, fluff, angst → rating: mature → warnings: based entirely on this edit i saw ages ago so good luck, swearing, reader is a trust fund kid with awful parents so classism and screwy family dynamics, a very brief but referenced two-night-stand with taehyung who has a foot fetish (canon) and is ultimately plot irrelevant, this is lite enemies to lovers so sometimes they are not very nice to each other, kissing. i think that’s it? this is mostly tame, all things considered, but i will revise if needed. → word count: 14.2k → written for: the catch of the century collab. thank you to @raplinesmoon​ / @joheunsaram​ / & @kithtaehyung​ for hosting and allowing me to participate! ♡ → thank yous: my holy trinity for keeping me inspired and accountable and letting me know when i don’t word good. @the-boy-meets-evil​ / @hot-soop​ / @effortandmore​. also my husband who actually skateboards and helped me to sound knowledgeable but will also never, ever see this. → a/n: [looking a whole lot like the dehydrated spongebob meme] hey, long time no see. this fic absolutely kicked my ass like nothing has ever kicked my ass before, but it’s finally done and here. i don’t think i’m super happy with how it turned out and i think it’s probably rushed, but i hope you all enjoy it regardless! now, if you need me i will be sobbing on the floor holding a locket with seokjin’s picture inside.

[THE THREAT]

The thing about privilege is—

Well, nothing. It’s just there, propped up in the corner, looming over every aspect of your life. And usually it’s fine. You want for nothing. People just hand things to you. But, just like the apple tree and Isaac Newton and the Law of Gravity—everything that goes up must come down. Nothing gold can stay. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. You might have your name and your money and your status, but you also have your parents and your brother.

Your brother, who has somehow found someone to marry him and is planning a wedding.

Your parents, who are threatening to revoke your trust fund if you don’t attend. And bring a date.

“I don’t want to hear it,” your mother says, preemptively cutting off your protests. She’s always had a knack for dictatorship, and another one for doing so as she barks orders to the hired help in the background. “This wedding is very important for us as a family. Do you know how bad it’d look if you not only didn’t show up, but showed up alone? It won’t do.”

On your end of the line, sitting at some bougie outdoor café with an overpriced latte in hand, you roll your eyes. “Wouldn’t it look worse to cut off your only daughter and leave her destitute? God forbid, what if I have to get a job?”

An aggravated click of her tongue. “I don’t know where you got that smart mouth of yours, but it’s unbecoming. I’ve at least managed to talk your brother’s fiancee out of including you in the bridal party, so you could show a bit of gratitude instead of being a brat.”

(Impossible, you think. Your brother had taken all the suck-up genes and left nothing for you. Alternatively, you’d taken all the backbone, so it’s almost even.)

“Why don’t you ask the youngest Jeon boy? They’re coming anyway, and it would look good for your father if the two of you were seen together.”

You grimace. “Jeongguk? Absolutely not.”

Another click. “Fine, but don’t you dare even think about showing up with some—”

“Piece of shit loser,” you finish for her. Usually she’d scold you for swearing, but it’s apparently allowed in the name of shitting on the middle-class. “Yes, Mother, I get it. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dare sully our good family name by associating with the poor.”

She doesn’t trust you, you can tell by the way she huffs and starts mumbling under her breath, but it’s clear she’s just as done with this conversation as you. “You have three months to figure it out.”

Privilege can go to hell.

[THE SEARCH]

Park Jimin is a lot of things.

He’s got money. He’s got hundreds of thousands of Instagram followers for no reason other than he’s hot. He’s got a closet full of in-season designer clothes, so he’d look stunning hanging off your arm in a tailored suit. He’s got charisma and charm and that innate ability to talk to anyone about all that boring shit you can’t stand.

Most importantly, he’s got a chip on his shoulder, too. He’s on your level.

Park Jimin is telling you no. “Sorry, I’ll be out of the country that weekend,” he says. He doesn’t look sorry. “One of those things I can’t skip. You know how it is.”

Your eyes narrow. “You’re full of shit.”

Park Jimin’s got a laugh that rings like Tiffany crystal. “Maybe.”

Still, you’re not above begging. The list of acceptable arm candy candidates (which you’ve taken to calling The Armcandidates, because you also got all the humor genes) is rapidly dwindling, and although Jimin’s not bottom of the barrel, he’s close. “Jimin, please. Whatever you want, I just need this one favor.”

“Don’t barter with things you’re not willing to give up,” he chides, nothing but heat. Would you fuck Jimin to keep your trust fund? Pillowy lips, slutty little waist, thighs that could crush your head like a grape—you could definitely do worse, all things considered.

“Who says I’m not?”

Jimin would come dead last in a poker tournament, the way surprise flashes across his face. “Well, in that case, I’m actually sorry I’ll be out of the country that weekend.”

You groan, head dropping onto your folded arms. “Can’t believe I outed myself like that and you’re still turning me down.”

Laughter trails behind him as he disappears into his massive closet. “Have you asked Taehyungie? He loves weddings.”

“The last time I talked to Kim Taehyung, he jerked off on my feet and cried. I don’t think I could look him in the eye, let alone invite him to my brother’s wedding.”

Jimin snorts. “He’s actually quite lovely once you get past the foot stuff. Think about it.”

Regretfully, not only do you think about asking Taehyung, you actually go through with it.

One day you’re talking to Jimin and the next thing you know, you’re once again on your back in Kim Taehyung’s bed. No weird feet shit this time, you’d told him, and, well, here you are. Skin tacky from sweat, entire room stinking of sex. Kim Taehyung is weird as hell but he’s unreasonably hot, and you’d made it all of ten minutes in his presence before folding.

(The last time it’d been five, so you’re making progress. Surely that’s something to be proud of.)

“I actually came here for a reason,” you say, still trying to catch your breath. Beside you, Taehyung hums an acknowledgement. You try not to wonder if he’s staring at your toes and that’s why he’s breathing so hard. “I need to bring a date to my brother’s wedding or my parents are gonna cut me off.”

He whistles. “Damn, that’s cold. Fully?”

“That’s what they say.”

“And you’ve decided to ask me? I’m honored, angel.”

“I asked Jimin first, to be fair.”

Taehyung’s face falls comically. “I’m no longer honored,” he jokes. “Jiminie’s great at weddings. He said no?”

You shrug. Something about his rejection still stings. You’re trying not to take it personally. Or think about it too much. “Said he’s going to be out of the country that weekend. Told me to ask you because you quote-unquote ‘love weddings’.”

“He said that?” Taehyung asks, voice pitched higher, dopey look overtaking his features. “Wow, we’re so in sync.” Wistful, like he’s lovesick. “We really must be soulmates.”

You choke. “Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

“Uh, no. Is the wedding the weekend he’s going to Milan?”

That ‘no’ seems to be carrying a lot of weight. You eye him suspiciously. “Apparently.”

“Ah, I’ll be in Paris. I asked him to come with me and he told me no, too. Guess you know how it feels.”

You sit up, sheets clutched to your chest. “Seriously, what’s going on with you two?”

Taehyung heaves a long-suffering sigh. “How much time do you have?”

You roll your eyes. “About three minutes.”

“Next time, then. Sorry I can’t help with the wedding. You’ll find someone, though.”

Another day, another rejection. You tell Taehyung not to look at your feet as you get dressed to leave.

Jung Hoseok isn’t generationally wealthy, but he’s got enough money to be deemed respectable in the eyes of your parents.

He’s also got a 24 karat smile and a meticulously highlighted and underlined study guide for your upcoming exam, so he’s currently ranked number one on your Armcandidates list.

“Hobi, have I ever told you you’re my favorite person?”

He eyes you over the lid of his coffee cup. “A few times, yeah.”

“Jung Hoseok,” you singsong, “actual sunshine, number one human, best thing since sliced bre—”

“If you finish that sentence with some fire of my loins Lolita bullshit I’m leaving.”

You pout. “I need a favor.”

He tosses the study guide in your direction. “Just take it. I have another copy in my bag.”

“Not that,” you say, but you take it anyway. Hoseok’s study guides are a thing of legend: even if you don’t use it, you’ll be able to sell it to some idiot underclassman for a week’s worth of coffee. The bougie kind with whipped cream on top. “I need a date for my brother’s wedding.”

Now it’s his turn to choke. “And you’re asking me?”

“Yeah? What’s wrong with asking you?”

He shrugs, suddenly antsy, like he’s too big for his skin. “I don’t know. Don’t you have, like, actual prospects? Every dude in our cohort wants to date you.”

“Because I’m hot and I have a shitload of money,” you retort, and Hoseok makes a face that says yeah, fair. “I’d rather be tarred and feathered than ask any of them. We’re friends, and I trust you. Additionally, your family’s rich enough to get my parents off my back and we’d look good together.”

“Ah, yes, that last point is very important.”

You scoff. “Of course it is, it’s my brother’s wedding. Do you know how many pictures I’m gonna be forced to take? Hundreds. Possibly thousands.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“It will be, which is why I need a brother-in-arms. A confidante. A comrade.”

“Have you asked Jimin? He’s great at weddings.”

You nearly start shrieking. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“...Is that a yes?”

“Of course I asked Jimin. I asked Taehyung, too. They’re both going to be out of the country and are probably fucking, and that’s not particularly something I want to get in the middle of.” Hoseok raises an eyebrow. “It could be serious,” you argue. “Like, Actual Feelings kind of stuff, and that shit gets messy.”

“Yeah, fair,” Hoseok concedes, out loud this time. “Plus Tae has that weird foot thing.”

“Exactly! So you get it.” Finally, a lead! “Will you come, then?” You flutter your eyelashes. “Pretty please, Hobi.”

“When is it?” As you rattle off the date, Hoseok digs through his bag for his phone. Then he pulls up his calendar and frowns. “Shit, no can do, either. My elective rotation starts that prior Monday.”

“Ew. What elective are you taking?”

Hoseok nearly blinds you as he smiles. “Reproductive endo and infertility.”

Your eyes widen. “Holy shit, that one you applied to ages ago? You got it?” He nods. “Oh my god, Hobi, that’s amazing!” You launch across the table to hug him. “I still hate you for bailing, but think of all the tiny raisins you’re gonna help bring into the world!” You wipe away a fake tear. “You’re a god amongst men, Jung Hoseok.”

He takes a bow. “Thank you, thank you. Speaking of which, how’s the volunteer gig in the ER treating you?”

“It’s fine.” You groan, put-upon, and sometimes Hoseok is so smiley and endearing that you feel guilty unloading all of your burdens on him, so you aren’t going to. Not unless he asks. Because he’s prone to dramatics and neuroticism but not like you are, and you know it can be a lot for someone not expecting it.

However—

“That’s good. Is that annoying guy you told me about still bothering you?”

Wrong question.

You cock an eyebrow. “This is the third time this week.”

In front of you, Kim Seokjin just grins, dried blood cracking on his plush lower lip. “Yep.”

“It’s Tuesday,” you deadpan. The grin grows wider, warping the purple-black bruise beneath his eye.

Because he’s arguably the most annoying person on earth, Seokjin just hums an acknowledgement, leaning further against the reception desk. “Well,” he says, voice interlaced with honey, “you’d have to take that up with the Babylonians, since they invented the modern calendar. Not much I can do about that.”

A pause. Then, “You’re really fucking annoying, do you know that?”

“It's a bit rude to insult someone seeking out your services, don’t you think?”

You roll your eyes, pushing your tongue into the fat of your cheek. “Not really. Not if it’s you.”

Surprisingly—or maybe not, considering everything seems to roll off his back—a laugh comes tumbling out of him. “Listen, I know it’s probably overwhelming to be blessed with the sight of this face not once, but three times in a week. I can understand and excuse your insensitivity, so I won’t report you this time, but—”

Ignoring him, you slam a clipboard onto the space between you. “You know the drill.”

“What if I’ve forgotten it?”

“Name, address, insurance information, reason for treatment.”

“You know my name, you know where I live, insurance hasn’t changed, and I’m just here to soak in your sparkling personality.”

With as murderous a stare as you can muster, you push the clipboard further in his direction. It hits something solid. Probably a rib, judging by Seokjin’s pained wheeze, but you don’t get paid enough to care. “Do you need a pen?”

“Why, so you can stab me with it?”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

He rolls his eyes. Thumbs through the intake forms and pretends to read them, even though the last time he had to sign one he’d just drawn a stick figure giving you the finger. “Have you ever spoken to anyone about your sociopathic tendencies? Might do you some good.”

With prolonged eye contact, you toss a pen in his direction. Hits him square between the eyes. “A million times,” you deadpan. This is where you’d blow a bubble and pop it if you were allowed to chew gum on the clock. “I’ve been diagnosed with an incurable case of bitchitis. It’s a very tragic burden to bear. Fill out the form.”

Seokjin huffs. Stays standing right in front of you as he does as you say, ignoring the line of people behind him that’s rapidly stacking up. Someone towards the back yells at him to get out of the way, but the protest dies immediately once he turns around and smiles. You think an elderly woman faints. She definitely bobbles, at the very least.

“Thanks so much for your help,” Seokjin says, handing the forms back with a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. They’re free of doodled middle fingers, so you wave him off. “Have a great day,” he lobs over his shoulder. When you look down, he’s giving you the finger at waist-height.

“Have the day you deserve,” you fire back.

Your skin needles with anxiety for the rest of the day.

Seokjin comes into the emergency room again on Friday.

He’s got a large gash just above his eyebrow that’s gonna need stitches. You tell him as much as he fills out the same forms as the day before, and he tells you to tell him something he doesn’t know as he rolls his eyes and winces immediately.

“Here’s something you don’t seem to know: karma is real, and she also thinks you’re an asshole.”

You get the finger again for that one. Honestly, you can’t say you don’t deserve it.

“Kiss my ass.”

You pretend to pout. “Health hazard. Against hospital policy.”

Seokjin pauses. Seems to study you for a while, and then he’s cocking an eyebrow and asking, “What do you actually do here, anyway? Besides be a giant bitch.”

Wordlessly, you point at your name tag. There, right beneath your first and last name, lies the answer to Seokjin’s question. He squints. Winces again. “You’re a med student?”

Again, you point at your name tag.

“That means I can write a complaint.”

“Go ahead,” you retort. “My mother’s on the board of directors, and luckily for you she already knows I’m a giant bitch.”

Seokjin snorts, jaw dropping slightly. Just enough to draw attention to his mouth, which you’ve seen a hundred times for a hundred different injuries, but it looks especially sinful today. Maybe it’s just because he’s being mean to you, which is something you might need to explore with Taehyung in exchange for pictures of your feet.

“Ah, I should’ve known. You’ve got overwhelming nepo kid energy. Probably never had to work for anything a day in your life, huh? Probably a legacy to whatever shit-tier medical school was bribed into accepting you, too.”

Until now, you’d thought your banter with Seokjin was relatively harmless. Barbed, sure, and definitely effective. You’d throttle Seokjin if given the chance, and you know he’d do the same. But it’s never been outright cruel.

You try to look unfazed. Try to look like you don’t care about Seokjin and his words at all, because they’re nothing you haven’t heard before. Not like you’d asked to be born to your parents, so shit like this usually rolled off your back.

Now, though—

Your face must fall, just a little, because Seokjin immediately looks remorseful. Moves to say something, but you’re retrieving his clipboard and intake paperwork before he can stutter out an apology. “Thanks. They’ll call you back shortly.”

“Hey, I—“

“You can take a seat over there,” you interject, eyes locked on your computer screen. If you tear up, you can just blame it on eye strain.

You don’t see Seokjin for another two weeks.

And that’s… fine. His absence has given you some time to digest, some time to mull things over, decide if you’re actually upset or if you’d gone temporarily insane. It’d taken ten days, but you came to the conclusion that it’d just been a fleeting moment of sensitivity. People are mean to you all the time in the ER; if you took each insult or attack on your character to heart, you’d be in for a world of hurt.

So, yeah. You’d had a rough day and Seokjin saying you were a good-for-nothing nepot stung a little. That’s it.

Because you’ve got more pressing matters to attend to. You’ve managed to piss away an entire month without securing a date to the wedding, and now you’ve got time breathing down your neck. Two months, your mother’s shrill voice shrieks in your head, and it devolves into weeks and days and hours the longer you let yourself spiral. It’d seemed like so long before: you’d been so certain you’d have a date by the end of day one, and then the universe had to go and humble you. Cruel.

But the universe is also fair, because one day it’s been two weeks since you’ve seen Seokjin, and the next it’s a painfully slow Thursday afternoon and he strolls in with splinted fingers and a sheepish, weary expression.

“Uh, hi.”

You look up from your computer, taking in all the bruises and scars that dot his face but take nothing away from the beauty of it. “Sorry, exorcism hours ended at noon.”

Seokjin swallows, nostrils flaring. He looks like he wants to argue, just because he’s him and you’re you, but he acquiesces with a little nod. “Fair. I deserved that.”

“Here for the usual?” you ask, tone dry and neutral. When Seokjin doesn’t answer, you grab a clipboard and start your usual spiel—name, address, insurance information, reason for treatment—and then there’s a choked-off sound, not unlike a cat dying.

He looks pained when you dare a glance. Face contorted into a grimace, just like all the parents who bring in their constipated babies. “No, no,” he says. Sucks in a deep breath, and you nearly roll your eyes in exasperation. This guy’s acting like he’s about to give a speech at the goddamn United Nations. “I’m here to… apologize?”

You blink. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Telling you?” A pause. “Yeah, definitely telling you.”

“Okay.” Another pause. Seokjin fidgets, shifts his weight from one leg to the other, wipes probably-sweaty palms on his jeans, picks up every pen in the cup and drops it back in. “Well, the floor is yours.” More silence. His face seems to shift into reluctant acceptance. “Any day now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Okay.”

“I was having a bad day and I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Okay.”

“I still think you’re really mean—”

“Sure, that’s fair.”

“—but I’d like to make it up to you. I think.”

“You sure are thinking a lot. Wanna give those brain cells a break?”

“Fuck you,” he replies automatically. “Here I am, trying to be nice—”

An idea strikes you then. Parts the hazy recesses of your mind like the Red Sea, and it feels like you’ve been struck by lightning. “How were you planning on making it up to me?”

Because he’s not wholly an idiot, Seokjin sends you a pointed look. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You’re sure your smile looks straight out of a Creepypasta, but there’s an opportunity here, and you’d be a fool to let it slip through your fingers. “Because I just so happen to need a favor, and here you are, ready to dish one out.”

“I never said it was a favor.”

You pout. “But Seokjin,” you whine, “you were so mean.”

One of his eyes twitches. “Why does this feel like a crossroads deal?”

“I think the Grinch felt similar. Right before his heart grew three sizes and he saved Christmas.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and you can almost see the scales tipping in his brain, weighing whether or not it’s a good idea to entertain you at all. Which is impressive, all things considered, because he doesn’t even know what you’ll ask for yet. He could be expecting something humiliating at his expense, or a monetary bribe—you’re pretty certain asking for a date will catch him fully off-guard.

“What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing big,” you reply easily. Twirl your hair around your finger. Bat your eyelashes. “Just a little date.”

Seokjin sputters. “A what.”

“A date,” you repeat. “I just so happen to need a date to my brother’s wedding, and you just so happen to be overcome with guilt. It’s a win-win.”

“We don’t even like each other!”

You click your tongue. “Even better, because I don’t like my brother, either!”

“So this is… what? A game? Some kind of petty revenge? Bring the guy who looks like me to your brother’s wedding to rebel against your parents?”

“Yes, absolutely,” you answer, not even bothering to sugarcoat it. Seokjin doesn’t seem convinced. You sigh. “Look, you can say no. Or I can throw in something extra if it feels unfair—”

“Like what?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, I haven’t had time to prepare a fucking offer sheet, Seokjin. What do you want?”

“Depends. What’s this all entail? Is it a one-time thing or do I have to pretend to be your boyfriend?”

You choke. “My boyf—” But then it hits you: your brother will hate this. Your parents will hate it even more. Without even needing to ask, it’s clear Seokjin isn’t from your world, and if they’re ready to disinherit you for showing up to your brother’s wedding alone, might as well commit to the bit. So you clear your throat and smile again. “And if I say yes?”

“It’ll cost more,” Seokjin deadpans.

You nod, feeling a little like you’re swindling this poor man. “Add it to my tab, boyfriend.”

[THE MEETING]

Finding a date was supposed to be the hard part. Turns out, it’s only the beginning.

Your parents are thrilled and a little stunned when you tell them you’ve secured a plus-one. (So is your brother, but you have better luck with him listening when you tell him to fuck off. It’s a little hard to say the same to your mother and father when they’re dangling a trust fund in front of you like a carrot.) And, in true upper echelon form, they grill you. For hours. Family name, family business, how you met, what their intentions are, blah blah blah. You feel a migraine coming on somewhere around question two.

Eventually, your mother says, “I don’t know about this,” and your father grunts in agreement. You don’t think he’s used full words in years. Not with you.

“What’s there to know?” you whine, nearly rolling your eyes. “I’m not marrying the guy. It’s just a date.”

Your mother flutters around the kitchen, pointedly not looking at you. It’s weird seeing her like this: almost like a real mother, almost like she’s going to say something comforting and serve you a plate of freshly-baked cookies instead of huffing and puffing at everything you say and treating you like a pariah. “Do you even know this young man?”

“Of course I know him.”

“Do I need to remind you that it’s bad etiquette to bring a first date to a wedding?”

There’s a pang of annoyance that you have to tamper down. “It’s not a first date.”

“Oh? You’ve been seeing him regularly?”

This time you do roll your eyes. “Sure, Mom.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at your mother,” your father says, not bothering to lower the newspaper in front of him.

“How did you—”

“Is this young man your boyfriend?”

You think about what Seokjin had said: It’ll cost more. Not, you couldn’t pay me eight billion dollars to pretend to date you. Not, no thanks I’d rather die. Just, it’ll cost more. So, as you sit in this opulent kitchen with your parents and some ungodly amount of Italian marble, you think there’s nothing you wouldn’t pay to make these people miserable. These people, who never saw you beyond a status symbol. That traditional nuclear family tucked behind the white picket fence. Two kids. Golden retriever. Pool boy. Family vacations to five-star resorts, only your parents smiling in the pictures before they abandoned you and your brother with the nanny.

So, no, Seokjin isn’t your boyfriend. Not really. But he’s willing to play the part and that’s good enough. “Yeah,” you answer, and one simple word stops your mother in her tracks and gets your father to finally abandon his stupid newspaper, and just this little bit of power feels nice.

“Oh,” comes your mother’s reply. She shares a look with your father.

Because the patriarchy is alive and well and he loves to play the arbiter, he says, “I think we should meet him.”

And, because you’re not an idiot, you say, “Don’t forget the rule was that I had to find a date, not that you had to approve them.”

With a huff, your father disappears again behind his newspaper.

You: i need another favor

Rapid Onset Migraine: how much

You: shouldn’t my boyfriend want to do nice things for me out of the kindness of his own heart

Rapid Onset Migraine: no

(“Shouldn’t you have him saved under his actual name? Maybe a little heart emoji?” Hoseok asks, looking over your shoulder. “Unless he has a degradation kink, I don’t think anyone’s going to buy that someone named Rapid Onset Migraine is actually your boyfriend.”

“Shut up, Hobi. It’s one of those things that are violently affectionate and ironically cute.” A pause. Then—“Do you think Thunderclap Headache is better?”

“No. No, I definitely do not.”)

You: you don’t even know what the favor is

Rapid Onset Migraine: don’t care

You: fine

You: i would like to formally demand your presence at dinner with my parents this thursday at 7

Rapid Onset Migraine: i’m busy

You: i will literally venmo you rn to cancel your plans

Rapid Onset Migraine: i’m suddenly free. @jin-k92

Rapid Onset Migraine: five hundred dollars please

You: fuck off

You: $50. final offer. take it or leave it

Rapid Onset Migraine: leave it

You: sent. see you thursday!

  It’s Tuesday night and you’re fresh off your shift, headed to your car, looking forward to doing nothing but absorbing into your couch and maybe using that new bath bomb, when someone on a skateboard crashes into you.

You’re on your ass before you can process, stunned, staring up at the fluorescent lights of the parking lot. A familiar face enters your line of sight, not looking all that apologetic. “Whoops.”

You groan. “Worst boyfriend ever,” you retort, sticking your hand in the air. “At least help me up.”

There’s absolutely no grace in the way Seokjin hauls you to your feet. Doesn’t bother to steady you when you bobble, either, and you have half a mind to give him the finger. Instead, you say, “Are you stalking me?” and delight in the split-second of panic that overtakes his features.

“No,” he eventually says, expression right back to neutral. “You’ve already agreed to date me. Why would I need to stalk you?”

“There’s at least seventeen different problems with that statement and I’m not going to touch any of them.” You take a second to look him over: no obvious injuries, still obnoxiously attractive. Hair a little longer than usual, rogue strands hanging loose and framing his face. No one should be allowed to look like this. He really, really gets on your nerves. “Why are you here, though? You look fine.”

“I am fine—”

“Uninjured,” you clarify, which earns you a scoff.

“I’m that, too,” he snarks, “but I came to find you to figure out the game plan.”

“Why didn’t you just text me?”

“I was already in the area,” he lies.

“Uh-huh.”

“And I thought I could con you into buying me dinner.”

“What’d you do with the fifty bucks I sent you the other day?”

Seokjin looks at you like you’re dumb. You’re really starting to wonder if you are. “I spent it.”

“On what?”

“Are you my accountant now?” he huffs.

“No, but you’re not my sugar baby, either. Buy your own dinner.”

He bats his lashes at you. “But honey…”

“Fuck off, Seokjin,” you say, stomping towards your car. Unsurprisingly, he’s right behind you, the wheels of his skateboard noisy as they glide along the concrete. “This is why you’re always needing stitches?” you ask, knowing he’s close enough to hear.

“Yep.” A louder noise; probably some kind of trick. You’re not going to dignify him by watching and being impressed.

During your second semester of college, Hoseok had gotten you into this horrible habit of parking far away. So you get your steps in, had been his reasoning, and it’s hard to say whether you’d given in to the 10,000 steps per day hysteria or just Hoseok’s convincing, evil little smile, but you still do it. And you’re really regretting it now, when you have to traipse through a half-mile of parking lot with the world’s most annoying person on your heels.

“Are you gonna take me to dinner, though?”

That’s how you wind up sitting across from him at a diner.

His cheeseburger is demolished in record time. Fries are halfway gone, too, by the time he asks what the plan is and seems genuinely shocked when you say there isn’t one.

“What do you mean there’s no plan?”

“There’s no plan,” you repeat, dipping your own fry into his ketchup just so he has to swat your hand away. “I mean, dinner is at seven, but that’s it.”

Seokjin looks confused, like you’ve tilted his world on its axis. “There’s gotta be a plan,” he argues. “There’s always a plan with you trust fund kids.”

Another dig, and you can tell by the way he avoids your gaze once he makes it. “There’s really no plan,” you say, ignoring the quip. There’s a reason you’ve got a fake boyfriend, and it’s not because your parents are benevolent and easy-going. “I don’t care what you tell my parents.”

“Now I know for sure you’re setting me up.”

You shrug. “Believe whatever you want.”

Seokjin studies you, clearly still unconvinced. “You’re telling me,” he begins, sticking the straw of his root beer float in his mouth, “that I can just walk in there and sabotage you? That I have carte blanche? That I can tell them you literally paid me to be there?” You shrug. There’s a disgusting slurping sound. You grimace.

“Well, I’m hoping you won’t, but I certainly can’t stop you.”

“You’re terrible at fake dating.”

A sigh escapes you before you can stop it. You don’t want to delve into twenty-plus years of parental trauma, especially not with this guy, but sometimes it can’t be helped. “Look, I don’t want to go to my brother’s wedding. I don’t like him, and I don’t like my parents. No one else wanted to fake date me”—you hold up your hand to kill the obvious comment before he makes it—“and, honestly, my parents are gonna hate you and that’s the entire reason I asked for your help. So, no, I don’t care what you tell them, because I don’t care if they approve. I’m sick of them making me jump through hoops just to be their kid.”

Unfazed, Seokjin breezily replies, “You obviously care enough to keep taking their money.”

“I consider my trust fund to be reparations.”

“That why you were so touchy about that nepotism comment?”

Nodding, you fidget with the hem of your scrub top, hands suddenly sweaty. “Well, it doesn’t feel great to have my accomplishments credited to my last name or whatever, but it’s not something I can stop anyone from assuming.”

“Are they?”

“It’d be naive to think they aren’t.”

“You got into med school, though,” Seokjin says, and you tamper down the flush that’s creeping in. You are not going to care about any man’s acknowledgement. “That’s not an easy thing to do.”

“Can you tell my parents that?”

A laugh bellows out of him, and you’re horrified to learn it’s a terrible sound. Everyone in the diner turns to stare, and you’re flushed crimson and trying to duck under the table.

Still, you can’t help but smile. Your parents really are going to have a stroke.

To your delight, Seokjin is good at getting people to hate him. Like, really good—almost scarily so.

He’d shown up twenty minutes late, having ignored the dress code entirely, clad in a pair of ripped black jeans and a plain black t-shirt, arm tattoos and innumerable scars proudly on display. He hadn’t bothered to shake your father’s hand or introduce himself to your mother, just fell into the seat next to you, stage-whispered a, this place is a shithole huh, and stuck his nose in a menu. When the waiter came by, he ordered a bottle of wine older than the two of you combined and the most expensive entree on the menu.

Now, an hour in, your parents are teetering on the edge of a major cardiac event.

“So, Seokjin,” your father says, voice gritty and forced, “what do you do?”

Seokjin shoves a large piece of meat in his mouth, making sure to smack his lips. “What d’you mean?” he asks, the question garbled around the food.

“For a living.”

Scarily good, you think. Seokjin pretends to choke, pretends to look shocked and appalled. “I don’t work,” he answers, tone bang-on to the one your parents use when they’re being condescending. “My parents give me money, and I figured I’d date this one”—he flicks you in the temple—“until she becomes a doctor and can support me. Then we’ll get married.”

Your mother gasps. Your smile is involuntary.

Your father, on the other hand, knocks over his wine glass. Spills it all over the table, goes red in the face, and it’s the most distressed you’ve ever seen him, usually composed to a fault, immovable. “You’ll do no such thi—”

Seokjin fakes a yawn. “You ready, babe?” He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, just stands, tosses his napkin on the table, and grabs your hand. The two of you are out of the restaurant before either of your parents can utter a word.

Feels like one of those movie moments, you think: the cool breeze in your hair, against your flushed cheeks, your hand in Seokjin’s, both of you not daring to breathe or make a sound until you’re safe outside, away from your parents and their gobsmacked expressions. And then you crack, just enough for laughter to spill out, and Seokjin snorts, another horrible sound, and before you know it, the two of you are collapsed against the side of the restaurant, tears in your eyes as the brick scrapes against your skin.

Maybe something shifts. Maybe the smile Seokjin sends you is genuine.

[THE RELATIONSHIP]

Much to your horror, fake relationships aren’t all that different from normal, authentic ones.

Which means two things: one, that your brother and his wife-to-be both received an earful from your parents about Seokjin and The Dinner, and two, you still have to compromise.

The first one wasn’t so bad. Your brother had called you and issued a vague threat, of course, because he’s never had a sense of humor about anything, but you hadn’t answered so it’d been easy to delete the voicemail and forget about it. And, luckily for him, your future sister-in-law was far more lax. Bring him, she’d texted. He sounds like a good time.

You’re not sure you’d describe Kim Seokjin as a good time, but you replied with a thumbs-up emoji regardless.

All of that had been fine. You’re well-versed in dealing with your family by now, so it’s easy to let their bullshit wash over you and down the drain like rainwater.

No, it’s the fake but has to look at least semi-real relationship that’s proving to be difficult.

Because you don’t like to compromise. You want to do what you want to do when you want to do it, and you don’t want to hear about it from anyone. But here you are, doing a quasi-photoshoot with Seokjin so he can “soft launch” you on his Instagram—which, honestly, is a little daunting. He has a lot of followers. Not surprising, considering the way he looks, but the thought of being perceived by hundreds of thousands of strangers makes you feel like you’re wearing your skin inside-out.

“Can you try looking less constipated?” he asks, tone dry as toast as he scrolls through the series of selfies the two of you just took.

You scoff. “First of all, I don’t look constipated.” Really, you don’t. “Second of all, why do you even need to do this? We only have to convince my parents, and you pissed them off so bad I’m not sure they’ll ever ask me to bring a date to anything ever again.”

“Because I have a competition next weekend that you’ll have to go to, and I don’t want anyone asking any questions.”

“What if I’m busy?”

“You’re not,” Seokjin retorts, all conviction. “If I had to clear my schedule for that dinner, you’re free for this.”

“What if I have a school thing?”

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. He’s looking at you, and you’re looking at him through his phone camera. It’s really not fair, the way his face is. “Do you?”

“No, but what if?”

He takes another picture and cackles, gleefully showing it to you. “See? You definitely look constipated.”

With a glare, you wrestle the phone out of his hand and aim it the way you want—the way you know looks good. And maybe you do a little pout, too; do that thing with your eyes that looks seductive and a little dirty. Not because you care about what Seokjin’s followers think, because you’re hot and you know it, but because you want him to suffer. Just a little bit. It’s illogical, the way you want him to look at this picture and feel… something. Half pride, half longing.

So, you angle and pout. Delight in the caught-out expression on Seokjin’s face this time, like it’s the first time he’s learning that you’re hot and that it troubles him a little. “Is that better?” you ask, sugar-sweet.

Seokjin doesn’t respond, just posts the picture to his Instagram story.

Skateboarding has never been your thing.

Your brother had gone through a phase, once. Spent all his allowance on the video games and collected CCS catalogs, spending imaginary money as he’d thumb through the pages and circle everything he wanted. Never bought a real board, though—just developed a superiority complex because he listened to the Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater 2 soundtrack one too many times and thought it was a legitimate substitute for actual pre-teen rebellion.

However, fake-dating Seokjin means you’re getting a crash course.

“What do these do?” you ask, holding up a set of wheels. There’s an alien holding a bong on them. They make you laugh.

Seokjin eyes you from across the shop and pointedly ignores your question. Instead, the disgruntled guy behind the register answers. “They’re wheels,” he says, tone clipped, which you answer with a surprised noise, like you’ve discovered something new.

“Wow, wheels,” you intone. “Cool.”

Done picking out new grip tape, or whatever the hell he’d said, Seokjin plucks the wheels from your hand and puts them back where you’d gotten them. “Fascinating invention, huh?”

The man behind the register smells like weed. Reeks of it, actually, and the stench is almost overbearing as you sidle up next to Seokjin at the counter. Yoongi, his name tag reads. You don’t think he looks like a Yoongi, because it kind of lends itself to a stoner character, but it also sounds kind of sweet, and the man in front of you looks like he could snap you like a twig and enjoy it.

Then—“Oh, you’re Instagram girl.”

You scowl. “I’m who.”

First, you’re reduced to nepotism and your family name; now it’s Instagram. There’s a huff halfway out of your mouth when Seokjin wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you against his side. You think he’d press a kiss to your temple if this was real. “My beautiful girlfriend,” he says, playfully hip-checking you. 

Yoongi looks between the two of you, then pushes the tape back in Seokjin’s direction. “You know you don’t have to pay for this shit, man.”

“Sure, but I can. I have a rich girlfriend now.”

He yelps when you step on his foot with the heel of your boot. “Aren’t you so lucky,” you grit out.

You don’t see the way his gaze softens, but Yoongi sure does.

Anticipation crackles in the air.

Feels like the day you’d sat for the MCAT—that brand of nervous, determined focus, bordering on excitement. Something that will really only go one of two ways with a million variables, and it’s a small relief to not be the one in the hot seat.

Hoseok had been there last time. Now, a man that’s seemingly all limbs plops down beside you, ungraceful and awkward.

“You’re Instagram girl,” he says, before sticking his hand out. “Hi, I’m Namjoon.”

Seems like Seokjin’s idea of a soft launch is anything but. Briefly, you wonder how many more people are going to forego your identity entirely in the name of Instagram, but it’s kind of nice, too—nice to be someone other than your parents’ daughter, your brother’s sister, your family name. There’s a long way to go before the patriarchy is smashed entirely, because it’s not so nice to be newly reduced to Seokjin’s girlfriend, but baby steps.

For now, it’s all right.

For now, there are far worse things you could be.

“Hi, Namjoon,” you finally reply, because he seems out of place and nice enough—nicer than Yoongi, at least. Definitely far less gruff and abrasive.

He chokes a little, like he’s surprised you responded to him. Not for the first time, it’s just sort of par for the course when you are who you are. “Oh, sorry,” he says, cheeks flushing under the guise of the relentless afternoon sun. “I just—recognized you? And couldn’t help myself? Which probably sounds really creepy, which was not my intent, it’s just—Jin doesn’t bring anyone to these things. Like, ever. So it was a little shocking! Kind of like meeting a celebrity? Even though I’ve never really done that, either. Oh! I met Greta Thunberg once. That was cool. It was, like, on accident, though? So…”

On and on he goes, bless him, because he just talks endlessly without expecting a response. You look around: the bleachers are starting to fill up, awestruck kids with humored parents, and you wonder what that’s like. To have an interest in something and have it nurtured, instead of having to live up to expectations you never wanted. Maybe you would’ve been a skateboarder, too. Maybe you would’ve shucked all those societal norms and did something you wanted, even though it doesn’t really matter now.

“Hey,” you say, stopping Namjoon’s latest spiel in its tracks, “do you come to these things often?”

Namjoon lights up like Christmas. People must not ask him about himself much. “Yeah! Well, sometimes? I’m in grad school, so I come when I have time. I thought it’d be a good idea to get two master’s degrees, so I finished my first one—in philosophy, before you ask, which was pretty stupid, because what am I gonna do with that, you know? But I guess it worked, because I had a full-blown existential crisis and decided to get a second one to put off the inevitable second existential crisis over what I was going to do with my life—”

“What was that one in?”

Namjoon startles again, and it’s almost hopelessly endearing. “Huh? Oh, Botany and Plant Pathology.”

You blink. “Plant pathology?”

“Yeah! It’s really interesting, because everything’s connected, right? Like, you can’t really fight climate change and food insecurity if you have all these diseased crops and forests, and I leaned pretty heavily into biological philosophy for my first degree, especially environmental ethics and conservation—”

“...And you come to skateboarding competitions for fun?”

His ears turn red; his cheeks and neck follow shortly thereafter. “I like physics, and skateboarding has a lot of physics.”

Just your luck. “Can you explain to me what’s going on, then?”

Namjoon does as you ask, and takes his job very seriously. He explains the rules and the implications, the rankings and what they mean for the future, who’s who and the major players. He explains tricks as they happen—how they got their names, who did them first, notable events. You remember your brother screaming at the TV the night Tony Hawk landed the 900 at the X Games, and Namjoon’s smile is so bright when you tell him about it.

“Yeah, that’s—that was so fucking cool, man. You know he was 31 when he did that? I think about that sometimes. There’s all this emphasis on aging, this juvenile notion that life peaks in your twenties, that you need to have it all figured out before you’re thirty: the job, the marriage, the house with the white picket fence, and it’s bullshit. I know it’s bullshit, but sometimes I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything at my age, and I just think: Tony Hawk landed the first 900 when he was 31 years old, and now 10 year olds are doing it. That’s fucking dope.”

He’s off on another tangent almost immediately, telling you about how he’d met Seokjin and how they became friends. You hear none of it. Seokjin comes in second place. You don’t remember much of the celebration, either.

You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve been dunked in ice-cold water. Feels a bit like drowning.

You’re good at compartmentalizing.

You have to be, growing up in the family you did. Because Namjoon’s words had rattled you, sure, but you can’t linger on them. Lectures still need to be attended, hospital shifts still need to be worked, and it’d really hurt Hoseok’s feelings if you bailed on your study sessions, so you have to tuck away all those wayward thoughts for later.

Not until you’re alone, tucked into bed far too early for someone in their mid-20s, do you think about it.

Well, it’s less ‘thinking’ and more ‘ah, these are the existential crises Namjoon was talking about.’ Certainly not your first crisis, and it won’t be your last, but it’s still… unnerving. Being a doctor was something you’d always been rock-solid about. You hadn’t wanted to go into business like your father and brother, had no interest in kissing ass in the political sphere and wielding influence like your mother, but you’d been told all your life you had to do something. Something important, something impressive, something worth bragging about—because what were you worth if your parents couldn’t talk endlessly at fundraisers about how much better you were than everyone else?

You glance at the clock: almost two a.m. There’s only one person that’ll be awake at this hour, even though you shouldn’t. Seokjin has one job, and it isn’t talking you off the proverbial ledge in the middle of the night. Still—

You: you up?

Rapid Onset Migraine: this is happening a little fast don’t you think?

You: ??? huh

You: wait no

You: that’s NOT what i meant

Rapid Onset Migraine: yeah sure

Rapid Onset Migraine: well obviously i’m awake

Rapid Onset Migraine: you ok?

You: yeah, i’m sorry to bother you about this

You: i think i’m just having a bad time?

That’s that, you think, because minutes pass without a response. But then your phone’s vibrating, lighting up in your hand. Rapid Onset Migraine flashes across the screen, his contact photo set to a meme of Handsome Squidward just because you’d thought it was funny.

“Hello?”

“Sorry,” he says immediately, “I needed to make a pot of coffee before I had this conversation.”

You hum. The comment doesn’t sting. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink coffee.”

“I don’t,” Seokjin answers. “Well, not usually. Only if I have an early flight or something.”

“Or need to talk through your fake girlfriend’s two a.m. existential crisis?”

“Yeah.” Seokjin laughs, and it’s almost enough of a balm. “But I’m friends with Namjoon, so I’m an expert in those by now. I keep weird hours, anyway, you know? I’m either skating or gaming, so he used to call me at, like, four in the morning because he’d read too much Kierkegaard or Beauvoir and was spiraling.” You hear him take a sip of coffee. He starts sputtering immediately. “Shit, that’s hot. Fuck, I think I burnt my tongue off.”

“Luckily you know a doctor.”

“I do,” he says, and his tone is warm. Almost proud? “Anyway, what’s going on? You read Being and Nothingness, too, or what?”

For a moment, you’re just quiet, trying to think of the words to say. You’re well aware of your privilege, make a conscious effort to not throw it around the way others might, so there’s a lot of guilt that comes with something like this. You know what people probably think: poor little rich girl, with her family money and their connections, it must be so hard to be her. It’s not, and you’re fine, but—

“Did you always want to skate professionally?” you ask, because you figure it’s safe. Doesn’t give it all away, even though Seokjin’s smart enough to read between the lines.

And, to your surprise, he plays along. Doesn’t call you out or press on the bruise, just says, “Hm, no, not really.”

“No?” you repeat, incredulous. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he confirms. “This is really embarrassing, but I wanted to get into software engineering or coding. Whatever would let me make video games.”

“Why would that be embarrassing?”

“Because it’s me?” Seokjin forces a laugh, pure self-deprecation. “That’s the kind of stuff people like Namjoon do. And that’s—it’s fine. I’m good at skateboarding and I get paid to do it. That’s the kind of thing kids dream about, right? Getting paid to travel around and skateboard all day?” He sighs, and it’s broken in a way that’s unsettling and familiar. A sound that could be coming from your own lips. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it and I’m thankful I get to do this as a job, it’s just not what I thought I’d be doing with my life.”

A brief silence, and then Seokjin’s talking again before you can reply, which you’re glad for. Everything feels off-center. “Is that what’s going on? School stress?”

“Maybe,” you admit, still a little breathless. “I’m just… struggling? I think? With knowing what’s actual desire and what’s just expectation.”

“Ah, I see. I don’t think I can really help with that beyond empathizing, but I’m sorry you’re going through it.” Then, like he’s telling you a secret, “If it helps at all, I think it takes a lot of courage to do this kind of introspection. It’s not easy, especially when you’re likely to find things you don’t want to.”

You can’t help but snort, but it’s gentle. Quiet, though still loud in the stillness of your bedroom. “Thanks,” you eventually reply. “Surprisingly comforting.”

“Yah, I’ll have you know I’m a very comforting person!”

“Of course you are.”

“Besides,” he says, and his tone takes on such conviction you’re sure you’ll believe whatever comes out of his mouth next with no hesitation, “it’s fine if you decide this isn’t what you wanna do. It’s never too late, or whatever, but for what it’s worth, I think you’re going to be a great doctor.”

“Or whatever,” you echo, smile creeping up on you. “That makes it sound so easy.”

“I guess it is.”

What’s it like to live like that, you wonder. Completely devoid of expectations, just going with the flow, doing what you want without crippling fear of the consequences. Must be nice, is your conclusion. Life doesn’t work like that for you, and you’ve had plenty of time to come to terms with that, so it’s fine. You’re on a path and maybe it’s not what you would’ve chosen had you had time to look at all the possibilities, but you’re on a path and it’s yours.

You want to say this to Seokjin. You want to thank him, both for the pep talk and the unfounded confidence, but your eyelids feel heavy and he’s just babbling now, something about the first time he landed a tre flip, and it’s soothing. Comforting.

Sleep takes you before you can think about it too hard—think about how Seokjin used to be nothing but a menace, the worst part of your day, and now he’s not.

You’re on another night shift, third in a row, and you’re the kind of exhausted that has you smelling colors.

Nothing makes sense. Your bones hurt. When you think about going home and finally going to bed it feels like when you’re starving and wait too long to eat and don’t feel hungry anymore. Then you finally do and it’s not satisfying, kind of makes your stomach hurt, and the cycle repeats.

Seokjin texts you to check in. After your two a.m. convo, you’re hyperaware of how much time you spend venting, so you assure him you’re fine. He drops off a coffee and some snacks, anyway. Just because he’s already up.

—

There are other hangouts. You don’t call them dates, because that word has implications and meaning and this is fake, but you have them nonetheless.

Overindulgent takeaway, equally expensive alcohol that has sat unopened in your apartment for far too long, shitty movies playing in the background, and Seokjin’s inability to stop talking. He sneakily lobs popcorn at you when he thinks you aren’t looking. This prompts an all-out war, and you both have tears streaming down your faces by the time Seokjin calls a truce.

Just days later, you spread out a gingham blanket in the park. Seokjin makes up bullshit constellations, gives them horrific names and backstories, and revels in the sound of your infectious laughter. When your head feels too heavy to hold up, you lay back in the grass and try to keep your heart in your chest when Seokjin does the same, slender fingers searching out yours in the dark.

You want so badly to kiss him. Want to crash your mouths together and kiss him breathless, but you don’t.

On your third hangout, you cover each other in silly temporary tattoos and take too many selfies. Seokjin snorts at how dumb he looks in the filters and asks you to send him some, immediately setting a particularly couple-y shot as your contact photo.

And if you get butterflies when he posts one to his Instagram story? Well, that’s your business.

—

Seokjin gets the dumb idea that he’s going to teach you to skate.

Which is not only dumb because it’s impossible, but because you’re sure your skeletal system is probably insured for millions of dollars, knowing your parents. You can’t do any of your clinical rotations with broken bones—instant dismissal—and Seokjin knows this, but he’s annoyingly persistent and assures you you’ll be fine, so you relent because you trust him, despite all odds.

Physically, you are fine. Seokjin holds onto your waist and doesn’t let you fall, which is about all you can ask for when it comes to unwanted skateboarding lessons. Emotionally, though? Not so much. You’ve been close to Seokjin before. Enough to feel his body heat; enough to get goosebumps; enough to nearly become delirious with your want to taste him.

Normally that’s fine. But now, as he uses one hand to hold your waist and the other to hold your own hand, you can’t think of a single logical explanation for depriving yourself of more of this. Because he’s steady and warm, and sometimes you teeter and he grips tighter, causing your mind to wander and think about things it shouldn’t. You’re only human, and Seokjin is an otherworldly brand of handsome, so you don’t beat yourself up over it.

Still. It ignites something, that’s for sure, and if it’s anything like Seokjin himself, it won’t be easy to extinguish.

—

It’s by complete accident that you meet Jeongguk.

Well, that’s not entirely accurate. You’ve met him before, at some bougie function your parents dragged you to, but it was brief and forced and awkward. Jeongguk was weird back then. Still is, probably, judging from his entire… presence, now.

He’s dangling upside down from a tree branch when you meet him for the second time.

“Oh. Jeongguk. Hi?”

“Hi!” he says, smile brighter than the sun, and before you can ask him why he’s upside down in a tree there’s a massive camera in front of his face. “Are you here to see Jin?”

Here is a public sidewalk, but you don’t say that. Instead, you say, “I’m on my way home. Why are you in a tree?”

His response is nonverbal, just a finger point dead ahead of you. Some Brutalist architecture leftover from the ‘50s—a large set of stairs, public fountain, weird art sculpture, a small crowd. Doesn’t take long to learn what they’re there for: Seokjin grinds down the rail, lands perfectly, nearly skates into the street and gets whacked by a car. Everyone cheers.

Ah, that explains the camera, too. You vaguely recall your mother telling you the youngest Jeon went to school for filmmaking. She hadn’t sounded impressed. You wonder what she’d think if she knew he was your delinquent, skateboarder, fake boyfriend’s videographer. Probably something aneurysm-inducing.

“He’s so cool,” Jeongguk says, whimsical and dreamy in a way that sounds like he has framed photos of Seokjin on his walls. Maybe his picture in a heart frame, like that one meme. “You’re so lucky.” There’s definitely some jealousy there.

You raise an eyebrow. “You wanna date him instead?”

Jeongguk seems to mull it over. Doesn’t move from his spot in the tree, either, and you reckon he’s got another sixty seconds before you forcefully turn him right side up. “Nah. He seems really happy with you.”

“We’re not—” Together, your brain finishes, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. So you cough, hope Jeongguk hasn’t caught it, and say, “Yeah, we’re not doing too bad,” instead.

—

“I think you’re too far gone, personally.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. What does Hoseok know? Okay, he’s probably the smartest person you know, but that’s medicine. He hasn’t had a long-term partner in years, so yeah, what does Hoseok know.

“I am not,” you insist, because the majority of your time in this library has been spent defending the validity of your love life, not studying. “Hobi, look.” You sigh, snapping shut your notebook. A migraine is forming just thinking about the amount of reviewing you’re gonna have to do at home to make up for this. “Does it really matter, in the grand scheme of things? Life is fleeting and we’re all inconsequential, so I understand why you’re grilling me on this and not the MLE review book we paid for—”

He pulls a face. “It was fifty bucks! You’re acting like I’m out thousa—”

“Not the point!”

Hoseok squeezes his eyes shut. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Presses his fingers deep into his frontal sinus points. “I think it not being the point is the point, though? None of this was necessary. You could’ve just brought him to the wedding without having to pretend he’s your boyfriend.” You move to protest. He waves you off. “I know you wanted to get back at your parents. Your parents suck, so I get it, but don’t you think this is a little much?”

“How?”

Now it’s Hoseok’s turn to sigh. Put-upon, like he’s a beleaguered parent talking to a very idiotic child. “Uh, how about the fact that the two of you are going on actual dates, for one? And they’re definitely dates, so I don’t want to hear it. You took him to a Michelin star restaurant, quote-unquote, just because.”

“I was hungry!”

“Sure, okay, whatever you say.” He throws his hands up, clearly defeated, and it settles all wrong in your gut. Hoseok gets mad, sure, but never at you. Not even annoyed. “Have you given any thought at all, even considered just a teeny-tiny bit, that this might not be as fake as you think?”

“No,” you retort, petulant, because it is fake and you don’t need Hoseok to tell you that.

But Hoseok is smart, you know, so you were never going to get off easy. “I think you actually like him.”

“I know. You’ve said that a hundred times.”

“And I’ll say it a hundred and one, if I have to. Fuck, your head must be made of concrete.”

“Could be,” comes your breezy response. “Maybe that’s why my mother hates me.”

Hoseok chokes. Knocks his tea over and onto the MLE guide, which prompts a distressed shriek from him and a harsh shushing from the rest of the library.

So much for it only being fifty dollars.

—

Unbeknownst to you, Yoongi does leave his skate shop, which comes as a shock for a man who has severe cavedweller vibes.

“Hey, Instagram,” he says, smelling like actual cologne and laundry detergent instead of a dispensary as he stands behind you in line.

Yoongi is clearly talking to you. You know he’s talking to you, but you still pause, fragile like a deer caught in headlights, and look over your shoulder as if he could be talking to anyone else. “Uh. Hi?”

He squints. “You are Instagram girl, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I thought so, but you looked at me like I was the one who’s stupid so I wasn’t sure.”

Did he just call you stupid? “Did you just call me stupid?”

Yoongi shrugs. “What’s good here?” he asks, changing the subject. He definitely called you stupid.

“I—most things? I don’t know, I always just get a cold brew with oat milk.”

He grimaces. “Ew, gross. I’m gonna go grab a table. Grab me a medium iced americano.”

You order him a small, purely out of spite, and Yoongi doesn’t come to this coffee shop often enough to know the difference so he doesn’t even notice when you set it down in front of him. Takes all the satisfaction out of being petty. He must know. “Thanks,” he says, not looking up from his phone as he unwraps a straw and stabs his drink perfectly in the center.

“Sure. I’ll send you a Venmo request.”

“Oh, I don’t have Venmo.” He finally looks up. “Are you going to Jin’s thing?” All he receives in response is a blank stare. “The skate comp. Second qualifying round for the big championship event? Surely he’s told you about this.”

Let no man ever say you’re a bad liar. “Ah, yeah, of course! Med student brain. It’s all memorizing neural pathways and… stuff… and forgetting skate competitions.”

“Hm,” comes Yoongi’s response, and he quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t question you further.

(You bring it up to Seokjin later, expecting him to laugh it off, extend an invitation out of obligation. Instead, he laughs in a way that sounds fond. Says, “Yoongi beat me to it,” in a way that brings his scarlet red neck and ears to the forefront of your brain, and follows it up with, “I’d really love it if you came, but I understand how busy you must be right now,” that has your skin flushing all the same.

You’re loath to make promises, but sometimes they’re easy.)

Time is not on your side.

You barely make it to Seokjin’s second competition. Barely have your ass in the bleachers, hairline dotted with sweat and anxiety coursing through you, before he’s dropping into the bowl for his first run.

He’d mentioned it offhand. Told you it wasn’t a big deal if you couldn’t make it, because he knew how busy you were with school and that you needed to study because exam season was relentless, but he’d looked so relieved when you joked that it wasn’t so easy to get rid of you, that you’d be cheering him on from the first row. That being anywhere else just wasn’t an option.

And that had… taken you aback. Watching him skate is a good enough distraction for all those thoughts. You don’t have to dwell on the whys: why the thought of sitting in your apartment, nose stuck in a book instead of being here, had been so unconscionable. Instead, you’re able to focus on him, which is almost worse. Because the way he looks—wind pushing his hair back off his forehead as he skates around, calf muscles flexing every time he kicks, shirt fabric darkening under a light sheen of sweat, smiling at kids and the countless people he knows—is a little overwhelming. You’re winded for two reasons.

It’s a beautiful thing, watching someone do something they’re passionate about. Seokjin especially, but you’re biased. You want only good things for him.

His first run finishes. He chews on his bottom lip as the judges huddle together. Numbers flash on the scoreboard. Good—great, even. You know what the stakes are: score high enough and he’ll advance to the championship. More sponsors will fall in line. Someone will present him with one of those comically large checks that he’ll probably spend on god-knows-what at Yoongi’s shop.

More skaters follow. Highs and lows. Seokjin watches them all, enraptured, just as happy for their successes as his own. Someone bails out right next to him, arms out to break their fall, making a sound an arm should never make, and Seokjin’s there right away. He’s good.

Except the universe doesn’t always reward goodness. His second run starts off well: smooth as butter, impressively technical. Seokjin is fluid when he skates. Makes it look easy, like you could hop on a board and do it just as well. You watch him, but you almost like watching everyone else watch him more: the wide eyes, the whistles under their breath, the nods of approval. Seokjin’s got all of it, truly thrives on the admiration. He’s good, he’s good, he’s good.

You know it’s coming. That trick he’d told you about—the one he’s never been able to land during a competition. The one that’s gnawing away at him. He’s going to try it, and you’re holding your breath as he kickflips, grinds his board along the rail, does some kind of dismount that looks absurd and impossible to your untrained eye.

Then he’s on the ground.

He’s still for a second. Huffs in frustration. Back on his board before you can blink.

Seokjin’s not a child, but you know it stings. You’re overwhelmed by the urge to comfort him, the way he’s done for you countless times, but you shouldn’t so you don’t. The two of you don’t talk until after, and by then it might not matter.

It isn’t until he’s about to drop in for his final run that he scans the crowd. You want to believe the look on his face when he spots you is relief, but it’s painted over in a nanosecond. He smiles, smug but content, and then he’s shoving his helmet back on his head, clapping someone on the back, and he’s off.

Maybe the universe does reward goodness, because everything goes right this time.

Seokjin lines up to attempt the trick again, because if he’s going to go out it’s going to be on his terms. Completely unshakeable, the kind of attitude that gets plastered on those bullshit inspirational posters about falling down nine times and getting up ten, and you wonder, briefly, if it’s stupid. A good score would be enough to get him through, but he wants to do this.

And he does.

Everyone around you erupts as soon as the trick is landed. Seokjin calls the run early—just a handful of seconds left, anyway—and his fellow competitors are on him immediately. Someone picks him up in a bear hug and spins him around, and the joy on his face is so pure, so unbridled, that you almost cry.

But the wait is torturous. His second run had gone so poorly and those in the top spots had done so well that it’ll be close, even with a gazelle flip under his belt. Nothing is certain, and the way you can barely bring yourself to look at the scoreboard is proof enough. Seokjin is good, and you want only good things for him, and you can barely look at the scoreboard but you can’t look away, either—

The roar of the crowd is deafening.

A freeze-frame moment. All around you, there are fists in the air, shrill yells of Seokjin’s name, maybe a chant, nothing but chaos. You can hardly hear yourself think, but you can see just fine, and what you see is Seokjin’s gaze locked on yours. The corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. A flicker of hesitation before he’s gracefully shrugging everyone off of him and making his way over to you, and then it’s just reflex. Here, you know what to do.

You barely flinch when he grabs the back of your neck and pulls you in.

Everything is soft. Feels a bit like floating.

Seokjinnie: do you wanna come over later?

Seokjinnie: i can either cook or get takeout, your choice

The apartment is small and you love it because he kisses you at the door. Seokjin has lips you want to memorize, so you kiss him again as he pulls away. The two of you kiss for a long time: throughout the “tour,” which is just the large studio space and the bathroom, all over the kitchen as he finishes cooking, until he exaggeratedly pulls out your chair, until you have to shove food in your face to keep your mouth off of him.

Seokjin has the kind of lips that leave you questioning if it’s really this easy.

Because Hoseok had been right: this isn’t fake for you anymore. Hasn’t been for a while, if you’re being honest, and maybe before this would’ve been a realization that scared you, but this doesn’t. Not when it’s Seokjin. So, yeah, maybe it is easy.

“Wait,” he says, chest heaving, gently pulling away from you. “Before I—wait, I have to talk to you about something.”

You just smile, hands still grazing over warm skin. “I think I already know.”

He stills. Takes a few seconds to reboot his brain before he’s smiling, laughing in a way that almost sounds unhinged. “God, yeah. Yeah, me too. But it’s—not that.”

“What, then?”

Immediately it’s clear this is not going to go well. Seokjin sighs, tilts his head back against the arm of the couch. His neck is gorgeous, littered with marks from you, but you gear up for a fight nonetheless. “The competition,” he says, as if that’s enough explanation. “The final round got pushed up.”

Your stomach drops. You know what’s coming, but you still ask, “To when?” because you’re a little bit masochistic. Because maybe you’re itching for the fight. Itching to say see, I told you so, I knew this was never going to work, because it’s always been fake. Itching to hurt, because you want what’s familiar when you hurt.

“Saturday.”

The day of your brother’s wedding. “Of course.” You snort; the universe loves a good dose of irony.

He sighs again. Looks so genuinely distressed that you find it hard to truly be upset. “I’m sorry. I just found out today.”

“It’s fine,” comes your instantly reply, auto-generated. Some silly, naive part of you refuses to spiral, stubbornly convinced you can salvage this. You’d found a date. That was the rule. You’ve done exactly what your parents asked of you, and you think with a rueful smile that they’ll probably be relieved when you show up alone.

But Seokjin’s not convinced. There’s still turmoil painted across his face—some silly, naive part of him clinging to something stubborn, too. “I’m going to ask you to be there.”

Yet another freeze-frame moment. The part in video games where it’s clear you have a very important choice to make, neon signs practically blinding, saying you better choose right, better not fuck it up. But you’re going to. You’re going to say no, and it’s going to hurt Seokjin, and you have about ten seconds to come to peace with that.

“I can’t.”

To his credit, Seokjin doesn’t look surprised, and you think that might be more painful. He’d expected nothing from you and you still let him down, so his snort is sardonic and derisive when he says, “Of course you can’t.”

And your tone is defensive and disbelieving when you retort, “What’s that supposed to mean? What exactly do you expect me to do here?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I didn’t expect you to do anything, I’d foolishly hoped you’d say yes.”

Your jaw drops. Snaps shut when you swallow around the lump in your throat, because you’re not going to cry at not living up to another set of invisible expectations. “It’s my brother’s wedding, Seokjin. It’s not some small thing I can blow off.”

“Is that it?” he challenges, eyebrow quirked, expression bemused. “Or do you not want to lose your precious little trust fund?”

“Are you serious? Of course I don’t want to lose it, but I—”

“You don’t even like your brother,” he continues, giving you absolutely no reprieve. No chance to catch up, catch your breath. “You don’t even like your family, but I guess you like their money. Nothing was ever gonna be more important than that, huh?”

“That’s not fair, Seokjin.”

He hums; knows you’re right. Doesn’t try to get in anymore jabs, but he looks broken. “I don’t think this has been fake for either of us for a long time. It was stupid to think you’d go against your family on this, but I thought maybe, for me—”

“Again, that’s not fair.”

“I know it isn’t fair,” he shoots back. “I know that. I just…” He rubs his hands over his face. “I can’t skip this, and you’re not willing to skip yours, so I don’t—I don’t know what to do.”

“I can just go alone,” you say, because it seems simple. “I already did what they asked, so I can just go alone. It’s fine.”

“It’s not like that for me.”

You’re stunned into silence. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s irrational, but it’s… the principle. For me. I’m never going to match up, you know? I’m never going to be from your world. I can make all the money in the world doing what I do and I’ll still never come close. So I had this stupid thought in my head, like, if she comes then it’s real for her, too. It means something. If she’s there, we can figure it out.”

“And that’s the only way? It’s only real if I do this one thing? Doesn’t matter how we feel?” You laugh, exasperated, and you’re up and halfway to the door. “That’s bullshit, Seokjin. How am I supposed to live up to these expectations you’ve got of me if you never tell me what the fuck they are? You know, that’s—this is exactly what my family does, and you—you know that, what the fuck.”

“Hey, no—”

“I can’t belie—” Things go all glassy. Crystalline. You need to get out of here. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do this. I’m sorry.”

“Wait—”

You press harshly into your eyes. You’re not going to cry over this. “Good luck, Seokjin.”

[THE CHOICE]

Things come full circle during another two a.m. crisis.

You’d stared at the ceiling. Scrolled mindlessly through your phone. Ignored Seokjin’s texts and thought about texting Hobi but decided it wouldn’t be fair and instead went cross-eyed watching some questionable late night paid program. Tried to disregard the crippling weight on your chest. Couldn’t. Thought about what Namjoon might do, because he seems well-versed in these sorts of crises, and looked up Sartre quotes on the internet. Got as far as one and quit, both because it hit too close to home and because all you can think about is your last two a.m. crisis.

Seokjin’s voice had been so soft. It wouldn’t have that same tenderness if you called him now and that stings, knowing you had a good thing, something velvet, and you let it go.

And still you think about Namjoon, about the ethics of conservation: when to preserve and when to let die. Does preservation ensure survival, or does it stave off the inevitable? It all gives you a headache, because nothing is guaranteed but that doesn’t mean you don’t try.

Jimin goes to Milan. Taehyung posts a selfie looking sad and beautiful on some balcony in Paris. You don’t want to be like them, doing some perpetual song and dance. Resisting an obvious thing.

Your brother answers on the second ring.

“Hello?” Groggy and confused. A voice you’ve heard a million times that still feels indistinguishable from a stranger’s.

“I can’t come to your wedding.”

A moment of silence, both literally and for your trust fund. “Uh, okay.”

“I’m sorry,” you rush out, because it feels important to say even if you don’t necessarily feel sorry. “I, uh—I am sorry, because I like your fiancée and I know this is probably a huge inconvenience considering your wedding is in a few hours, but I can’t—”

There’s some rustling. You don’t think you’ve ever talked to your brother in the middle of the night before. “It’s really fine.” He yawns. “This couldn’t wait ‘til the morning, though?”

“Not really.”

“Alright. Why do you sound like you’re about to have a panic attack?”

A lightbulb moment: he doesn’t know. “I am. You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“That Mom and Dad threatened to cut me off if I didn’t show up at your wedding with a date.”

More silence. Then, slowly, the trickle of laughter. Just a quiet snort at first, and you’re a little confused, wonder if you should be laughing too, if he’s laughing at you, and then it compounds until he’s nearly in hysterics. “Oh my god.” He’s almost shrieking. “Holy shit. That’s why you brought that guy to dinner, isn’t it? The one they hated?” It’s the first time you’ve heard him sound like this.

“Yeah.”

“That’s fucking hilarious. Fair play.” You wonder why you’ve spent two-plus decades hating this man on the other end of the line. “Okay, then. Why can’t you make it?”

You talk until you’re hoarse: about the competition, the fake relationship that hasn’t been all that fake for weeks, about the trust fund and growing up under the weight of your family’s money and expectations and always coming in third behind societal ass-kissing and your brother. You’re not looking for an apology but you get one anyway. A heart-to-heart in a moment that’s not entirely built for one, because the sun is coming up and your brother is still getting married in a few hours even if you won’t be there to witness it.

“All right, I really gotta go, but listen: I’ll talk to them, okay? And I’m rooting for you. Maybe in a few weeks you and Seokjin can come over for dinner, if it all works out.”

“Yeah, sure.” You agree readily, and it’s nice to have someone that shares your name in your corner. “I’ll make sure he behaves.” Your smile drops, chest cracked in half. “If it works out.”

Your brother says goodnight and wishes you well. Hangs up, and the silence is deafening and consolatory. You think about the Sartre quote again: Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you.

Whatever happens, you think you’ll do just fine when it’s on your own terms.

Perhaps naively, you expected the day of your brother’s wedding—and subsequently Seokjin’s competition—to be gloomy. Of course, the weather is perfect. Mid-70s, light breeze, cloudless blue sky. When you’re wounded everything feels like an attack, so maybe before it would’ve felt like the universe was mocking you, saying look how beautiful and intact the world is when you’re falling apart, but you see something else.

You’d done a lot of thinking. Soul-searching and introspection and all those uncomfortable, vulnerable things you and Seokjin had talked about before, and you’ve made it to the other side, so a cloudless blue sky on a beautiful afternoon doesn’t feel like an attack. What you see is clarity being reflected back at you.

But it still takes a lot of courage. Instead of putting on a stunning, designer dress and painting on a smile to pacify your family and anyone else important enough to be granted entry, you’re pulling on normal clothes and normal shoes. It doesn’t matter if your hair and makeup are done. Everything feels wrong for a moment, like you’re forgetting something important, and you suppose that’s normal. This is arguably the biggest and most consequential decision you’ve made thus far in your life. No wonder you’re out of sorts.

Normally, this is where you’d compartmentalize. Tuck all that discomfort away for later: a problem for Future You. But that had been your go-to for years, and it did nothing but turn you into an emotionally constipated mess, so you’re done with that—trying to be done with that. Which is fine, because you don’t have a plan, not really, but sometimes it’s enough to simply show up, so that’s what you’re going to do.

Rejection is likely. You’re smart enough to know that, and you’re mature enough to accept it, if it comes down to it. But you don’t want Seokjin to feel rejected. Not again. That’s more important. So you’re going to show up, heart on your sleeve, and if he rejects you, fine, but you’re going to be there. And you’re going to cheer when he wins, even if your voice is drowned out.

Another packed event. It helps to feel anonymous when your sympathetic nervous system is working overtime like this. You’re trembling by the time you find a spot—a little out of the way, no room left on the bleachers. Seokjin probably won’t see you here, wouldn’t think to look, and it’s okay. You’re here for him but you’re here for yourself, too. Just to prove you can. Just to prove that you’re still human.

It all goes by in a blur. The skaters you don’t recognize, some you do. Scores that are both meaningful and meaningless until they aren’t. Seokjin’s name gets called and your stomach drops, but it’s okay. You see Namjoon, Yoongi, and Jeongguk, all nervous energy and bit fingernails and cautious smiles. They don’t see you, but it’s okay.

Two runs happen in a nanosecond. Seokjin holds steady in third. The guy sitting in first falls on his final run, and it’s best of three so you’re not breathing easy yet but your fingers start tingling with anticipation. The guy in second does well but nothing good enough to improve his score. Your phone’s blowing up in your pocket. Presumably your brother’s told your parents by now, and you can wait just a little longer to get cut off. What’s in front of you is more important, it is, and you know it when—

Call it divine intervention, but Seokjin looks up just as he’s about to drop into the bowl. Looks right at you, and the tingle spreads from your fingers all over. Another freeze-frame moment; the two of you are getting good at this.

He smiles. He wins.

Feels a bit like falling in love.

As always, thank you for reading! My inbox is always open if you’d like to leave feedback. I’d love to hear your thoughts! ❤

[blurby-in-the-wild]

Guess what!!!! Repair bot y/n au babyyyy

The person who thought up this wonderful au is @bones-of-a-rabbit and I am forever grateful for the brainworms lol

I’m gonna try to post this on ao3, if I can figure out a name, and I’ll post the link here!

It was a mistake in the code, a horrid miscalculation, an error.

It had to be. Otherwise it wouldn’t have hurt so much.

… Actually, the Glamrocks had the innate ability to… Feel, so maybe you had simply learned it, though that still shouldn’t have been possible. You weren’t made to learn, you weren’t made to feel things- especially not fear- you were a simple repair bot. Just unique enough to be able to do your job. Simple enough to be ignored.

It started randomly. No grand event or anything, simply sitting in your company-issued break room (It was barely a room, more a charging closet if anything) after hours and getting the sensation of loneliness for the first time. An awkward, confusing jumble of wires and code that made you feel empty. You couldn’t make sense of it.

After that, you had gone to wander the Plex. Hoping maybe that would help untangle the tiny bundle of emotions code. (It’s just code, It’s just code, It’s just code, You had repeated to yourself like a mantra) You somehow ended up wandering to the daycare. The lights weren’t out yet, and you looked in. The attendant was tall enough to tower over you, dressed as a jester, cleaning as furiously as the S.T.A.F.F. Bots you had tried to communicate with before arriving there -All you had gotten back was something akin to apathy- And apparently you stared too long, because it turned its head up to you and started to wave madly, its rays spinning fast enough to be a blur.

You had been too surprised- where had that sensation come from?- to do anything back, and it went back to cleaning. And then you ran off, a burning in your chest so hot you felt you’d melt, all the way back to your room closet, slamming the door closed and pressing your metallic back against the wall.

Well. That was new.

The burning slowly undid itself, and after running a diagnostic, you concluded you had no fucking clue what just happened.

…

After that, you started to feel more. You felt annoyed when you had to fix something three times in one day. You felt pride when something you fixed worked as intended. You felt lonely all the time. The regular S.T.A.F.F Bot network was more of a hivemind, and you only tried to enter it once and nearly lost your new-found sentience trying, and you were unable to bring yourself to try and enter the Glamrock network. That twisting, burning sensation in your wires wouldn’t let you (Embarrassment, as you'd later learn) No one to talk to, not that you could really talk, not having a mouth and all. So you thought about things. Mostly making poking fun at others in your head. You managed to get the Plex Wi-Fi password (It was “Vanny”, for some reason) and learned what memes were, something none of the other animatronics had managed to do, by the way. It definitely made it harder to work, especially when the kids around you started referencing among us.

And you continued to visit the daycare attendant (you learned his name, Sun, after a very long game of charades), learning more about him through the glass. You couldn’t really talk with him, but he kept the conversation going well enough, being built to talk to children who may not want or be able to speak. He seemed very insistent about keeping the lights on while you were there, though you had no clue why. You didn’t question it, however, and continued to listen to another of his rambles. Listening to him was the highlight of your day, breaking the monotony of fixing the same issues over and over. Though, watching him flit about while talking to you always elicited an unwanted feeling, warmth spreading through your endo like insects buzzing about your mechanical gut. It felt like a dialled down version of that burning sensation you had felt before.

Then there was a storm.

It knocked out the power. While you were there.

And for the first time in your existence, you felt fear. A tugging in the very copper of your wiring, an insistence that you run, run as fast as you can, go-

The first time you were unprepared. He got you. Badly. You had to be repaired by one of the Glamrocks handlers, though they did a shoddy job. You can see the difference in the metal patch-work of your face. They kept you powered on while they performed what was essentially surgery. It hurt more than the ripping and tearing of metal and endoskeleton.

You didn’t go back to the daycare.

That didn’t stop him though. He kept hunting you, even after that night. You learned how to avoid him, and some nights he didn’t even hunt you. Those were the best nights, able to relax in your glorified broom closet (you stayed there more out of fear than anything, unsure of if he was simply starting late)

One night, however, you made the mistake of fighting back.

He had you cornered, somewhere in the arcade you remember, and was slowly crawling towards you. You’d suddenly felt as if bubbling molten metal had risen up through your endoskeleton, and when he was mere inches away, you swung.

The first thing you felt was shock. Then triumph.

Then fear.

You were still cornered, and you had just pissed him off.

…

You lost your arm that night.

You didn’t let the other mechanics see it, however, and fixed it yourself. Now it too was mismatched against the rest of the silicone and metal that covered your endoskeleton. The handlers didn’t question it, thankfully, and assumed one of the others had done it.

The chases continued, but now they felt personal. He finally saw you as more than the regular S.T.A.F.F. Bots. He had finally actually seen you, instead of blankly hunting. Now he took joy in hunting you, he had turned it into a game.

The Moon had finally risen. And it was time for the real horror to begin.

You trembled in your break room closet as you heard him clawing at the door. He could easily knock it down, he just wanted to torment you. What a prick. Then it paused.

“Little mechanic~ Open the door… hehehe…”

You shook even worse, now. He hadn’t actually spoken to you before.

His voice was low and gravelly, taunting. He knew you knew he could just break down the door. The electric lock did nothing, he had more than enough clearance to open it.

How odd. After last night, you were sure he would’ve taken every opportunity to tear you apart, but now he’s just…

“Knock, knoooock…”

Tormenting you.

“Guess who… hehehe~”

Him staying silent was better than this, you think.

“Oh, wait… you c a n’t…”

For a moment, you wonder how Sun feels about this. You wonder if he feels bad, or if he simply feels nothing at all about you (That couldn’t be true… Could it? After all, you were a simple repair bot.)

‘Is he still there? He hasn’t said anything…’ You glanced at the bottom of the door.

‘Ah. There he is.’ One of his deep black eyes, staring at you almost curiously, bore right through you from the crack under the door. You stared back. He studied you for a moment, and his deep purple pupil seemed to fixate on the mismatched side of your face. His faceplate twitched to one side. You tilted your head in response. And just like that he was gone.

‘What. The. Fuck.’

After… Whatever that was, it was more him trying to corner you than anything. If he caught you, which didn’t happen often anymore, he would still hurt you, but never anything big enough to warrant another trip to Parts and Services.

You didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe he realized that if he actually broke you to the point of decommissioning, he would no longer be able to play the game he’d made the chases into.

At least he didn't want to actively murder you anymore. Maybe.

Hopefully. Probably not.

(Starshine?)

(Did I…?)

[nicosraf]

May you list out the classes of Angels in your story? I know Lucifer is a Cherubim and it’s implied that Uriel is an Ophanim and Rosier is a Seraph! What are the list of the Angel classes from the other characters? Is there a class system with the hierarchy of heaven?

Short answer: I wrote in cherubim, seraphim, and ophanim, though there isn't any hierarchy/class-system in Heaven.

Michael is a seraph (towards the end, he's described as having six wings), and I imagine Baal to be a cherub, Asmodeus to be an ophanim, Phanuel to be a seraph, Raphael to be a cherub, and Azazel to be a seraph. (I say 'imagine' because one of these might shift but I'm like 80% sure on it.)

Long answer about celestial hierarchy and etc.,:

You made a mistake asking me this because I have really strong feelings about about The Celestial Hierarchy and about Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite. I actually recently finished studying the The hierarchie of the blessed angells: their names, order and offices: the fall of Lucifer with his angells, which is some 1635 didactic poem by Thomas Haywood that I need to post pictures of because it was very pretty, so thank you for reminding me. I’m only mentioning this because Pseudo-Dionysius (and Heywood) are in this camp of theology guys who think there’s a type of angel assigned to each sphere around the Earth to correspond to the old Ptolemaic model of the universe. What this means is that most old angelology books are all trying to force this connection that isn’t biblical, and this is why the whole hierarchy is pretty messy.

Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite himself was also just someone pretending to be St. Dionysius the Areopagite. Whether he did it out of respect or to try and gain some legitimacy for his angel fanfic – who knows. Either way, I'm not a fan of him (and apparently neither was Milton, who is my lover btw), and I think there's a really long conversation to be had about why early Christian authorities may have liked the idea of a hierarchical heaven with levels of authority, rather than only God's authority reigning over paradise. Hm.

Anyway, I personally don't think a paradise can exist where there's a strict hierarchy in place. And in the Bible, there is no referenced hierarchy beyond the fact that there appears to be a chief of the angels, which is Michael. (Catholic Bibles tend to include Raphael calling himself an archangel, too, if I'm remembering correctly). The only "types" of angels that are explicitly referenced are the seraphim and cheurbim. "Ophanim" as a term isn't found in most Bibles, but they're described, so I've accepted them too. (It's worth noting that the Bible never refers to the seraphim, cherubim, or ophanim as angels, so they might not even be angels at all but some other celestial things.)

The way I interpreted it is that these three are the non-material forms of angels, which they're actually not in often. This is my personal interpretation of the fact that angels are only present and described strangely (you know, that "biblically accurate angel" meme) in proximity to God's throne.

For story reasons, angels are almost always enfleshed, so their different "types" don't come up much, but they do have casual knowledge that differences exist, like when Baal instructed Lucifer to take out "only two" wings. But it's clearly a difference that doesn't have an effect on their society.

Dw, there will be more on the "types" in the books to follow. As a side note, it was kind touchy to write the categorization at all into ABM. I didn't want to make it a big thing because 1. equality among the angels is pretty significant to the story and 2. I was afraid angel categorization could become a sort of quasi-gender or, even worse, quasi-race for them.

But yes sorry for ranting I hope this answered your question ahsjdsajdhlhjsl <3333

[minorhoursmagazine]

Issue 4, containing: Tips for Garden Design, Classifieds, Further Notes on Deities, Letters, Summer Fashion Plate, Commonplaces, &c.

------------------------------

SOME EDITORIAL NOTES

In my everyday writing, I am considerably looser than I am here. I use more contractions. I am more likely to use slang and netspeak. I am a fiend for all-caps, and I regret no gifs.

The flavor of this magazine's inspiration, though, has seeped itself into the writing here, and I am not particularly interested in blanching it out. It's fun to treat myself with an older sytax. It is its own kind of freedom, to move from what is quickly digestible and easily memed, to a more drawn out and taffy-slow style. Quick wit is not the purpose here. I write this to remind myself of good things. I write this to luxuriate in the act of writing.

Whether this is of interest to the general reading public is a matter for debate, but it is of an interest to me -- and that, I am finding, is victory enough.

------------------------------

TIPS FOR GARDEN DESIGN

The other day I spent a large amount of time searching for garden statuary. I do not currently possess a garden, but I do have a Pinterest page, on which I keep a secret board filled entirely with what I call "cloud-castling" -- a sort of visual mood board and link list of things I would like to have in the house I hope to someday own.

One of the things I enjoy doing is setting out the twine-ball of my mind to see what paths it takes, and Pinterest is a useful way to trace my way back through the labyrinth to see how I got from a rather simple start ("this house looks nice!") to a decidedly more esoteric end ("are there any quarries within a three-hour radius that specifically carry Conway Granite, because I Need It").

And so it was, that day a few days ago, that I came to realize that I quite like the idea of having a tiny garden shrine with a little statue in it. I'm Catholic, in that way where I couldn't quite tell you what the Annunciation is or why Ash Wednesday is a Thing, but I have a favorite line in the "Dives and Lazarus" folk ballad, and I can do an off-the-cuff exorcism should the occasion warrant. (My sister has pointed out that we have a very pagan idea of Catholicism, and she isn't wrong.)

The majority of shrine-related garden statuary consists of (1) St. Francis of Assisi, (2) various interpretations of the Virgin Mary, and (3) nameless but very human-looking angels. Leaving aside the fact that I prefer my angels with a thousand eyes and six faces, I am not particularly interested in having non-specific religious undertones in my garden. St. Francis is perfectly nice, as these things go, but I have no special affinity for him. The Virgin is well enough, but she no doubt has better things to do than be in my garden.

What I really want, which I did not realize until I had let my mind unspool, unchecked, through endless screens of twee garden photos, was a statue of St. Juliana of Nicomedia.

This is not a hagiography (or, at least, this particular portion of the magazine is not), so in short: My mother sold me to a saint before I was born, in return for giving my mother the grace to finish her doctoral thesis and turn it in on time. That this particular saint was chosen largely because she was being referenced in a footnote of said thesis is of no matter. A deal was struck. The thesis was turned in on time-- and later, when I arrived on the scene, I was given the middle name of Juliana.

As it was explained to me, Juliana's claim to fame -- aside from being a martyr and appearing in some Old English poetry that was just interesting enough to warrant a footnote -- was that she wrestled a demon until it was forced to confess its sins to her and, after doing so, it then wandered back to Hell in embarrassment.

This is the statue I want in my future garden. This is the scene I wish to sit beside and gently meditate on. This is what, it turns out, does not exist, because apparently most people want a tonsured man with birdseed up his sleeves beside their roses, rather than a much more inspiring Turkish woman beatifically pulling a monster into an armlock while it squawks for mercy.

And this is why I am soliciting the names of sculptors, should you happen to have any conveniently to hand.

------------------------------

CLASSIFIEDS

In search of: one sculptor, specializing in stone or cement, reasonable prices. Talent for muscled women, action poses, demonic forms. Contact the magazine directly.

******

For sale: Downstairs neighbors. Free. Pick-up only.

******

Missed connections: Single man of good fortune in want of a wife. Met you by accident on a dark and stormy night. Called me Ishmael, the invisible man. It was a pleasure to burn with you. Let's meet again, somewhere in la Mancha.

------------------------------

FURTHER NOTES ON DEITIES, GREAT AND SMALL

I live in Massachusetts; I come from New Hampshire. My children are both Massachusetts born-and-bred, which has led, unfortunately, to some necessary education on the topic of mountain gods.

It's difficult to explain the mountain gods to those who haven't grown up with them. There is a sense of Something up in the mountains, made up of granite and schist and plates of mica, the air humming with the kinetic fossils of glaciers still tumbling water across stone. It's not like the Fair Folk, who you generally do not want to encounter in any capacity -- the mountain gods are already there, and they already know you. So it's important to be respectful, and avoid monkey-paw wishes where they can hear you, because the mountains have no sense of humor but a very keen sense of irony.

In the garden that I hope to someday have, in a corner separate from my MMA saint, I want a big boulder made of Conway Granite, the stone that made up the Old Man of the Mountain. It's particular to the Notch and the gods that live there. I can say I want a boulder now, because I am many hundreds of miles away, and the mountain gods cannot (with ease) give me the boulder right this very moment through the judicious use of gravity and good aim. I would like a boulder, but I am unwilling to scavenge it, steal it, or otherwise remove it from where it should be -- I will, instead, like a reasonable person, go to a stone yard and pick whatever rock feels most correct, and pay the fee, and quietly go my way again, having done the transaction as respectfully as possible.

And when my boulder comes (if it comes, if I am chosen, if it is safe and I am respectful), I will put it carefully in a patch that catches both sun and shade, and I will give it water so it can remember ice. My daughters will climb all over it, which is as a mountain should be treated, even so far from home, and my youngest one, who is the rockhound of the two, will curl up beside it and whisper her own stone secrets to it, as she does the tiny rocks she gathers now, filling her pockets and bringing the mountains gods home with her.

------------------------------

LETTERS

From the Magazine, to the Patrons, "Welcome (Redux)":

The Editors would again like to extend a warm welcome to new patrons, and we continue to be deeply surprised that you exist.

******

From the Magazine, to the Cats, "Please Do Not Claw There":

The Editors would like to remind the cats that there are a number of approved clawing surfaces available, and that the couch, the bed, and the landlord's carpet are not on that list. It is particularly aggravating that a new sisal mat has been purchased, only for you to reveal that the best surface for clawing can be found immediately surrounding -- but not in any way touching -- said mat.

******

From the Magazine, to Itself, "Why Are You Doing This?":

We are not the plural third-person. There is also no single editor, let alone a multiple of them. We realize we are employing stylistic shenanigans for the sake of humor, but at what cost? At some point, we may need to actually edit something in a plurality, and no one will believe it.

------------------------------

SUMMER FASHION PLATE

Our summer model for the month of July is St. Juliana, seen here in sportswear. Dress from Runfridr. Accessories are a cudgel and general sanctity.

------------------------------

COMMONPLACES

From Voddxa's "Side Effects of Being an Angel":

SIDE EFFECTS OF BEING AN ANGEL:

1. There is always the taste of honey and vodka stuck in your mouth

2. Your teeth will never feel sharp enough

3. Your back will always ache from the wings it once held

4. The body always holds a burning feeling

5. The homesickness

******

From Cynewulf's "Juliana":

ða wæs þære fæmnan              ferð geblissad, domeadigre.                             Heo þæt deofol genom

Then was that maiden              her soul rejoicing blessed with power.                  She laid hold of the demon

------------------------------

ANNOUNCEMENTS

As of this writing, our patrons number three. Hello, patrons. Welcome, gentle readers.

******

If you would like to write a letter to be produced/answered in the magazine, please email me at minor.hours.magazine@gmail.com with the subject line:

Letter to the Magazine: [subject of letter as you would like to see it printed]

If you wish the letter to be anonymous or under a nom de plume, please state so in the body of the email; similarly, if you'd rather not be printed at all, please also state so in the body of the email. It will otherwise be assumed that mail sent to that address is intended for print.

******

As always, you can find me at my regular website, katherinecrighton.com, or via twitter, at @c_katherine.

To support the magazine and get it delivered directly to your inbox, join the Patreon.

-Until next week, be safe.

[intheticklecloset]

Laugh Out Loud (SK8 the Infinity)

Summary: See above.

A/N: The video referenced in this fic can be found here. Enjoy! ^^

Word Count: 1,676

~~~

It started out a soft snicker – extremely common for the blue-haired Langa. Reki grinned to himself as he continued to browse the internet with his phone, barely aware of Miya showing Langa something on his until those soft snickers became louder giggles, followed eventually by wheezing laughter. When Reki finally looked up to see what was going on, he was shocked to see Langa nearly in Miya’s lap, doubled over with hysterics, tears streaming down his face.

Reki knew immediately just seeing it once would never be enough.

“Yo, Miya,” he said, barely able to contain his own mirth just for watching Langa get lost in his. “What are you showing him?”

“Some video I found. It’s kind of old but it’s this American lady acting like a total five-year-old.” The younger boy stared at the helpless Langa in his lap and chuckled. “I mean, I thought it was kind of dumb, but apparently Langa thinks it’s hilarious.”

At that moment the lady in said video yelled something through her own laughing fit, which Reki could barely hear, as Miya didn’t have the volume up very loud. Neither of them knew what she said since she was speaking English, but Langa knew, and in the next moment he flopped himself onto Miya’s lap entirely, bursting into the loudest laughter either of them had ever heard from him.

It didn’t take long for Reki and Miya to follow his lead. By the time the video was finally over, all three of them were laughing up a storm – Langa from the video, Reki and Miya from watching Langa.

“Dude,” Reki wheezed once he’d finally regained his breath. “What was so funny?”

“The – the vihihihideo!” Langa laughed, wiping tears from his eyes. He pushed himself back up and sucked in a huge breath of air. “Cahahan you forward that to me? I’ve got to see it again!”

Miya smirked. “Sure. Here, slime – I’ll text you the link.”

“Thanks.” Langa bit his lip to try and control himself, but when his phone buzzed and he saw the link, he burst into giggles again. “Oh, god, why did you show me that? I’ll never recover!”

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

Reki beamed. “I’ve never heard you laugh so hard, Langa. I didn’t even know you could be that loud!”

Langa merely pressed play on the video, immediately dissolving back into a wheezing giggle fit that had him toppling against the arm of the couch.

Reki gave up on conversation, realizing his friend was way too far gone to even think about communicating at the moment. But he swore on his love for skating he’d hear Langa laugh like that again if it was the last thing he did.

*

A few weeks went by, during which time the novelty of the video simmered down and Langa stopped finding it nearly as hilarious, but still amusing. In the meantime, both Miya and Reki joined forces to try and find more videos that would make him laugh his guts out again.

When videos didn’t seem to be working, they moved to memes and funny pictures. When that didn’t get a huge reaction, they tried lame joke books, which failed even more since Langa didn’t know enough Japanese to understand why half of the jokes were funny. Miya was ready to give up the endeavor, but Reki wasn’t. He wanted to hear that loud laugh again. He wanted to record it on his phone and use it as a ringtone. He wanted to play it in the dead of night when he was feeling alone. He wanted to hear it all the time. Langa’s laugh was perfect. He wanted more of it.

Think, Reki! What’s a guaranteed way to make him laugh really hard like that? What haven’t we tried?

Then it hit him. At first he shook it off, but the more he considered it, the more it made sense. It was always the quiet ones you had to look out for, right? Reki beamed. He imagined Langa was probably super ticklish; so ticklish he’d squeal if you even poked him. The redhead had to admit, he desperately wanted to be right about this new thought of his. He decided the only way to know was to test it out.

So one evening when they were hanging out alone at the park where Langa had first learned to skate, Reki put his plan into action. He said, “You know, Miya and I have been trying to find other things that would make you laugh as hard as you did when you saw that Chewbacca video for the first time.”

“Oh,” Langa replied softly, nodding. “That explains all the random videos and pictures. And those really lame jokes.”

“You just laughed so hard at that.” Reki beamed at him. “We wanted to see if we could find something to make you do that again.”

“Was I laughing that hard? Huh. I didn’t really think about it, I guess.”

“So I decided that there’s probably only one way to really make you laugh like that again, since all of our masterful plans have fallen through thus far. We have one hope left.”

“Yeah? What is it?” Langa asked, sounding genuinely curious.

Reki smirked at him. “Tickling you.”

Langa’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“Tickling you! It’s so obvious. You are ticklish, aren’t you, Langa?”

The blue-haired boy suddenly turned pink in the cheeks. He was frozen to the spot, like a deer in headlights. “Um…I…I think so, but…”

“Great!” Reki lunged for him, pushing him onto his back and grabbing his arms, holding them out at his sides so he couldn’t fight back. “Then which spot makes you laugh the hardest? Where are you most ticklish?”

“Reki, please, I…I haven’t been tickled in a long time,” Langa said, his voice hushed and nervous. “I don’t know the answer to that.”

“Well, let’s find out!” Reki let go of his arms to dig his fingers into the taller boy’s sides. He grinned triumphantly when he got a snort and some giggling in return for his efforts. “You’re ticklish here, at least.”

“Reheheheki!” Langa whined, clamping his arms down when the redhead traveled up to his ribs and underarms, testing new spots in rapid succession. “Reki, plehehehehehease!”

“Let’s see…your sides are pretty ticklish, but your ribs don’t seem as bad. Your armpits are a good spot, though.” Reki dug in a little harder, enjoying the squeal that erupted from his usually soft-spoken friend. “Tickle, tickle!”

“Dohohohohon’t tehehehease me!”

“All right, all right, fine.” Reki chuckled, moving quickly back down his torso to his belly and hips, then even further to his thighs and knees. Langa squeaked and yelped and giggled at nearly every spot tested, but never did anything more than laugh softly. Though he seemed to be ticklish everywhere, he didn’t appear to be oversensitive in any particular place. Reki was a little disappointed, but honestly, he was just happy to have a way to make Langa smile.

The last spot Reki tried was his feet, which got the biggest reaction thus far. Langa shrieked and laughed, squirming and kicking in an attempt to break free from the torturous tickles, and Reki had a hard time keeping up with his flailing. Still, he kept at it for a few moments before returning to his upper body, pulling Langa’s shirt up to his chest, exposing his bare belly.

Langa sputtered a half-indignant, half-embarrassed, “W-What are you doing now?”

“Just one more test,” Reki promised. “Then I’ll let you go.” He squeezed Langa’s bare sides, then held each of his wrists to the ground as he took a huge breath and blew a raspberry right over his belly button.

To his surprise – and excitement – Langa absolutely screamed with laughter.

“NAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA REHEHEHEHEHEKI!! WHAHAHAHAHAT ARE YOU DOHOHOHOHOHOING?!”

“Making you laugh, obviously!” Reki giggled. “Looks like I’ve hit the jackpot!” Then he blew another one, and instantly he was transported back to the moment he first heard his friend laugh so hard he cried, gasping for breath all the while. Only this time, he was also pleading for mercy.

“PLEHEHEHEHEHEASE NOHOHOHOHOHOHO!! NO MOHOHOHOHOHOHORE!! REHEHEHEHEHEKI, STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!!” Langa begged through his hysterics, and when Reki looked up at him, he was pleased to see that his pink cheeks had turned red and tears were threatening to spill at any moment. Langa gulped in a huge breath of air. “P-P-Please, n-not raspberries, I c-c-can’t take them – please, Reki!”

Reki merely gripped his wrists tighter. He smiled. “One more. Then I’m done, I promise.”

Langa whimpered, but he was smiling wide. “Nohohoho, no…”

Reki made this one count. He took in the most air he could, then let it out as slowly as he could, drawing out the raspberry for as long as he could manage, reveling in Langa’s screaming, loving the sound of his helpless laughter.

Finally – as promised – the redhead let him go, gently pulling his shirt back down and rubbing his tummy gingerly. “Okay, I’m done. No more tickling for today.”

“T-Today?” Langa asked incredulously, groaning as he sat up, shoving Reki’s hand away playfully.

Reki beamed at him. “Well, I can’t promise I’ll never tickle you again. I’ll probably do it tomorrow, if I’m being honest. I just love your laugh, Langa. I want to hear it all the time.”

Langa blushed, averting his eyes. “It’s nothing special, Reki. I mean, it’s just a normal laugh.”

“It’s not normal. It’s better than normal.”

“Well…all right. But if you’re going to start tickling me, then you’d better watch your back.” The blue-haired boy winked at him. “I’m not above getting revenge.”

Reki felt his stomach turn excitedly at the words. He giggled before he could stop himself, then slapped his hand over his mouth.

“Oh? You think I’m joking?”

“No! I think you’re being perfectly serious.”

“I am.” Langa smirked, wiggling his fingers teasingly at his friend, watching him squeak and scramble away with amusement. He laughed again, on his own this time. “I’ll get you back for this, Reki. Just you wait!”

[the-golden-ghost]

fic writer meme

Tagged by the esteemed and lovely @eldritch-elrics

Tagging: @3wisellamas, @seagoing-nerd, @gallifreytreeflower, @bookshop-cryptid, @skeleton-richard, @oceans-foundfamily , @chimicalbomb, and anyone else who wants to do it!

How many works do you have on AO3?

19 I think? It says 18 but one is still under ~anonymity~ until Friday and once it gets released it’ll be on there. It’s readable, it just doesn’t show up under my name yet.

What’s your total AO3 word count?

78,592 babey.

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

I’ve written for 6, but 2 of them are pretty much the same thing (TKLUTS/The Mysterious Island, and Richard III/Henry VI, Part 3)

The others are Lupin III and Undertale.

My Lupin fics are probably the most consistently popular. The TKLUTS fics are the vast majority (11/19!!) the Shakespeare fics were both written for ficathons based on Shakespeare’s histories, they did well for what they are, but they’re pretty different than most of my other fics. (I also have a ton of non-archived fics on my Shakespeare blog; mostly for Twelfth Night. Maybe someday I’ll polish those bad boys up.) The Undertale fic was purely a study in “can I even write for this fandom?!” the answer was a resounding no lmao

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

A Terrible Conflict (169 kudos) which was a collaborative fic about Nemo and Ned engaging in a sexual relationship. It’s unfinished but the parts that are up are about their tangled and messy feelings towards each other and it’s a good time

Measuring the Depths (73 kudos) it’s a cute fluffy fic about Pierre Aronnax and Captain Nemo flirting with each other. I think they take a nap together at some point idk I haven’t read it in a while lol. It’s just sort of soft and sweet, not much to it really! I had a couple of good jokes in there if I remember right.

Night’s Passage (60 kudos) this is literally the same thing as Measuring the Depths. Exactly the same, just shorter, and not as good. I’m not a one-trick pony, but people like what they like!

Hold Out Til Morning (54 kudos) This is a weird and angsty fic about Goemon getting shot and Jigen trying to keep him alive until help comes. I was actually surprised this one ended up getting so popular.

Off the Record (43 kudos) the Jigen/Zenigata fic I said I was going to write as a joke and boy did it end up delivering lol

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Yes, I try to respond to all of them! I just feel like it’s polite. The only times I won’t are when I can’t think of anything to say or if I feel like the conversation has reached a natural end (or occasionally I just forget ^^; )

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Gonna have to say Discordance for this one, which used to be a favorite of mine but has fallen out of favor with me (pretty much for this exact reason). I mean I love to write angst but I feel like an angsty plot needs a lighter ending, and this one doesn’t have one so it’s just Emo For Emo’s Sake. Not good.

Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you’ve written?

Unless you count the TKLUTS/Mysterious Island fic which isn’t really a crossover since the two were pseudo-sequels anyway, no. 

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not really, at least not full-on hate, but I’ve gotten a couple backhanded compliments.

One was “I hate this character but the fic is good! :) “ Which... I know they probably meant that my writing was SO good it made them be able to stand the character, but... I dunno, the concept of them just hate-reading my fic kinda put me off. You do you, man, but don’t tell me about it.

The other was kinda like “that’s an interesting narrative choice considering [x that happened in canon]” which seemed like they were asserting that I didn’t know the source material or made a mistake. They may not have meant it that way but it came off kinda rude.

Do you write smut? if so what kind?

If smut means like a full-on porn fic then I’ve written one and I don’t think I did very well so I don’t intend to write any more.

If it just means a fic with sexual content then yes, I do write that. I don’t know what “kinds” there are lol. Just... your standard... lovemaking... scene?

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don’t think so. I’m not sure anyone would steal my fics anyway, they garner  ~100 hits on average so if you’re stealing for the sake of popularity or fame mine aren’t the ones to swipe lol

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I did have someone ask if they could translate a fic into Chinese and I said yes but I don’t think they ever actually did it. ^^; 

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yep! A Terrible Conflict, referenced above. I really need to do more collabs, they’re good fun.

What’s your all time favorite ship?

I don’t know if I have an “all time favorite” as my tastes tend to change and grow. I’m pretty big on Nemo x Pierre from TKLUTS and have been for a while, and also am Vibing hardcore with the OT4(5?)/Polygang from Lupin III.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

There’s the ever-popular TKLUTS Sequel Thing which is a whole 3 years into construction and going completely nowhere...

The JiGoe Thing (unremarked on) which I may just hack to bits so it’s short and palatable and I can actually finish it...

And the Other ZeniJi Thing (which has rapidly devolved into a hellscape of the most bizarre circumstances and nonsense. I HOPE I can finish this. It’s funny as shit until the ending. But dear lord.)

There’s like 3 others but they’re just ideas and not WIPs. Yet.

What are your writing strengths?

Apparently I can Set A Scene with the best of them

What are your writing weaknesses?

Voice. I absolutely cannot get characters to sound like themselves. They always sound the same, which is the same voice as the narration, which is to say - my own voice.

I’m also not that great at plot, use too much Purple Prose where it’s unwarranted, tend to go ham on the weird metaphors in a corny way, don’t do enough research... You Name It, I’ve Committed It

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I can’t really do this due to being monolingual. When other people do it? It’s fine, although if the whole fic is in two languages I won’t be able to read it of course. But they can do what they want; I’m obviously not the audience for it.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

It was Adventure Time but I learned early on that I am NOT the writer to be working in Adventure Time, dear god. I just couldn’t get it right.

The first I ever successfully wrote for was Twelfth Night.

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

After the Nautilus. NO contest, I LOVE that bad boy. I think if someone asked for a single fic that’s indicative of me and how I write, that’s the one I’d show them.

[windstormwielding]

How did you come up with Kotaro's zanpakuto? (i really love the bird theme of his attacks!) did you go through a lot of changes when coming up with names, abilities, and the general concept?

{ ooc } bUCKLE UP KIDDOS ‘CAUSE IT’S TIME FOR SOME LONG OVERDUE GODDAMNED KŌTA META-

Kōta’s zanpakutō was essentially conceived out of my own love for great big storms and heavy winds – and yes, I have a story to go with that! On one occasion many years ago, I hopped on a bus to visit a friend in town, but I was ill-prepared in that it was about to rain heavily and I had jack shit but a jacket. No raincoat and not even an umbrella. I thought I would make it there on time, buuuuut evidently, I did not. It already started raining and thundering hard by the time I walked out of the bus and had to walk a few blocks by myself.

And honestly, Plouton, looking back? I would not have changed a single little detail that day. Those several minutes I spent outside at the mercy of a live thunderstorm left such a huge impression on me! The incessant rain keeping me tethered to the ground, the sheer volume of deafening thunder cracking so hard and so loudly that the air around me quaked... pair that with times I’ve enjoyed feeling myself at the mercy of heavy winds, or even the smell of the outside after rain falls...

...pretty much all of that served as the biggest source of inspiration behind the wind and storm-oriented zanpakutō, and I wanted Kōta to embody that himself.

Besides, aside from Senna herself in Memories of Nobody, the Gotei 13 lacked a dedicated air-manipulating shinigami barring Kensei’s unique take on the topic with Tachikaze, and we’ve only seen antagonists use this power (Dordoni of the Arrancar within the main story, Kariya if you want to go filler with the Bounts... whom I’ve honestly forgotten about prior to creating Kōta WHOOPS) in the traditional sense. Not to mention, air as an element is SUPER malleable and there’s so much you can do with it if you get creative?? So, given we’ve got some real powerful element-leaning shinigami already with water (lbr Kaien would’ve been a beast had he not been nixed), fire (Yama), snow (Tosh), and electricity (Sasakibe), why not keep adding to the idea?

With that, we’ve got the main concept locked down. Powers and general theme? Check. Bird-like zanpakutō spirit? Check. Defined attacks? ...noooooot quite there yet—in fact, those were a fairly late addition well after the blog reboot. As for what led to it, this never took off since the other mun blipped on an indefinite hiatus, but our thread would have likely turned into a fight thread between our muses and uh...

...yeah, I realized named techniques are kind of an important thing to have, especially when writing within the context of an action-oriented series like Bleach. It wasn’t just about the cool factor, but having a readily available kit for reference (for myself, my writing partners, and folks reading in) was a must, not to mention it helped better define just what his main friggin’ weapon is capable of like those of most of the existing cast. In case a fight thread does come around in the future, it’d be an ideal thing to have ready to go and bring him further up to par with other fighters!

Just like that, I subjected myself to extra homework. Coming up with the moves themselves came to me simply enough, in seeing how air was played with in other media I was familiar with (key ones being Sonic the Hedgehog, The Legend of Zelda, and Avatar: The Last Airbender) and fashioning some of my own spins on top of some original ideas. I knew I wanted to lean hard on the bird motif since his zan spirit is a tengu, and given the wide variety of things the element of air/wind can do, I thought to make full connections between the two by theming each special move after certain species of bird! Creating those moves and naming them were the easy parts.

Naming them, that is, in English. Naming them all in Japanese was, by far, the hardest part. Why? Parce que je ne suis pas japonais, et aussi parce que je ne parle pas la langue, you see. On top of language barriers, the Japanese tongue operates on a whole other set of rules, compared to the Latin/Germanic-based ones I’ve grown used to with English, French, and (at one point) German. I did take some Japanese classes as an elective back in university, but that was only in first year – my own understanding, as a result, was threadbare and surface level at best, so that was not going to get me anywhere. I did not want to half-ass it with romaji and I love Bleach too much to not want to do these ideas justice.

I am a stickler when it comes to detail and canon-compliance, so getting the naming right by abiding to the proper conventions as best as I possibly could became my topmost priority. Google Translate was not going to fly because lord knows it’s no good without proper context between wholly different languages in English and Japanese, and it only gets wilder once you throw Chinese into the mix, given I’m supposed to use kanji. Thus, the name of the game here turned out to be “reverse engineering,” and I had to go in accepting I probably wasn’t going to get it 100% right the first time.

“What rules do zanpakutō names and special attack names follow?” “How do I apply on- or kun-reading in spelling out a group of certain kanji?” “Where are the common denominators in those rules that I can identify?” “Which language conventions have I already picked up from watching god knows how much anime over the years that I can replicate?” “Which set of words best conveys this particular English word that has no direct Japanese translation?” “How does [x] roll off the tongue? Does it sound right and fluid enough, or does it still feel super stilted and weird?” It was a loooooooot of this until I was finally satisfied with each individual end result!

Tl;dr: Jisho.org and Wikipedia were godsends during this whole process. I also want to thank @tigrextoque who gave me some helpful pointers after the fact!

ALSO... the ones on the Battle Info page aren’t even all of the ones I’ve thought about. Because I’m a glutton for punishment apparently, I purposely went and submitted a request for a certain ask meme on an ask meme source blog, JUST so I could play around with more ideas that came or would come to mind. This time, however, it was through the form of COMBINATION ATTACKS (which, by virtue alone, are honestly peak awesomeness). Those that implicated other shinigami got new bird motifs to meld the aesthetics of both muses, while I did get a couple of Quincy ones (with their referenced attacks actually using romaji as a base! Whoo-hoo for saving me the effort!) as a bonus to mix things up!

I’ll link them all right here (and later on the Battle Info page) for your convenience:

Noboru no mai, Shiro Fukurō (騰の舞・白梟, Rising Dance, Snowy Owl), with Rukia Kuchiki

Ahōdori Kyōka: Flying Battery (群烏強化: フライング バッテリー, Albatross Strengthening: Flying Battery) with Bambietta Basterbine

Muragarasu Kyōka: Galvano Volley (群烏強化: ガルヴァノ ボレー, Flock of Crows Strengthening: Galvano Volley), plus upgraded variant Muragarasu Kyōka: Galvano Storm (群烏強化: ガルヴァノ ストーム, Flock of Crows Strengthening: Galvano Storm), with Candice Catnipp

Hagetaka Rinbu (禿鷹輪舞, Vulture Round Dance) with Rangiku Matsumoto

Senkō-fū: Kitsutsuki (穿孔風: 啄木鳥, Drilling Wind: Woodpecker) with Nemu Kurotsuchi

Gyaku-fū Fūsa: Benizuru (逆風封鎖: 紅鶴, Headwind Blockade: Flamingo) with Byakuya Kuchiki

Hikuidori Hinshō (火食鳥 頻傷, Cassowary Frequent Cuts) with Ueno Chie​

Yes, “Flying Battery” was a deliberately written Sonic the Hedgehog reference. No, I will never apologize for that.

...might I reblog that meme again in the future though...?

...probably not right away.

So, uh... Plou, I should probably apologize for giving you a lot more than you likely bargained for, but hey, I just didn’t want to leave any stone unturned! Thank you so much for sending me your three questions, I enjoyed writing these little deep dives into my Bleach OC, and thanks for taking interest in Kōta! I hope all of my responses have been both enlightening and to your satisfaction.

[omnivorousshipper]

Idk if this is too dark, but what were the Shaw siblings’ reactions to unaliving someone for the first time? I’m sure it must’ve been hard for all of them, even Owen.

Unaliving? Is that a meme I don't know about? Cause I only know of one youtuber who says it all the time. Are you referencing him or is it a wide spread meme 🤔 Omni does not know memes anymore apparently

Warning: talks of killing/trauma of killing

~~~

-When Deckard killed his first person, it was one of the men who worked for a rival crime family in London

-His dad is the second son of a crime family, so Deckard had been pulled into helping his grandfather and then uncle when he becomes the head of the family

-His uncle knew of his potential and used it

-Meaning Deckard was used to spy and gather information because he was very small and was often mistaken for a lost child, even as a teenager

-But, one job goes south and Deckard is caught by a goon, who very much wants to hurt and humiliate Deckard

-Of course, Deckard fights back as hard as he can. He almost can't get away

-It's by accident that he's able to get his knife free and stab it behind him and right into the goon's eye

-Deckard hears the screams for years afterwards

-His uncle tries to comfort him, but Deckard's never been close to him and shies away

-His father offers him a beer

-Deckard throws up instead

-Even to this day, Owen and Hattie don't know that Deckard had his first kill at 14

---

-Owen doesn't experience his first kill until he's 21

-He joined the military at 20 and is now out of training. Which was easy for him

-With his childhood and training, he feels invincible and powerful. And far too cocky

-He's still basically a teenager and given his own team to lead into his first mission

-The team is then ambushed and Owen is forced to raise his gun and shoot

-He's not ready for body to fall, completely lifeless

-But there's no time for him to process this information. He needs to keep fighting or else he's going to die or someone on his team will

-He doesn't have time to process the whole situation until much later

-Sitting on his bunk, he can't sleep. He can only think about the man's eyes. Owen watched the light leave them

-Owen doesn't sleep for several nights

-He wishes at least a thousand times that Deckard was there and could give him a hug

---

-Hattie doesn't kill anyone until later into her MI6 career, when she's 25

-She's fought people and hurt them, but never killed. Not until MI6 wants her to have the same skill set as Deckard

-Of course, Hattie has no idea MI6 is planning this, not until they shove a file at her and tell her that the target needs to be eliminated

-That words seems to echo in her mind. "Eliminate"

-She's tempted to shove the file right back

-But she knows she's always on thin ice with MI6. She doesn't want to be kicked out, so she agrees

-Sitting on top of a roof with a sniper rifle, Hattie can feel her fingers going numb from the cold and the realization she has to pull the trigger

-Eventually, her target enters her scope and she needs to take the shot

-Hattie barely even realizes she pulls the trigger until she hears the crack of the bullet hitting the window glass

-Eyes wide, she watches as the target's body drops, blood pooling under them

-Her handler has to scream in her ear to get her to move and not get caught

-Hattie stumbles into her small apartment after the mission and falls to the floor. She's able to close the front door, but can't move from the floor

-She ends up sitting on the floor, in front of her door all night

-Her legs shake too much for her to move other wise

-By the time she finally crawls to the couch at sunrise, her eyes are red and parched. She has no more tears

-She passes out shortly after, the echoing crack of the bullet filling her dreams

~~~

Sorry if this got dark/gorey! But I hope you enjoyed friend!

[straykidsupdate]

STRAY KIDS INSPIRE THEIR GENERATION TO PICK UP THE MIC

K-POP’S YOUNG DISRUPTORS NAVIGATE ADULTHOOD ALONGSIDE THEIR FANS

Stray Kids are fighting with their fans to determine who adores the other most. The fans started it, erupting into an impromptu chant inside Microsoft Theater in downtown Los Angeles: "We love you! We love you!," they shout, repeatedly. The sound is deafening, catching the boy band off guard. The eight members retaliate with their own impassioned chorus. "We love Stay," they respond, referencing their legions of international devotees. Both sides scream until, ultimately, Stray Kids admit defeat; they stand awkwardly onstage, apparently unsure how to receive the unrivaled adulation. Bang Chan, the Korean group's steadfast leader, looks around the venue in awe, while sensible vocalist Seungmin makes a heart with his hands and points to the crowd, resolved to have the last word.

This is not the first time Stray Kids has lost the battle of who-loves-who. It’s happened in cities across the United States, from New York to Dallas, amidst their District 9: Unlock world tour. It's canon, chiseled into the group's short but colorful history, alongside such viral moments as "Seungmin in the building" and "I'm not gonna leave you behind." Displays of affection between idols and fans are nothing new but, with Stray Kids, they’re never forced.

"It doesn't matter how old you are," Bang Chan tells the crowd mid-show, intensity building with every word. "It doesn't matter if you're a boy or a girl, or whoever you choose to be. It doesn't matter where you're from — everyone is welcome in our special district."

Two weeks prior to this performance, Stray Kids — Bang Chan, Lee Know, Changbin, Hyunjin, Han, Felix, Seungmin, and I.N — are gazing from a conference room in a Times Square skyscraper. The sky is gray, but that doesn't deter Hyunjin from posing for a series of selfies against the floor-to-ceiling window. As the lithe dancer works his angles, his bandmates are scattered throughout the room. Han props his phone against the room’s A/V controls to watch an anime; Bang Chan hunches over his own phone, thumbing the screen intently; Lee Know rests his eyes; and Australia-born Felix gossips about last night's Grammy Awards. Like any teen, he's obsessed with Billie Eilish, and her historic Grammys sweep is hard for him to fathom. "Can you believe it?" he says, eyes wide and sparkling. "She's only 18. It's amazing."

But at 19, the deep-voiced rapper, whose delicate features betray his cherry-red hair, has similarly found success at a young age. Within a year of their 2018 debut, Stray Kids received 11 rookie awards and released five EPs. In fact, while Eilish and her brother Finneas were crafting homemade beats in a Highland Park bedroom, JYP Entertainment's tenacious boy wonders were honing their own unique sound in a small studio in Seoul, South Korea. Members Bang Chan, Changbin, and Han comprise the group's primary production trio, 3RACHA, and they've been making music together since their trainee days in 2017. Introspective early tracks like "Start Line" and "Runner's High" laid the foundation for Stray Kids' sonic identity: With the disruptive power of punk, they deliver astute, poignant lyrics about the bristly experience of growing up and its side effects.

"The things we worry about and the things Stay worry about — we share a lot of the same struggles," Han tells MTV News. "Even though our ambitions are different, we work hard just the same. It becomes our inspiration musically." As the creative force behind two of the group's more vulnerable cuts, "19" and "Sunshine," the 19-year-old rapper reveals his innermost thoughts and anxieties to the fans. But that honesty can be frightening.

"It's nerve-racking for us," Bang Chan says. "Sometimes we think, 'If we talk about this, will people understand? Will they relate?' We're always thinking about how we can reach people through our lyrics because we want our music to help."

That empathy has been woven throughout their music from the beginning. Stray Kids’ first singles, the pre-debut track "Hellevator" and the darkly riotous "District 9," are full of angst and aggression, soundtracks for those who balk at societal pressures and follow their own rules. "My Pace" is an empowering anthem teeming with energy and affirmations. ("Don't compare yourself with others," Bang Chan sings on the hook. "It's OK to run slower.") Songs like "Voices" and "Side Effects" offer an intimate glimpse into the tumultuous mind of a young person still figuring out their place in the world, while "Miroh" and "Victory Song" are bursting with big sounds and youthful bravado.

"Young people today may feel a bit trapped, like you're constantly being told what to do and you feel like you can't speak for yourself," Bang Chan says. "So we want people our age to feel comfortable speaking out and talking about what they think."

By encouraging their fans to examine their own growing pains, to feel everything, they ensure that their message is never didactic. "All strayed steps come together to make a new road," they say at their concert. And with their latest release, "Levanter," off their sixth EP Clé: Levanter, Stray Kids come to the understanding that the journey is more meaningful than the destination, and the path ahead is ultimately theirs to define. So they double knot their shoelaces and dash full-speed ahead. "We might not know what the actual goal is, but as long as we're running hard and we're running as a group, whatever comes is going to be good anyway," Bang Chan says. "We just wish that a lot of people out there could listen to our music and get a lot of energy and hope from it."

Like 25-year-old Selina, who connects to their lyrics because she's "still on that journey of figuring out what I want to do and who I want to be," she says, clutching her Stray Kids light stick (a compass, now featuring Bang Chan's name written on the handle) outside of Microsoft Theater. Her friend Joseline, 18, likes that the members "have other priorities and interests outside of being a K-pop idol" that they reveal through daily Instagram posts, livestreams on the V Live app, TikToks, and weekly YouTube videos and vlogs. "He's not just Han from Stray Kids, he's Han Jisung — rapper, producer, and person," she adds.

For Kambree, 17, the group has a "positive vibe" that makes her feel happy and accepted. "They make us feel like family, no matter who you are or what you look like," she adds. Her best friend Lexxie, 17, says Stray Kids "make me feel like I'm not alone with my issues." And So Yun, 30, finds their mix of "hard-hitting EDM" and "super angsty" lyrics reminiscent of the emo bands she listened to in high school. "It's the same rebellious spirit that I felt as a teen when you want to be your own person and figure out your own voice."

Their music has given Louis, 30, a newfound perspective. "I like the ['Levanter'] lyric, 'I want to be myself, I don't care' — that line resonates with me because we live in a society where people try to mold you, but at the same time, I just want to myself and at this point, I really don't care!"

Best friends Ella and Jazlynn, both 19, met online through their mutual love of Stray Kids, and they've customized their light sticks with glitters and holographic stickers of their favorite members' names. "Half of the group is technically my age, so I can look at them and see how successful they are, and it gives me inspiration to work harder," Jazlynn says, an I.N banner at her side. And while they do feel comforted by the authenticity in the group's songs, as Ella explains, it's who they are off-stage that many fans connect with most. "When you see Felix do the Renegade, it's like, 'I do that too!'"

Their ability to ignite the stage with powerful performances while staying true to themselves behind the scenes — as both K-pop's reigning meme kings and young men navigating adulthood — is what makes Stray Kids so relatable to a generation that experiences much of their lives online. "This generation is comfortable being alone," Changbin says. "We have our phones. We don't always need to be talking to each other to be together. Sometimes a text is fine."

And they're pretty normal, too. Bang Chan and Changbin watch videos from Tomorrowland and Ultra Music Festival to help clear their minds in the studio; the tracks "Road Not Taken" and "Stop" are the direct results of such self-care. Han's idea of a perfect day would be to "not come out of my room for 24 hours." If he could spend all day watching YouTube videos, he would. In fact, he says "Sunshine" was inspired by a scene in the Korean drama Boys Over Flowers, where the main characters travel to an idyllic private island. Though Han’s larger-than-life presence dominates the stage, he identifies as an introvert and admits he hopes to "overcome" his shyness. "On my ideal perfect day, I'd try new experiences and meet new people comfortably," he says. "You can do it!" Bang Chan adds, encouragingly.

Youngest member I.N makes time to go shopping, though he prefers to "chill" on his days off. And when Felix isn't playing video games or destroying kitchens with Seungmin, he frequents Seoul's finest dog cafes. "We have so many dog lovers in our group," he says, smiling. "I've been looking at a lot of dogs, and I feel like they help you feel better. I really want a dog with the team." Jisung points at Seungmin, whose nickname is "puppy," and Bang Chan adds, "We already have one." Seungmin scrunches his nose and says, "No way!" (But Han insists he's a "really bad boy.")

Meanwhile, Hyunjin, who’s known by fans for his theatrics and commanding stage presence is extremely open with his emotions. He frequents V Live, where he offers personal advice to viewers of his video series Hyunjin’s Counseling Center. But the 19-year-old admits that opening up to Stay has helped him, too. "I don't always have a lot of confidence," he says. “When I want to be comforted or when I’m feeling kind of sad, Stay are really good at consoling me. I want to be able to repay that comfort in full."

"The connection between Stay and Stray Kids would be family," Felix adds. Han jokes that they're the "annoying and mischievous" little brothers. But it's that sense of connection, among the group as well as with their fans, that has cemented Stray Kids as the vital voices of their generation.

"The struggles we're going through — anxiety, stress, school, love — they tell us to take our time and see where our path leads," Selina says. "It's OK to stray from it. Just stay true to yourself. I always associate that with them. The idea of 'You Make Stray Kids Stay' is to find out what it is that grounds you and just keep going."

And Stray Kids don't plan to slow down any time soon. Having wrapped their Clé series at the end of last year with Levanter, 2020 offers an exciting fresh page for new musical experimentations, starting with the three original unit songs the group produced for the tour. "Wow" is a sexy R&B track from dancers Lee Know, Hyunjin, and Felix. It's also their first explicit love song. "We wanted to try a sexy song because it's a special stage," Hyunjin says, explaining that the dancers worked on their own lyrics in addition to helping with the slinky choreography. "We wanted to include moves that we haven't tried before," Lee Know adds, noting that they wanted something sexy and powerful. "So it was a new experience."

"My Universe," featuring vocalists Seungmin and I.N with an assist from Changbin, is a bright pop ballad. "I always wanted to try something like that," I.N says, eyes smiling. Seungmin tells Changbin from across the table, "Thanks for helping." And 3RACHA's "We Go" oozes confidence over a scorching trap beat. "We made 'We Go' last time we were here [in the United States]," Bang Chan says. "We made around three to four songs in one day… The performance is really fun as well. And those two [he points to Han and Changbin] got to have the chance to use Autotune live."

They also released their first English singles in January, a process that rapper Changbin, known for his furious flow, calls "difficult." ("It was fun," Hyunjin argues beside him.) "I was listening to Changbin's rap [in 'Double Knot'] like, 'Why is this so fast? What am I going to write?'" Bang Chan says. "I tried to write it as easy as possible so that he could speak it well. I'm really glad that they could record it really well for me."

In March, they'll debut in Japan. And there's another mixtape project in the works, kicked off by the digital release of "Gone Days," a relaxed, Autotune-laced anthem for the "OK Boomer" generation. A play on the Korean word kkondae, it describes someone who pushes outdated ideas and expectations onto another based only on their age and status — and signals the arrival of a bold new direction. "I think [young people] now just need to be more comfortable with themselves," Bang Chan says of his inspiration for the track. "By being yourself, you never know what's going to happen."

"I always believe that one person can change the world," he adds. "So if you have a thought or an idea, just let it out. Because who knows? You can make the world a much better place."

[anonthenullifier]

You think Tommy & Billy occasionally have to hear their parents get referenced or discussed in classes or school hallways?

I am so so sorry this took a long time. I hope you enjoy it! 

The echoes of the bell are still bouncing through the halls and the room is still teacherless. There are signs that Mr. Byrne, their physics teacher, is around – a coffee cup sitting on top of a pile of their ungraded papers (which is fine by Tommy, he’s tempted to just go knock the mug over and get everyone As) and also the word DENSITY scrawled on the board. “What is it - 3 minutes and we get to leave?”

“Fifteen,” Billy doesn’t even turn to acknowledge his twin, too focused on organizing his notes, “pretty sure that’s only for college and also not sure it’s even a real rule.”

Apparently today his brother is in one of his serious, academically focused moods. “No one asked you, nerd.”

Now Tommy’s earned a steely stare, “You did.”

“Whatever.” Fifteen minutes seems excessive anyway, if Tommy is going to lead a revolt to not have class, he’d rather only wait five minutes, max. Given the make-up of their classmates, he’s reasonably confident he could get at least three-fourths of the back two rows on his side. Definitely not going to garner any sort of sympathy or fealty from the front rows, where they sit, because Billy says he hears better up here. Tommy only sits with him because they are near the door for an easy escape. “Do you think he’s dressing up again?” 

Billy writes Density at the top of a new page before looking at Tommy with disdain finally aimed at someone other than him. “God, I hope not.” 

“Who do you think it’ll be this time?” 

“Probably Carol.” Tommy snorts and then gags at the mental image, also a sliver proud of Billy’s emotionless delivery.  You see, Mr. Byrne is one of those…”cool” teachers, self-described, not student labeled like their kickass literature teacher next period. He’s “up” on memes, pop culture, and slang, though usually only on an academic surface level, the way old people try desperately to relate to the “youths” of the time. Why he tries, Tommy doesn’t know, the man has to be at least in his mid-thirties.* His choice of cultural relevance this semester? Superheroes. It’s awful, every week they have to watch him fanboy about someone else they know. It’s bad enough being the children of Avengers and dealing with other students who either have unoriginal questions (“Why do Hulk’s pants not rip apart?”), want autographs (particularly from Tony), want to prove they can win a fight without super powers (they can’t and Tommy’s detentions prove this), or, his favorite is when they ask sexually explicit things about his parents. That is a topic he never ever ever ever wants to think about ever again. 

Tommy checks the clock – four minutes. One more and then Živjela revolucija!** 

“Good morning class!” Dammit. “Today we will be…,” Mr. Byrne’s entrance is drowned out by sniggering, everyone murmuring around them and Tommy swears he can feel at least fifteen people looking at him.  

“Oh no.” It’s Billy’s voice that worries him the most. 

Tommy finally looks up,”Oh fuck no.” 

“That’s right,” it was bound to happen, they should have seen this coming, should have dropped this class when the whole superhero examples and costumes started. But they didn’t, they had just a bit too much faith in humanity. “Today we will be learning about density from the expert himself,” Mr. Byrne, face painted a too bright red and a plastic gem that he probably stole from a troll’s stomach stuck to his forehead, tries to swipe his Halloween costume store quality cape dramatically, “The Vision.”

A swift kick to the left gets Billy to tear his eyes away from the abomination at the front of the room, “Fuck this shit, I’m out.”

Except a thin blue strand traps Tommy in his seat,, “It’s one day,” Billy’s mouth doesn’t move but Tommy can hear his damn placating voice in his head, “we need this class to graduate and you can’t go to the principal again, so just stay and suffer.” The last part is almost gleeful. 

“Nope, I’ll just get a G.E.D.” Tommy throws his brother and teacher the middle finger as he vibrates his molecules and phases the hell away. 

Dad’s face is not pleased and mom’s eyes are glowing. “I swear this one is justified.”

“Yes,” his dad’s voice matches the tone he’s used on villains begging for freedom, who try to explain that the death ray was just meant to exterminate the rats in the city not, you know, the group of people tied up, “I am certain your detention will be justified this time.”

Well, he’s a lost cause, so Tommy shifts to the more rebellious parent, “Mom, I promise, that man is a lunatic and I had no choice but to skip.”

The Scarlet Witch, feared and revered for her reality warping, is about to tear a hole in reality and kick him out of this existence. “I’m sure.” 

Jody, the secretary, in all her villainess cardigan wearing glory shushes them sternly, “You know the rules.” The reprimand is replaced by a mannequin-esque smile, “The teacher is on his way and then Dr. Bennett will sort this all out.” 

Five minutes of agonizing silence pass, dad on one side in his unassuming and gaudy sweater vest and mom on the other, flicking arcs of scarlet between her fingers, before an out-of-breath Mr. Byrne arrives. He’s changed, now in khakis and a polo and face clean other than a slight tinge of red that looks like a sunburn. The conniving bastard. “The Vis-, I mean, Mr. and Mrs. Maximoff, what a pleasure to meet you.” 

Mom provides a taut, yet polite smile, “It’s too bad we didn’t meet under better circumstances.” 

“I agree,” Mr. Byrne’s voice conveys the same feeling that a patronizingly placed hand on the shoulder would, “Tommy is such a bright boy.” The if only is left silent, thankfully, a phrase he is so sick of hearing. 

This is all bullshit. Mr. Byrne knows exactly why Tommy left and yet, as the way it usually goes, the adults will all believe the adult. Actually, as it usually goes, he’s going to be left out here and not be allowed to speak his piece. 

The door to the principal’s office opens with a, “Mr. and Mrs. Maximoff, Mr. Byrne, please come inside.” 

His fate is sealed now, at least one more detention and maybe, if he’s lucky, an expulsion, though honestly that wouldn’t be luck because then he’d probably be forced to do some community service thing or, worse, have dad homeschool him.  But then, like an Avenger that’s been gone for a way too damn long time during the battle, salvation comes in the form of Billy rushing through a portal in the office wall. “Wait, I have evidence!”

“William,” the principal’s voice is almost the same cadence as dad’s when he’s disappointed, “this is unprecedented.”

Billy is way better at playing along with superiors, his body folding in just enough to show he is ashamed at the breach of protocol, but he remains steadfast against the admonishment. “I know Dr. Bennett, but I have pictures of what happened in class today.”

Curiosity is the prime emotion in the office, but it is not the loudest, that would be the absolute blissful terror draining the last of the color from Mr. Byrne’s face. “Let us see it.” Billy hands his phone over to the Principal who squints with a “Huh,” and then hands the phone to mom who immediately starts laughing while dad, well, it’s hard to read his reaction, but Tommy knows that anytime he stands that still and that impassive it means he has come across something so horrendous, so lacking in social respectability that he is doing everything in his power to not phase through the floor. “Mr. Byrne, I believe you and I need to have a conversation. Thomas?”

“Yes, ma’am?” Whatever kindness may have been on her face is gone. “Um, yes, Dr. Bennett?”

“You should go back to class.”

He salutes her. “Will do.”

Tommy waits just a moment longer to watch the slouched form of his teacher go into the principal’s office before joining his family in the hallway. “That was amazing! You should save me every time…” he’s really confused right now why everyone isn’t celebrating with him. “What?”

“You should get back to class,” mom doesn’t sound mad, in fact, she seems entertained by the whole thing and is only putting on the parental facade because it’s what she has to do as his mom, “we can discuss some better ways to handle these types of situations later,” something he expected, “once your poor father here isn’t so traumatized.” Ah, he sees it now, dad’s still a bit stiff and hasn’t blinked in awhile, it would be rude to rub this in any more, that’ll be for dinner tonight. 

“Sounds good. Won’t skip class again.”

“I’m sure…” 

Billy tugs Tommy away as he counters back, “Have faith, mom,” and he walks away a free man.

*30, according to my own students, is the equivalent of being elderly and about to die. 

**Long live the revolution!

[savoiry]

can you please exlain that language meme??? i dont understand it

what I love about this is that I logged off for 5 months, logged back in, reblogged 2 posts, and received a question about one of them immediately afterwards hahaha. 

dw I’ll try my best to explain.

short explanation: it’s Loss.jpg slightly longer explanation: in case you don’t know what Loss.jpg is about, it’s a comic by Tim Buckley about ... a guy going to the hospital and finding out his wife had a miscarriage? (I actually had to look that up wow) but people took the format and reduced it to very obscure references to the lineup of the panels. Example :

at some point in time people started referencing this a lot and it became some kind of challenge to make it so incredibly abstract, only people who have seen a lot of variations of said format could make out what it was. 

this symbol is apparently the somewhat aesthetic version of Loss and if you didn’t know that whole mess to begin with, this would probably just look like an interesting mix of lines to you. 

(I’m sorry for the long reply but I hope I explained it alright)(also my tumblr is whack atm so I’ll do my best to tag this ask after I’ve posted it)

[benisasoftboi]

Gushing time.

Rune Factory 4 Special arrived a day early, so my entire day has been consumed in nostalgia. The original Rune Factory 4 was the first video game I ever bought on release day - I remember saving up all my money and making my mum drive me to like three different shops trying to find one that had it. I was already a fan of the franchise - before then, Rune Factory 3 had been my favourite video game, across the board. Aside from a playthrough of the first game last year, I haven’t played a Rune Factory game in a long time, certainly not RF4. But just starting up the game and hearing the music again, it was like it was suddenly seven years ago. Running around Selphia and seeing all the characters again - I love JRPGs, have played a lot of them, and I can think of very few that have characters that have stuck with me this long. And the aesthetics - the best thing about the Rune Factory franchise has always been the aesthetics, the music, the scenic and character design, just the general world. It’s a beautifully whimsical balance of urban and fantasy, and it’s the only JRPG world I think I’ve ever come across that I would genuinely want to live in. Rune Factory may no longer be my favourite game franchise - but I don’t think there has ever been another series that has felt so much like home to me.

Here’s a very long selection of personal highlights from the art book (by which I mean photos of the art followed by my rambling opinions):

Yeah, see, here’s the thing - Rune Factory 1 is not a good game. I could write an entire essay on why it’s bad (I actually started and got pretty damn far before realising no one’s interested in my two thousand word review of a game that came out over a decade ago - the short version is ‘Misty Bloom-fucking-Cave’. Anyone who’s played RF1 knows exactly what I mean). Don’t get me wrong, it has good qualities - excellent boss fights, for one, and also, as with the rest of the franchise, it is aesthetically wonderful. But ultimately, it feels less like playing a video game, and more like playing a proof of concept for a game. Which I guess it kind of was - and I can’t hate it because we wouldn’t have the rest of the series without it.

But it literally ends with a dragon spewing plant breath on a tank to make a turnip grow out of the gun. ‘Profound’, my arse. 

It’s Raguna! The “master sowrdsman!” (that is not a typo on my part that is a direct quote from the ending of Rune Factory 1 this game’s script had so many issues-). And Mist! My favourite of the ‘canon’ love interests!

Best girl! When I was a kid, my favourite love interest in RF1 was Rosetta. As an adult, it is Tabatha. I don’t know what it is about her that I find so likeable (she’s as lacking in personality as any other RF1 character), but... idk, I just like her a lot.

Camus’s big ambition is to leave town like even once. He will never achieve it

Fun fact about Melody is that she’s extremely depressed, a fact that comes up once in an optional side quest and is never addressed again. It’s incredibly dark for an RF game

Fun fact about Lukas is that he sucks (he’s one of those ‘obsessed with talking about how hot all the girls are’ characters, an archetype that thankfully doesn’t show up again in these games). But also, interestingly enough, thanks to one of RF1′s many, many script errors, if you marry Rosetta (the girl Lukas is the most obsessed with), he’s supposed to express disappointment that he lost her to Raguna - but instead, he implies that he’s disappointed to have lost Raguna to her. The translators typoed their way into giving him a sexuality change. Which is honestly kind of amazing.

LOOK AT THIS SLIME THIS IS SUCH A COOL SLIME LITERALLY EVERY OTHER JPRG SLIME GO HOME DRAGON QUEST GET FUCKED (jk I like Dragon Quest a lot and its slimes are cool too). Wish you could see in-game that this is what they’re meant to be like.

I just generally love the monster designs, they’re really charming

Rune Factory 2! The RF game with the most weirdly mundane protagonist name (Kyle. In the main four games of this franchise we’ve got Raguna, Micah, Lest, Frey... and Kyle). The two generations thing was actually very cool, but when they say ‘each chapter captures a different lifestyle’, what they really mean is ‘the first half is a weak Harvest Moon I’m sorry, STORY OF SEASONS game, and the second half is a pretty good Rune Factory game’  

lookit this little fuck

Yue Yue Yue! I love Yue so much, she’s great. She’s kind of like a much chiller version of Anna from Fire Emblem.

It’s really cool that we got to see grown up Cecilia (she was in RF1). I have this silly headcanon that if Kyle doesn’t marry Mana, Nicholas (her friend in 1) comes to visit Cecilia one day in the hazy-post game future, and meets Mana, and they get together. While Yue is my favourite, I do genuinely like Mana a lot, and I just want her to find love, I guess.  

Here’s original Barrett! There’s a reason he was popular enough to make a reappearance (well, aside from the whole grumpy pretty boy thing he’s got going on) - he was a great character in this game. His and Dorothy’s relationship is also definitely the most compelling of the rival romances. Bonus Max, who also has a little shout-out in RF4 (check the diary in what will become Dylas’s bedroom at the start of the game)

Ray is male, but apparently he was originally going to be a female character, as he has an unused portrait in a wedding dress. My friend and I agree that this makes him a Trans Icon

Monster designs remain excellent. Especially the goblins

Skipping over Frontier (and also Oceans later), as I never got to play it growing up due to not having a console, and still haven’t got around to it - might try this summer. Except I do need to point out that these guys should be memes. I don’t know in what way. But they should.  

Rune Factory 3! My first RF game. The transformation thing was very cool, even if it was basically useless outside the main story. My friend and I spent hours mucking about in the WiFi dungeon. I loved the desert settlement and all of the dungeon designs in general, and man, RF3 is just great. I hope it gets a remake one day.

Raven Raven Raven! I LOVE Raven (as do most). Her story with Micah is the first time I can remember getting genuinely invested in a video game romance. I’m so glad she cameos in RF4. I love her. She’s wonderful.

I have an odd fondness for Marian. When I was about twelve, I decided to do a playthrough where I deliberately romanced the least popular bachelorette. After poking around on forums, I determined that character to be Marian, and did a run with her. And... I actually came to really like her. I find her endearing. I get that people find her annoying and don’t like her... unethical medical practices, but doing that run has still made me a pretty protective of her. It’s been a long time since I played RF3, so maybe I’d change my mind if I replayed now, but currently, as far as I’m concerned,  Marian’s a good’un.

I think I also used to low key ship her with Collette lol 

Pia’s official art has always been super weird to me because it’s so not what her character is like in-game. She’s a ditzy airhead. This makes her look so serious

RAINBOW! Another character whose art makes them look way more serious than they actually are. Daria is great and would be a meme if this game was more popular. I think she’s also implied to be a relative of Margaret. 

I’ve always been super confused about what Kuruna’s skirt is meant to be. Is it fur? Is it part of her shirt? Is it even a skirt at all?

Check it out, it’s the guy everyone would ship Micah with if this game was more popular

I want Zaid to make a reappearance and interact with Doug. Pretty sure it’s canon that they’re from the same clan? Think it would be very interesting.

RF3 definitely had the coolest farm. Also, still love the desert settlement.

This is from Oceans, so I have no context, but it’s just so cool that I had to share

Rune Factory 4. Culmination of the series is right - when I was playing it for the first time, I remember being blown away by just how much it is a true love letter to the franchise. I have never come across another game series that so consistently grew and improved from entry to entry. RF4 was a perfect ending.

Not that I’m complaining about getting RF5. Quite the opposite.

But if it had been the end (as we all thought it was until about a year ago), well, like I say. Perfect. 

Well. Aside from soda can nipples. Can’t believe they didn’t fix those. Though in some ways, that would have made me sad too

Dolce has such a cool design, in both human and monster form. I’ve always kind of crack-shipped her with Margaret, for no real reason at all

Vishnal! I love Vishnal. Vishnal is pure as heck. Marrying him this time around.

Doug! My choice from last time around. Another character who looks more serious in his official art than he is in-game (well... most of the time)

And then there’s Dylas, who looks much happier here than he does most of the time. Kind of looks like he and Doug swapped bodies, actually. There’s a fanfic prompt for you.

Their ship name is Dyldo. I love them

Leon is nostalgic for me mostly because my friend and I used to get into a lot of arguments about whether or not he’s the hottest character in the game. She maintains that he is, because muscles. I maintain that muscles aren’t actually that attractive. It is a rift that divides us to this day

(He looks oddly... younger in this art though? Weird)

Sechs Empire is such an unfortunate name. Seriously. How rushed was RF1′s localisation team? All those script errors, and then this (the Sechs were the antagonists in the first game, and were only referenced in passing in the rest until RF4 - so it was a bit of a ‘sins of the father’ situation by then).

Seriously, try saying ‘Sechs Emperor’ out loud and tell me you can take this man seriously 

I??? Love??? Them???

I??? LOVE??? THEM???

Still confused as to why Kiel, Xiao Pai, Arthur and Margaret are on the cover now. Don’t get me wrong, I like them, but... Amber, Dylas, Dolce and Leon made way more sense? Even the Archival Cover makes more sense (Vishnal, Clorica, Forte), as those three are all kind of Lest/Frey’s servants (well, Forte for the whole town, but still). Of those first four, all but Arthur basically lift right out of the game with little-to-no impact on the story

NO HAT TABATHA NO HAT TABATHA

I’ve always really loved this Raven picture

And I am thankful for you <3

[greenmantle]

call down the hawk, live thoughts

hi all. i just finished this book (this book!!!) and while i read i took random notes. if you’ve read my re-read posts from trb and tdt, you’ll know the drill, which is: i comment only on what i personally find to be important at any given time, i am largely incoherent, i’m just trying to have fun with these books i love deeply and only kind of understand.

this is the first one of these posts i’ve done for a book i haven’t discussed with anyone at length! i’m not a big theorizing person on my own, so many of my theories are small, underdeveloped, and obviously not true.

anyways, the post is under the read more! sorry it’s deeply long i just have a lot of feelings! also i wrote it all in wordpad which does not have spellcheck. please ignore any and all ridiculous spelling errors thaaanks

prologue & chapters 1-8, aka the sampler chapters I've already read

"he was proud of the family name...his mouth was always shaped like he'd just finished saying it." go ahead and say lynch out loud and you'll agree ronan clearly has his lips perpetually pouted

how many times will i read the name nikolenko and feel my brain wander away because its syllables are too similar to prokopenko? i suppose i'll find out

love that declan says massholes. love declan eating a "sad yuppie candy bar." declan is my best friend and i love him even if he's boring

1101 is ronan's birthday which according to my posts about the sampler is different, because that was listed as 1114. still wrong ronan was born on my birthday in october (not canon)

chapter 9 and beyond

TWENTY-THOUSAND-SQUARE-FOOT HOUSE

sad. ronan and adam do love each other, so much. they care about each other. sad.

gansey currently chained to one of the largest black walnut trees in oregon. love

similarly love this cow balloon situation, very fun

matthew calling ronan out on not just saying i love you to adam. kid.

listen i'm going to say this knoiwng i am only on page 93 of a several-hundren page book, but i love declan and i am frankly tired of everyone who is wrong about him because he cares and loves and he's my friend and he goes on internal monologues about the efficacy of people as safety devices in his brother's life and delegitimizes his own love for his family because he was the less-loved, human child who had to understand firsthand his parents flaws when his brothers did not have to and i love him. and i'm hoarding information about him forever (like needing an antacid to eat a burrito). if you don't like declan your mom's a ho etc. etc.

trying to reconcile the nightwash with trc canon because it's not making sense to me tbh but i also don't have all the information yet. however i love you jordan and hennessy and your four other clones.

I'm sorry, this lady just told ronan and declan they're like a podcast. THE HUMOR.

more about angie. ronan is very sweetly naive asking if she runs the market because she was behind the desk in the otherwise empty lobby. i love him

"most men do not go to mass every sunday and most men do not fall in love with other men." ronan, honey,,

oh man oh man aurora WAS a dream of a real person wasn't she

nvm

22740 zipcode results in: sperryville, va. sperryville. like the boatshoe.

don't know how i feel about my new best friend jordan flirting with my established best friend declan

NVM TO THE NVM ABOVE??

this whole hotel scene is making my brain melt so much is happenning at once. also fuck you niall lynch

this dream where grown up adam feeds ronan a tomato. ronan really does have the wildest desires re: intimacy

HE HATED NEWS STORIES ABOUT PLASTIC IN THE OCEAN. god ronan. call blue. your climate and environmental anxiety needs direction

maybe i'll just spend the rest of this book imagining niall as derry girls james who picks up a northern irish accent

BLUE SAYS BOUDICCA IS THE ORIGINAL GOTH

something very sweet and juvenile about ronan referring to the old women in the mask room as "ladies." similarly juvenile for gansey to refer to boudicca as an "all-lady" group

"thank god," declan said. "you can if you like, matthew said, "but i dressed myself." SCREAMING

this Uncle guy is a facebook minion meme person

why did niall lynch dream himself a car that he still needed to purchase gas for. loser

200 pages in and a brand-new, super interesting mystery has been introduced in LILIANA, who i adore already. scary explosion girl

"i saved your life because i love you" crying emoji crying emoji crying emoji

'it was possible no two students at aglionby had ever come away with such a thorough understanding of latin (or, possibly, of each other).' maggie you're a hoot

i miss adam. i'm about halfway through the book and hoping he makes more appearances but feeling like i'm out of luck :(

adam drove up for ronan's birthday to surprise him. insert literally any crying gif here

those two bullet points were separated by at least three chapters

"he was senselessy turned on" is the most overtly sexual one of the main characters have been in these books maybe? i mean i know gansey and blue's not-kiss and yogurt sharing were both very sexy moments but

dreaming with the whole world's imagination instead of just his own!!! wow!!!

idk what liliana does exactly but i adore her the most

adam always being in the market for new skills i love him

oh they referenced one of my favorite scenes, ronan teaching adam how to drive stick, which then allowed him to steal gansey's car. romance

"what, as the kids say, the fuck?" ronan you are 19 years old you are the kids

declan got ronan a zoo membership for his birthday that's very cute

ronan just turned 19 yet declan said that matthew is a month shy of 18 this math does not add up. matthew was 15 in trc

i went to bed at this point so the rest of these notes are from before and after work haha

liliana's chapters all being narrated by other characters is so interesting. it reminds me of ronan not having any chapters in trb so that his story could be a mystery for the second book, except this time we're getting absolutely no insight into her as a character because all of the characters she's interacting with are strangers. she's a complete mystery who sucks all the sound out of the world and can bless children and make houses nice

the old woman is very cold..is liliana what adam saw while scrying, the thing that's scared of bryde? he also came to very cold. probably not but if she is: i said it here

i love wendy the diner waitress calling ronan and hennessy kids and not being phased by ronan's bad attitude and patting his hand and telling him he reminds her of her boy and putting a whipped cream smiley face on his waffles

liliana is looking for hennessy and hennessy has been having the dream for ten years and it's just like adam described. so i still think liliana is the thing they've both seen

(also ronan called adam his boyfriend which is cute and good. also psychic!)

ah probably nvm about liliana because it appears she is a visionary, which i probably should have figured out on my own

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

i'm almost certain i once read a fic where declan was actually the son of a human woman and then aurora was dreamed and had ronan!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

aurora is a dreamed version of a real woman!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

man, fuck niall lynch

this is like the weirdest week in declan's deeply weird life. poor guy

MANAGEMENT?

ronan apparently calls all of the small girls closest to him maggot

i've finally decided to google what a psychopomp is. it's a spirit guide, in case you too didn't care to look it up despite maggie referring to opal as such no fewer than a hundred times.

carmen is definitely going to end up on the side of the dreamers by the end of this series...or at least i hope. liliana saying she'l follow her anywhere when she punches ramsay....

ronan: bad teacher

biggest surprise of this book is that declan seriously, genuinely loves art

feels like carmen and liliana are gonna get together?

ronan asking hennessy not to let him be the only one...very sweet....very trc ronan lynch who doesn't understand what he is

sargento

hennessy and ronan holding hands as they start to dream is so very sweet. my favorite new best friends

'ronan had loved richard c. gansey iii far more than he loved himself at that point.' SAD

this is way more of a cliffhanger ending than any of the trc books and i'm mad about it.

if you read all of this honestly bless your soul. someone please talk to me about this book.

[luanna801]

Rating the Fashion in D.N.Angel Art (Pt. 1)

(Because this meme is fun, and these looks deserve to be appreciated. Or in some cases mocked. :-P)

A nice, comforting place to start off the list. This striped hoodie is adorable, and very much in-keeping with Daisuke’s canon sense of style. The blue at the neck of his shirt provides a little contrast while still keeping it simple. He looks cute, wholesome, approachable. Exactly how I like my Daisuke. His cuteness is apparently so intense that he radiates little stars. Valid.

10/10 Classic boy-next-door charm.

This totally looks like a boyband album cover, but in a way that’s working for me, I’m not gonna lie. I like how they’re coordinated in their all-white outfits but the looks are still individual. Dark’s jacket is very cute, as is Daisuke’s in a more relaxed way. I like the little wing detail on the back of Satoshi’s shirt. Honestly my only criticism of this is why Satoshi looks like something splattered in his eye.

9/10 BACKSTREET’S BACK ALRIGGGGGHT

I thought I should include at least one piece that gives you a good look at the school uniforms. They’re very cute! The red-and-white color scheme is nice. (It was thoughtful of the school to match their uniforms to the protagonist’s coloring.) Those little cropped jackets on the girls’ uniform are very cute, and I like the detailing on the collars too.

9/10 Stylishly preppy without being too much.

I don’t actually think this look is objectively good. The arm-warmers look like random pieces of fabric that he tied in place with string. The shirt looks less “artfully ripped” and more like it’s being eaten away by acid. But none of that actually matters, because he is SELLING it. Look at the absolute confidence in those eyes. That look says “Maybe my shirt is disintegrating, because it JUST CAN’T HANDLE BEING THIS CLOSE TO MY BODY.” What he’s wearing is actually irrelevant. He looks absolutely badass.

10/10 FIERCE. Tyra Banks would approve.

It’s hard to put my finger on what exactly isn’t working about this. Riku’s shirt feels like it would be more in-keeping with her style if it didn’t have the lacing up the front. Risa kinda looks like she’s wearing a lacy nightgown with gloves. Neither of these looks is terrible, but I’m just not really feeling it. I feel like Sugisaki was maybe still figuring out Riku and Risa’s styles when she drew this.

6.5/10 Room for improvement.

A mixed bag! Daisuke might be wearing The Jacket(TM), although the coloring is different than when Sugisaki colored The Jacket(TM) later. In any case, he looks great. The combination of the black jacket with the red/white/black plaid trim looks very crisp and classic. Satoshi, on the other hand, looks low-key like a sleazy casino owner. The high collar/huge houndstooth print/necklace(?) combination is just too much. 

5/10 Even my love for Satoshi cannot make that look work.

CUUUUTE. This is giving me very Bertie Wooster vibes, for some reason. He looks like the spoiled but good-natured heir to a fortune whose butler keeps needing to get him out of shenanigans. I would be down for this AU.

8.5/10 Fingers crossed for a Black Butler crossover.

WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE. I’m not actually sure I have words to do justice to how bad this is. It just looks like random pieces of fabric thrown together haphazardly. The little metal thingies make no sense. The orange-and-gold color scheme is garish. Nothing about this looks good, but beyond that, nothing about it even makes sense. This is the nadir of D.N.Angel fashion. For my sanity I’m going to hope it’s referencing some series I’m not familiar with.

-10/10 WTF.

An excellent palate-cleanser! I think the fact that they’re sharing a scarf is adorable. Riku’s whole look here is perfection to me - the way the red roses on her sleeves coordinate with her red gloves is VERY stylish, and those cute buttons at the wrists? Fantastic. Daisuke’s shirt seems nice, though I can’t for the life of me figure out what it says. Points for having a shared color scheme, although the fact that his shirt is white and hers is cream does clash a bit, arguably.

9.5/10 Overall, a great example of couple dressing done right.

THE JACKET(TM)!!!!!!! You can’t actually see that much of what he’s wearing (although the art itself is gorgeous), but I am incapable of being objective about this. Seeing this just reminds me of how much I adore these scenes, and this arc as a whole. Also the word bubble here is literally Satoshi talking about how he’s dying, and that is not remotely okay. Someone hug him, please.

1000/10 FEELS.

[deacied]

evening sun  .  //  one .

summary: messaging stupid things to your celebrity crush on instagram has no repercussions because it’s not like they’re going to read it anyway! obviously this doesn’t entail sexual harassment or general creepiness, but sending a meme they’d like or a picture or maybe something actually stupid like your phone number seems irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.

or the one where you dm joe on instagram and your life actually changes

warnings: none other than like fluff 

word count: 1.7k

    she sends the stupidest message she has possibly ever typed in her entire life (eighth grade, angsty teen posts on myspace included) to him in the second week of march. the chances were low that he would open her dm, but he had been known to ever so often answer a handful at a time, and what did she have to lose if he did answer the message? she had sent him other things before as if he were her best friend, memes that reminded her of him or funny t-shirt ads, whatever it had been that she thought might have him grinning to himself--- however, clearly the response never-received wasn’t with this particular “friend”. she didn’t really know him, and he, blissfully unaware of her existence, yet she tried weakly to get the attention of him while he received thousands of others flooding his messages doing just the same. it was just a bit of fun really. a shirt that showed a t-rex wearing mickey ears, “wrong park!“ written across it had her laughing manically to herself before sending the post over to joe. she hoped she would see him in that shirt soon.

    it was a hopeless cause that, well, wouldn’t crush her if the odds weren’t in her favor. nearly a month after she had sent the stupidest message, a notification of a new text pings through her phone. a glance over to it only to be met with an unknown number loses her attention as quick as it held it. she yawns. the action comes of mainly boredom though sleepiness threatens to claw its way into dominance as the summer rain continues to pummel unto the roof, warm florida air shifting through the porch, and the novel in her hand losing focus. a nap would be good-- perfect actually.

    the crackle of lightning followed by a gargle of thunder shook her out of her sleep only an hour later and back into reality. every afternoon without fail, the casual shower of rain would pass over her family home just after three as if mother nature were taking her time with her garden. florida often promised hurricanes so the thunderstorms weren’t uncommon, but this particular one wasn’t supposed to hit until thursday, and with it being only tuesday, she knew this storm would last forever now: the earlier they came, the longer and harder they reined apparently. notifications sound off at a quick rate, though she easily dismisses it as something extraordinary going on in the group chat. trekking back into the house with book and phone in hand, her free fingers pass over her dogs’ heads as she passes them to head to her room. the thought of a shower to wash away the dampness from outside was the most ideal option she possessed, however, the implied doom her mother promised of a shower during a thunderstorm was the least. more notifications go off in time before she turns off the ringer entirely and plugs it into the charger. sixty-four (jesus) messages in the group chat on discord, another twenty-one from the same group on instagram, and god knows how many more on snapchat, but the one, singular cluster of notifications tucked at the bottom that held her interest had her pausing with head tipping in interest: another message from the unknown number.

lower lip curls between teeth as brows furrow an inch together. finally clicking on the messages, she feels like she might throw up as her eyes follow the pixels. holy. fucking. shit.

FROM unknown 11:18 am: It’s super dangerous giving your phone number to strangers on the internet you know? FROM unknown 11:20 am: I tried to call and kind of chickened out. I got nervous and I’m sorry. FROM unknown 11:43 am: Oh my god, did you really shoot your shot and just leave the court?

    she has to read the messages at least eight times, take a screenshot, send it to her brother, and have him confirm she’s not having a stroke before she can go back to the originals with an intent to reply. thumbs hover over keys making absentminded shapes as she breathes deeply, loudly, anxiously trying not to have a whole mental breakdown. the message directly referenced her messages to none other than the boy from jurassic park, the bassist of bohemian rhapsody, the very angry baseball player of undrafted. there was absolutely no way that this was actually, truly, literally joseph francis mazzello iii. couldn’t be. nope. not happening. she doesn’t know what to reply back with for a good long moment, taking a second to collect herself and open up instagram to confirm for the hundredth time now that this is who she thinks it is.

    the dm’s screen welcomes her, exhale escaping lowly as she clicks on joe_mazzello’s chat. he hadn’t replied -clearly, she most definitely would have received a notification for that or else instagram would have a very angry woman on their hands- but he had opened it. the time read 3:56am two weeks ago when he read them. her head falls backwards as the mental math floods hurriedly through her brain, trying to understand: so he had called a week after reading them apparently, and then waited another week before engaging contact again. he... he had been thinking about this for a while; it wasn’t just a spur-of-the-moment ploy to entertain a fan. god, she might throw up actually this time. thumbs navigate to open the texts from the unknown number again just to make sure they hadn’t magically dissolved into thin air. a slow exhale. one more final time she moves over the keys.

TO unknown 12:56 pm: who is this? TO unknown 12:57 pm: if this is who i think it is i’m gonna Lose My McFreakin Mind

    she nods to herself as they send--- vague enough that whomever was on the other side wouldn’t think something strange was going on no matter what the outcome turned out to be. it had happened once where a friend texted the wrong number instead of her, asking if “mc fuckhead” was there. (that was an incredibly fun inside joke to explain.) head tips to the side slightly, hopping her train of thought from joe mazzello and him genuinely thinking of you to how strange every inside joke must sound to people outside of the inside. another vibration of the device jerks her back to the matter at hand, unable to help her heart thumping uneasily.

FROM unknown 1:26 pm: Hi, I’m Joe Mazzello from Jurassic- I mean, Bohemian Rhapsody and you’re watching Disney Channel! FROM unknown 1:26 pm: Thank God you’re a multiple text person too FROM unknown 1:27 pm: Please don’t Lose Your McFreakin Mind! FROM unknown 1:27 pm: Wait. FROM unknown 1:27 pm: .....Is this (@ y/ig)? Did I just fuck everything up with an actual wrong number?

    suspicions couldn’t get more confirmed than that. her next set of texts goes out rapidly and without much second thought, a stupidly huge smile graced on her face that probably made her look like a maniac--- but really, if any person’s celebrity crush had texted them wouldn’t they have the exact same reaction? actually, now that y/n thinks about it, she’s being really, really calm. the internal screaming stays internal -thank the lord- though her cheeks already ache from the face-splitting grin she currently wears.

TO unknown 1:33pm: if i’m (@ y/ig) then wouldn’t you be @joe_mazzello? no? just me? ok TO unknown 1:33 pm: but hi yes i’m y/n ??? holy shit ??? what the fuck ??? TO unknown 1:34 pm: definitely losing my mind rn   TO unknown 1:34 pm: but also 👀 real talk i was 👀 actually asking you 👀 out TO unknown 1:34 pm: like if you wanted to hang out 👀 haha

    as soon as the last one sends, her heart drops with fear. fuck, what if the actor just wanted to do a fan a favor and answer her dm just for shits and giggles, or, best (worst?) case scenario he wanted to online-befriend her. she can very easily lose the one single chance she’s gotten and--- god, yes, definitely going to throw up. she sends another message in a haste, praying to whomever was up above that her last text actually saved her ass. he responds in actual record time, the girl tucked up on her bed unable to help the excited and very, very, very ugly squeal she let out as she starts reading the messages.

FROM joe omg 1:36 pm: Interesting.... I’ll have to accept your proposal. We meet at dawn! FROM joe omg 1:36 pm: But you’re in Florida right? I think I read that on your account, I hope I didn’t just pull that out of my ass. FROM joe omg 1:36 pm: I haven’t been to Universal down there in God knows how long and I was planning to go at the end of the month funnily enough FROM joe omg 1:36 pm: If dinosaurs and King Kong and Harry Potter and whateva are your thaaaang

    an anxious groan soon follows-- of course this was the alternating year she had gotten a disney annual pass instead of a universal one like last year, and upon further inspection of prices, her bills due, and her bank account, it was a couple hundred dollars she definitely didn’t have to spend. she sets her phone down to calm her now raging anxiety, skin heating up and palms sweating profusely until she fists her comforter in hopes to dry them. asking an actual rich and famous person for financial help just to hang out with them was forcing her eyes to prick with tears-- she had to find something else, right? they could work something else out and she was just overreacting. it takes her verbally saying “you’re crying over universal, chill the heck out” before she comprehends and truly relaxes, tension melting out of her back as a slow breath falls from anxiety ridden lungs.

TO joe omg 1:42 pm: i actually love universal but i have a disney pass right now if maybe that was something you wanted to do TO joe omg 1:43 pm: idk if you’ve ever been to disney world but its so much better than disneyland if i’m honest lmao i’ve gone to california once and i went and i wasn’t super impressed TO joe omg 1:43 pm: i mean it was really cool cause it was the original disney but rides and attractions wise you know what i mean??? anyway im rambling wtf

    the conversation rolls with no further lulls in topics to talk about, one in the afternoon soon turning to one in the morning and her eyes threatening to droop closed. with a final goodnight text the pair decide to resume conversation in the morning, and lord, did she have something to excitedly scream about then.