#and in any other moment where he isn’t moving in the video those sandals are either off his feet or flying off his feet

[akkivee]

i have always wondered how kuukou would walk in those sandals so i appreciate getting to see how lmao

[taehyungiestummy]

Stuck -- Chapter Four

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Word Count: 3713

           “Finally, alone with my girl,” Taehyung runs a hand up my sock clad let, stopping at the bottom of my skirt. “And she is overly cute in her outfit,” he tenderly smiles.

           I smile back, “It is nice to be back with you, Tae. Lying in a hotel bed after a crazy day. Just catching up on the months we have been apart.”

           “Thank you for surprising me today. It really cheered me up. It’s been hard for me these last few months. I’ve needed you, and all I could get was a Skype call. Now, you are never leaving my side again.”

           “I never want to leave you again,” I scoot closer to him, placing a hand on his chest. “I have never had such a low dip in my mental health than the first few months we were way. I can’t go through that again,” I feel a few tears run down my cheeks.

           Taehyung pulls his hand off my thigh and brings it up to wipe the tears off my face. “Let’s talk about something else so you don’t cry.”

           I chuckle, “Well, I better warn you about something then.”

           “What’s that?” He runs his hand over my hair. “Is your hair shorter?”

           “Just a tad,” I bring my hand away from his chest. “Now, for my warning. I’m going to start my period soon, so I might be a little off for a few days.”

           “Aw, my princess is going to be in pain. I’ll take care of you, and get you everything you need. Then once it has passed,” he smirks, sending a wink my way.

           “No, we will not,” I roll my eyes. “Hormones always running through you.”

           “Fine,” he pouts. “Hopefully we can go shopping before it hits. I didn’t buy any painkillers or pads.”

           “I have new painkillers now. They do a much better job, but I can pick out my favorite pads.”

           Taehyung giggles, “Sorry, this isn’t funny.”

           I giggle with him. “It’s strange, but I love that we can talk so openly about it. Oh, also, when we go shopping, I want to get sandals like you have.”

           “Really?” He smiles that boxy grin. “You have really cute toes like me, so they will be perfect on you. They aren’t traveling shoes, really, but that’s okay.”

           “We can get so many couple items, and when we travel we can match.”

           “Yes. We have to do that. No couple will be cuter than us.”

           “Can I ask you a cute favor then?”

           “If it is cute and coming from you, ask away.”

           I lower my head, avoiding my boyfriend’s gaze. “So, you know I can’t read or write Korean. I’ve been wondering if you could teach me.” I shake my head, “Sorry if you think that’s stupid and you don’t want to. I know we both will be super busy, so I will understand if you say no.”

           “Oh my god,” Taehyung sounds so giddy. “Yes, of course I will teach you,” he tickles my sides so I will look up at him. “Plane rides, train rides, car rides, and whenever else we have free time, I will teach you. When we go shopping, we can buy books and such to help with it.”

           I try my best boxy smile, “Thank you, Tae. I look forward to you being my teacher.”

           “Practice for when I have to teach our kids.”

           “If you can teach me, you will be able to teach them.”

           “Did you try to do my boxy smile a little bit ago.”

           “Maybe,” I feel my cheeks heat up.

           “You are so cute, jagi,” he taps my nose. “Do it more. I love it, and I have only seen it once.”

           I chuckle, “You just saw it. How do you love it already?”

           “I love everything about you, so I love it. Even if that was the first time I have seen it.”

           “That’s sweet.”

           “I’m beyond excited for you to see our apartment. Yoongi was actually the one who found it, since it is in the same complex.”

           “Really?” I can tell my face has lit up in happiness. “Yoongi-oppa will be close by. I bet he wanted that. Our dogs will be friends!” I burst into giggles.

           “They will be,” Taehyung chuckles along with me.

           “Is our apartment big? Fancy? I want to know.”

           “You will see it very soon. It is not that big, but still a nice size. In a nice part of the city. Allows pets, of course. Big bedroom, lovely kitchen. You will love it.”

           I tenderly smile, my hand landing on his chest again. “I’m sure I will. I would live with you anywhere.”

           “Do you think we should take a nap so we will be awake for the train ride home?”

           “One last question, and I’m sorry if it lowers the mood.”

           “What is it?” Taehyung is concerned.

           “How is your grandma?” I look him dead in the eye. “I want to see her before we get busy.”

           “She’s been better,” Taehyung pulls me closer to him, not breaking eye contact with me. “I don’t know what is going to happen. I don know you’ll get to see her soon. Next week, actually, before we leave for concerts. It’s one of my cousin’s birthday. You get to meet my extended family.” He somberly smiles.

           “Like, a lot of people at one time?” I take a deep breath. “Sounds like so much fun.”

           “I’ll be right by your side the whole time. No need to stress. You can even hang with my sister. All my cousins are really young too, so anything you do will impress them.”

           “I do like kids,” I muse.

           “Good,” he kisses my nose. “I want a lot.”

           I lightly slap his chest. “What has gotten into you? You are being so forward.”

           “Well, I know you are the one for me, so I just want to tell you while we are alone. Do you not want kids?”

           “No, that’s not it,” I sigh. “I want kids so I can treat them the way that I have always dreamed about. I will spoil them. It’s the fact of having kids that is going to be difficult.”

           “Why?” Taehyung is genuinely curious.

           “No,” I close my eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

           Taehyung places his hand gently on my cheek. “I’m sorry princess. We don’t have to talk about it right now.”

           I relax into his touch, opening my eyes. “Thank you.”

           “What do you want to do now? I’d love a nap.”

           “I think you have some promises you told me other the phone that you need to fulfill.”

           He smirks, “I do. We’ve been alone for a while now. I’m sorry that I have neglected you. Let me fix that,” he pushes me onto my back, hovering over me in seconds. “I love you.”

           “I love you, Tae,” I lovingly smile. “Here is to us.”

           “To us,” he connects our lips to seal the deal.

********

           “This is our apartment,” Taehyung pull keys out of his pocket. “Today we will spend time unpacking, and then go shopping.”

           “Open the door, please,” I bounce on my toes. “I need to see the inside of our home.”

           He chuckles, “Okay, okay. I’m opening the door.” He quickly slips the key into the lock; the sound of it unlocking the greats sound I’ve heard all day.

           The front door swings open, and the two of us enter into a small front room area. There’s a small table off to the side against the wall, a bowl on top.

           “Look, this is where we put our keys,” Taehyung drops the apartment key into the bowl.

           “Is this a closet?” I walk over to a door a few feet from the front.

           “It is. Open it up,” he shuts the front door.

           I open the closet door, smiling at the sight before me. On the ground is a combination of Taehyung and mines shoes, and hung up on the racks are our coats.

           “Like it?” Taehyung wraps his arms around my middle from behind. “We have a good collection of shoes.” He kisses my cheek.

           “I’m so excited to see the rest of this place,” I slip my shoes off and slide them into the closet. “I love this. I could look at this for hours.”

           Taehyung slips his shoes off, picking me up to slide his shoes into the closet. “I hope you don’t mind me opening all your boxes to locate certain items.”

           “That is completely okay. I kind of wanted you to get some things out.”

           “Then let’s head deeper inside,” he gives me a squeeze, but does no place me back on the ground.

           “Carry me into the house,” I giggle, closing the closet door.

           Taehyung turns right, takes a few more steps, turns left, and takes multiple steps to enter the open living room and kitchen area. The kitchen is directly in front of us. Against the wall to the left is most of the countertops and all the cabinets. A stove-oven combo with a microwave above it is in the middle of the counters, and a fridge is to the right of it separated by some counter. I spot a toaster, Keurig coffee maker, and a blender on the counter. A couple feet separate an island from that part of the kitchen. From my spot, the right side of the island is a bar with two stools, while the left has a sink and dishwasher.

           “Next to the fridge is a panty,” Taehyung walks over to the island. “It has some appliances that I didn’t think would look good on the counters, but if you want to swap things out, go for it. Of course, food is in there, and a bag of dog food.”

           “Ahead of the game. Such a man,” I swing my feet a little bit.

           “I am older, so I have to act like it sometimes. Doing this was one of those times.” He turns right to face the living room.

           “Where are the dog food bowls?”

           “On the other side of the island. That door leads to a small balcony with a table and chairs.”

           I look over at the door on the wall now to the left of us. “Just what I needed.”

           “Is the living room okay?”

           I turn my focus to the living room. A ‘L’ couch is against the walls farthest from us, and a square coffee table is in the middle. There are end tables with lamps on both ends of the couch. On the same wall I can reach out and touch to the right of me is a flat screen TV with a few boxes nearby. Everything fits snuggly in the open area.

           “What’s in the boxes?” I wiggle in Taehyung’s grasp.

           “Video games of yours, and books,” Taehyung answers, setting me down. “I didn’t have time to set them up. The video game consoles, that is. The table the TV is on can only hold so much, as well. We need a bookshelf,” he rests his chin on top of my head. “We can buy one today.”

           “It is lovely,” I duck so Taehyung’s chin is off my head, and then turn to face him. “You did a good job, Tae. Everyone has been perfect for me.”

           “Thank god,” he gives me a chaste kiss. “Let’s move on to our bedroom.” He grabs my hand, pulling me through the living room and to a door near the TV. “Ladies first,” he pinches my sides.

           I giggle, “Such a dork.”

           “The king.”

           I push open the bedroom door, taking a moment before stepping into the room. “The bed is huge!”

           “So you like it?” Taehyung laughs.

           I run and jump onto the king sized bed. “Love it!” I roll around a few times before sitting up.

           Taehyung has his boxy smile on his face, a look of pure love in his eyes. “My heart is beating so fast because you are too cute.”

           My cheeks are hot in seconds. “Lots of boxes in here. I hope we have enough room.”

           The bedroom isn’t anything fancy. Two end tables are placed with one on either side of the head of the bed. One medium sized window shines light into the room. This whole apartment actually has a good amount of windows to have natural light.

           The bed dipping as Taehyung climbs onto it brings me make to reality.

           “The tour isn’t over, princess,” Taehyung has crawled right up to me.

           “What’s left?” I lean forward to touch my nose to his.

           “Walk in closet and bathroom,” he moves his head to kiss my nose.

           I grab each of his ears between my thumb and forefingers. “Hurry up with it then. I want to mess with your ears.”

           “My big cute ears,” he tickles my sides, causing me to squirm away from him.

           “They are just a tad big, but I love them all the same,” I slide off the bed. Now on the left side of the room, I notice two doors.

           “That door right in front of you is to the bathroom,” Taehyung gets out of our bed. “The other is to the walk-in closet. It is just a square full of our clothes. Nothing special, yet, I guess.”

           I turn the doorknob to the door right in front of me, pushing it open to see a nice bathroom on the other side. To my right is two sinks and then the toilet. On the far end of the room is a shower, and a tub to my left.

           “The washer and dryer is back near the front door,” Taehyung comes up behind me. “After the first right, if you turn right again, there’s a door there. The washer and dryer sit inside.”

           “Perfect. This is perfect,” I turn around to wrap my arms around my boyfriend. “Thank you so much for all of this.”

           “You’re welcome, jagi,” he wraps his arms around me. “How about we unpack the stuff we have here. I know Nari will be bringing more stuff over soon. Then we can go shopping. I really want to drive you around.”

           I smile, “Sounds like a wonderful idea. Let’s get to it.”

********

           “This is so nice,” I smile, sliding into the booth after Taehyung. “All of us together again, eating amazing Korean food.”

           “It’s good to have you back,” Seokjin pulls Nari closer to him. “Both of you girls. Those ten months you were gone were weird.”

           “That’s an understatement,” Yoongi ruffles my hair. “It was shit, and that is the truth.”

           I giggle, “You’ll never have to worry about us leaving ever again. We are here to stay. I don’t want to feel like my heart has broken ever again.”

           “That sounds terrible,” Jimin nudges my foot with his. “Is your heart better now?”

           “Of course it is, she’s with us now,” Jungkook smiles at me.

           “Kookie is right,” I lean into Taehyung. “The second the plane touched down in Korea, I felt so much better. Like a weight was lifted off my shoulders.”

           “I could tell how bad you were in at the beginning of the school year,” Nari says. “You put on a mask for the Skype dates we had, but I could see through it all. My poor hurting cousin.”

           “As the summer came closer, her emotions made a turn for the better,” Emily adds. “It was so uplifting to watch it happen.”

           “Did you keep your sadness to yourself?” Namjoon asks. “I never heard anything about it.”

           “Mostly,” I shrug. “I didn’t want to worry you guys. I’m a big girl, and I had Emily. Yoongi-oppa heard about it, and I cried to Tae. It slipped out to everyone; I think.”

           “Well kid, you have to tell us all about how you are feeling from now on,” Hoseok grins at me. “Can you do that? We want to help you no matter what.”

           “For sure,” I nod. “I’ll be as open as I feel necessary.”

           Our waitress steps over, and Seokjin is quick to order what we need. That motherly instinct coming through, but I bet he would order anyways because he’s the oldest. Either way, it makes me feel warm inside.

           “So, Amber, you have something you would like to tell the boys, correct?” Nari looks over at me.

           “What’s on your mind, little one?” Yoongi pokes my side.

           I glance over at Yoongi, “It’s nothing big, I just think you guys should know.”

           “You have a tattoo,” Jimin blurts out.

           “She hates needles, so no,” Taehyung wraps his arm around my waist.

           “So that’s a no on the ears being pierced,” Namjoon chuckles.

           “Yeah, hell no to that ever,” I chuckle. “This is nothing like that.”

           “So spill already,” Jungkook bounces in his spot.

           “I am,” I stick my tongue out at the maknae for a few seconds. “So, my knowledge of certain topic has been expanded. With it, I understand myself even better. I, um,” I nervously giggle. “Screw it. I am pansexual. There, I said it.”

           “Pan…sexual?” Taehyung looks down at me.

           “Pan, sex, wait, you have sex with pans?” Hoseok shockingly asks.

           I laugh, “Not going to lie, that is an overused joke, but coming from you Hobi, I loved it.”

           Hoseok goofily smiles, “So I was wrong?”

           “Very,” I sit up. “Emily, if you would please explain.”

           “Gladly,” Emily smiles before diving into the explanation she gave Nari. Halfway through our waitress comes back with our food and drinks, but other than that, Emily is uninterrupted.

           “That changes nothing,” Yoongi grabs my hand. “We still love you. You are still the Amber that writes poems to let your feelings out.”

           “You are still the Amber who is terrible at first-person shooters,” Jungkook smiles.

           “You are still a cutie who loves plushies,” Jimin giggles, lifting his shoulders up as he does.

           “Still the Amber who reads as much as she can,” Hoseok smiles. “A cute nerd with her cute glasses.”

           I absentmindedly mess with my glasses.

           Taehyung tilts my head up with a few fingers under my chin, so I am looking into his eyes. “You are still the girl I fell in love with, and want to spend the rest of my life with. I love you for all you are, and all you aren’t.”

           I blink back the tears, “I love you, Tae. I love all of you guys and girls.”

           A quick kiss is pushed to my lips before Taehyung and I face back to the group.

           “Cutest couple ever, no debate,” Emily giggles.

           “Stop,” I whine. “Emily is such a tease now because she thinks I had a crush on her at some point, and I refuse to play into her game.”

           “Did you?” Namjoon seriously asks.

           “No,” I pick up my chopsticks. “I never did. Not my type,” I smirk.

           “Not Taehyung enough,” Yoongi gives my hand a squeeze before letting it go.

           I chuckle, “That’s it.”

           “So, does Emily have something she needs to tell us?” Seokjin shoves some food into his mouth.

           “What makes you asks that?” Nari ruffles Seokjin’s hair, but ends up fixing it so it looks nice.

           “Every time Amber has a big thing to say, so do the rest of you,” Hoseok takes a sip of his drink.

           “I do have something to tell you all,” Emily accepts the food Namjoon is holding in front of her face.

           “You girls plan that,” Jimin points at Emily and then me. “That’s almost too cute.”

           “We do plan it,” I smile as I open my mouth for the meat Taehyung has held in front of my face. “This is so much better than that Korean place our classmates took us to.”

           “Story?” Jungkook looks at me with puppy-dog eyes.

           “Let Emily tell us her news first, Kookie,” Yoongi takes a small bit of the food on his chopsticks, and then shoves the rest in my mouth.

           “Thanks Yoongi,” Emily smiles. “Well, it’s not as deep as Amber’s news, but it does concern traveling and such for me.”

           “Are you pregnant?” Hoseok looks at Emily with wide eyes.

           Jimin, Taehyung, Namjoon, and I burst out into laughter.

           “Oh, goodness no,” Emily shakes her head. “That is not the reason why I won’t be traveling with you boys as much.”

           “What’s up?” Seokjin calms the laughing down.

           “I got a job,” Emily smiles. “I’ll be working with Nari, kind of like her assistant.”

           The congratulations go around as Emily’s cheeks redden. She’s kept this hidden even from me.

           “I’ll be going to KCON, but everything else I have to be back here,” Emily twirls her chopsticks. When I’m gone, you all have to take good care of Amber for me.”

           “We will,” Taehyung squeezes my thigh. “She will never be out of our sight. I can promise that. Well, besides when we are on stage.”

           “I can promise that as well,” Yoongi ruffles my hair.

           “I’ll miss you,” I pout for a second. “But, these seven boys will make up for it.”

           “How about you tell the story of the Korean restaurant,” Emily encouragingly smiles.

           “Oh yeah,” I giggle as Taehyung feeds me once again.

           “Some of your classmates took you out for a meal at a local Korean place,” Jimin recaps what I’ve already given away.

           “Yes,” I nod. “They wanted to cheer us up. We were homesick, and I agreed to go because I thought it would help.”

           “It didn’t,” Jungkook sighs, knowing where this is going.

           “Not one bit. The food was more American than Korean. Like how Chinese food is over there. No one spoke fluent Korean either, besides the owner. It made me so sad.”

           “The owner liked talking with us, though,” Emily says. “He was a very nice man. I would have gone back there just for him.”

           “Overall, I didn’t have a good time, but I would never tell my classmates that. I ended up in a bigger hole than I had going in. It had me longing to be here even more.”

           “Well, let’s eat this fantastic food, that isn’t American at all,” Yoongi pokes my side. “And make you as happy as can be.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

A bit of a longer chapter, but it felt right. Anyways, hope you enjoyed reading, and I would love to know what you thought! :D

[floosies]

bury a friend: The Story of Noctua

pairing: steve rogers x possessed!oc x mcu!au

summary: there have been sightings of a dark creature who vanishes with night and in the mornings only remains of once living people are found scattered in open fields or forests nearby.

warnings: mentions of abuse, mentions of attempted suicide, violence, gore, cursing, mentions/scenes of sexual nature.

Please read with discretion. 18+ content.

A/N: This is my first attempt at something more dark. It’s been in my brain since hearing some of biilie’s works and quiet frankly I want to venture into new territory. However, I understand the severity of some topics that I will write about. If you or someone you know is in need please look at these resources.

tags: @indecisivedolly​

Part 4: The Seven Wonders (2 of 2)

She wanted to lash out, to drag him into the nearest body of water and drown him. Disrespect was something she had no experienced in so long, it made her burn brightly. Tenebrae wanted to intervene on the matter, but higher powers were unraveling truths to the old being.  There were rules that came along with the new found information, one of most importance, it could not kill the boy. There was a greater purpose for his soul. 

Dreams are often either ones forgotten by morning light or drag one’s soul through hell. This was the latter, she was witnessing a horrible moment of her childhood. Her rabbit was being killed by her cruel step father, who found the poor creature in her small room. Each time she tried to stop it, the scene would become farther from her grasp. She could hear the cries and screams of agony from her younger self. The dream shifted and distorted to a different scene, her first witnessing. The birth of a lamia, who had recently given up her virtue. An older warlock possessed by Tenebrae was the sacrifice. It was a beautiful scene, but the face of the warlock became the face of the boy who’d tried to take her virtue from her when she was a girl. He was burning in the fire pit as she and other lamia’s chanted old latin spells. They danced and laughed as he charred, a true haunting justice. 

Cold sweat covered her face as she awoke, it was still dark out. She couldn’t go back to bed however. The adrenaline from what she had to relive was terrifying her. Taking her robe, she went in search for a library or entertaining room hoping to distract herself from the resurgence of images from the harrowing dream. She was due to preform the seven wonders in a matter of hours. How could she preform if there was any sort of fear in her being, “daughter those were dreams. They cannot hurt you, unless you let them become real for a moment.” She found a room filled with spirits and fine wines from different years. Taking a red wine dated from 1893, she filled a glass to the mid part. There were comfortable seats with crushed velvet upholstery. 

Taking a shaky drink, she narrowed her eyes at the ceiling knowing it was present. “I have to present my gifts on command and you choose this time to remind me that I can make my horrors a reality? How unforgiving,” The being then took the form of an elderly man, “I apologize my daughter. I only remind you as you will need me there for certain things, or am I wrong?” Of course it was correct, to teleport through time required a certain stamina only Tenebrae possessed. “You’re right, but you don’t have to egotistical.” She laughed softly, the elderly man smiled. They were interrupted abruptly though, “this is Stark’s private bar.” It was James.

Bucky saw her sat next to some old man. The old man’s stare made him feel uneasy, “relax. It’s simply Tenebrae morphed into an elderly man for some reason.” He was still unsure of this girl demon or whatever she was. “You should go back to your room,” the elderly man sighed. “I will let you talk to this boy, I have other matters to see to. Call for me when I am need Noctua,” she nodded and it disappeared into a small gust of air. “James, I do hope I don’t frighten you.” She said almost mockingly. “Don’t ever call me that name again. Bucky will do, and i’m not scared of some little girl possessed by some demon.” She finished her wine and stood up, “little girl? I have lived life times in decades. I have seen far greater reaches of life and the afterlife. I am not possessed I was blessed with my gifts because I earned them. Tenebrae is not some demon, Tenebrae saw the creation of all you know that exists today. It even molded the ground you step on. You will respect me, or I will not hesitate to truly show you fear. Bucky.” She snarled his name, walking off to her quarters once more.

He wasn’t just angered, he felt embarrassed. Who did she think she was? She killed people for sport, she lived like a savage before they retrieved her. A little girl with an attitude and some words that rhymed, that was all she was to him. Fear her? He could destroy her if he wanted to. 

A shining sun filled the training room created for, it was quite large and empty. Steve had taken her to it, “do you think this will be good enough for you to display your powers?” She smiled, “of course it will be. Thank you,” he nodded and then those who wanted to view began entering. Tony of course had to see it, “hope I made it in time. Did we start yet?” She looked at Steve, “this is Tony Stark, he-” “I’m the billionaire who created the Avengers-” “He did not create the Avengers, he just complained his way in.” A third person said, “I’m Nick Fury, I formed this group, years ago.” She nodded, “is there anyone else who is coming today?” The men shrugged.

With that, they began. First was telekinesis which was easy to show. The video camera that was recording her suddenly was dragged to her grasp without anyone moving it. Concilium or mind control was also fairly easy, she made Steve do a fox trot with Tony. It was quite amusing. Vitalum Vitalis or the balancing scales of one life with another, was difficult to master, but she had and she proved it by bringing a dead hummingbird back to life. Divination was interesting, “in a room somewhere on the compound is Steve’s compass, in it a picture of his old love. Which room is it in?” A glance at her palm was all it took, “he usually keeps it in his office. You’ve chose to throw me off, it is in the bar room on the third floor.” Tony took his computer pad and showed the compass placed on the table of the bar room. It was impressive.

They had gone through almost all without realizing that Bucky was watching. Pyrokensis was interesting, he watched as she set half the room on fire in the shape of a swan. He listened as they reached the final wonder, “transmutation?” She nodded, “it’s teleportation really. Watch,” she suddenly disappeared. “Hi Bucky,” he screamed punching the wall behind him, but she was gone. Now she was in front of Steve laughing. Fury rolled his eyes, “okay you had your fun, but now show us the teleportation between realms, time, and alternate universes.” She became serious again.

The air grew cold for a moment, the entity was now in the room. “This is Tenebrae, it gave me the ability to travel through all those different dimensions. It must help me-” “you mean possess you?” Bucky scoffed, “yes actually. It is the only way I’ll remain conscious through the travel.” Fury nodded, “can you take someone with you?” She never had, “I- i’m not sure.” The being spoke then, “she can. My strength allows me to take many-” “just one, to assure this is true.” Reading Steve’s mind, she found him actually afraid to do it. “Stark?” He shook his head, “sorry it’s a risk I’m not willing to take. My will is still being rewritten.” Bucky rolled his eyes, “i’ll do it. To prove it’s a hoax.” A thunderous laugh echoed through the room. 

It was simple really, one artifact from the past, as well as alternate pasts/futures., and something to prove she went to a different realm. Tenebrae waited for it’s daughter to signal for it to begin the take over. She warned them first, “it isn’t pretty. You may want to look away.” Bucky thought she was lying, but then she began to contort. Her eyes were pitch black for a moment, he had never seen the human body twist and turn in such horrifying ways. He couldn’t look away, she was in mid-air, bones cracking, and eyes still filled with black. Then she wasn’t, her pupils went from gold to olive green. “Let’s go, you can all look now.” She grabbed his hand in hers, “we’ll be back!” That was the last thing she said before they traveled to a different time.

A home, a small house with vintage- these were not vintage. He looked down, the floor was checkerboard and he was wearing a suit. She had on a mini dress, this was the sixties, something felt off though. “Who’s home is this?” She didn’t answer, instead she led him to the front door where a newspaper was waiting to picked up. it read 1967 and John F. Kennedy was on his second term, civil rights movements were dying down as he’d made good work of ending the segregation era of the nation. Charles Manson had been arrested for his cult, this was the alternate future. The one where the good guys lived. Before he could get a second to enjoy it, they were gone. 

It all looked like the present except for the way some words were written. She lead him to a magazine, the date read 2058, they were two decades into the future. This future had no mention of the avengers or heroes. “What’s going on?” She looked at him, “in this universe heroes never existed. There was never a need for them. Everything was resolved without the creation or need for them. They hide their powers or are allowed to exist as is and use their powers as a way of earning wage.” Again as she said that, they were else where.

He was wearing a leather coat with fringe and denim jeans. She was dressed in a long white dress and sandals. “This is our 1970s, ya know with the super heroes and all that.” He followed her through someone’s garden, “Stephanie!” He heard her call out, and then a blonde woman appeared from the house, “little owl, you’ve come back.” The two met in a hug, “this is my friend Bucky, he’s a vet.” The blonde woman nodded leading them inside the home. They drank tea and she sang to them, her husband playing the guitar. He hadn’t even noticed that she’d disappeared for a moment. She apologized for them having to leave so soon, but thanked her friend for the kind welcome.

Their own future. He knew it was theirs because Tony was on a billboard and people recognized him. She bought coffee’s for them and kept the receipt knowing it had the date and with that they left. He couldn’t believe it was real, that he was experiencing this. The last stop was this odd planet with odd fruit, she grabbed one quickly and sent them to present.

Once in their present she dropped all the proof on the ground and ran to the back of the room. He went after her, “please stay back.” Her voice sounded pained. Soon the contortions and black pools of nothingness came back. It was leaving her, he felt awful for her pain. When it was gone, her eyes were gold again, her body fell to the floor. “Noctua!” Steve ran to her side, she looked feeble. 

Tenebrae felt awful for causing her pain. It never aimed to do so, but it was a long trip through space and time. She knew it would not be a fair toll on her body. It had to be done though, the boy was showing care for her. It’s work so far was going well. Quickly and smoothly it spoke to her, “rest my child. I must go, you will awaken in the morning.” As the medics came and took her to the hospital bay of the compound, Fury and Stark examined the artifacts.

Bucky was kept as he was the witness, Steve promised him with updates on her. The men listened as he explained everything, including the vinyl he didn’t know she stole off her friend, apparently it was a rough cut of some popular album. It was terrifying, that she could do such things. He was wrong, she was capable of more than he thought. 

[monoguk]

shooting flowers

You were wheezing, panting, moaning, writhing. His grip on one side of your hip tightened, and you swear it was gonna show a slight bruise tomorrow as well, but you paid it no mind as another stronger orgasm washed through your body. Under the fluorescent light of your balcony and the lamppost outside, you see Jungkook's face drenched in your release. You gasp, "Oh my God, I squirted, I'm sorry I-"

FEATURING -- jeon jungkook CATEGORY -- mature . romance WORD COUNT -- 2000+

The moment Jungkook opened the door to your apartment, he smoothly lifts you up onto his waist before sealing your mouths in a passionate kiss. You wrap your legs and arms tighter around his body as his body maneuvers both of you to somewhere more comfortable.

Apparently, comfortable for him was out on the open balcony with you atop a lounge table. "Here? Really?"

Jungkook shrugs, as though telling you, Duh? Where else?. It's not like you had any complains anyway; you both tended to be a bit public about your sexual endeavors, sometimes.

So, he continues to coax your tongue to play with his. His mouth parts from yours slightly only to spit in your mouth before kissing you again because he liked the lewd sound your wet mouths made when you were french kissing the hell out of each other. You liked it too.

What you don't like though is, "Where do you think you're kissing?"

"Uhm," he looks up at you, his hands massaging the skin of your hips under the skirt of your chiffon dress. Jungkook answers, with an innocent expression beneath blown-out irises. "Your neck?"

"Exactly! Need I remind you, I have a shoot tomorrow." You rolled your eyes when Jungkook's brows furrow in confusion. "So, don't be so rough. There can't be any marks."

His actions isn’t deterred though, because, in a matter of seconds he had your panties bunched up in his pockets and his fingers entering your wet pussy. "I know, I'll be taking your picture tomorrow."

You sigh, one hand around his neck and the other supporting your weight on the table top. "But you won't be the only one looking at it. Everyone at the studio will; heck the rest of the world will!"

Jungkook bites his bottom lip when you moan aloud as his hand thrusts faster inside you. He side comments on how perfect your hole is before he says, "I'll be editing it anyways. We can photoshop those hickeys away. So, let me mark you up."

"The make-up artists will see it. They won’t be happy about..." your words trail quietly, head thrown back and mouth eventually hanging open to let out heavy pants.

"Fuck them, right?" Jungkook whispers against your skin, teeth teasingly grazing your neck to tease you but he knows you'd give in to his request any minute now because no one as wet as you would think hickeys were a turn off.

"Mhm..." you rotate your hips around his fingers as you feel your orgasm slowly building, your arms tightening your grip around Jungkook's necks as he begins sucking hickeys onto your skin. At the back of your mind, you apologize to your make-up stylist and wish that they'd understand that you had a horny and kinky fiancé.

He takes your approval as a sign for him to suck harder, determined to find a pretty shade of pinkish-red on the wet patch of skin after he pulls away. To his satisfaction, the mark was redder than pink. To his dismay, he wanted to draw more of it on the span of your neck.

You allow him, anyway. His brutal fingers making you putty on his hold and you were this close to laying down until your nape hit the handrail of your balcony, but he had a hand on the expanse of your back, soft and warm atop your thin dress. "Don't be too carried away, Jeon."

"I won't," he says, but he's already sucking a third hickey, just shy of the top of your dress. Jungkook pushes down the tube top to expose your bra-less breasts onto the warm evening air. He grumbles when he sees your flawless skin and says, "Of all the days you need to have a nude photoshoot, it had to be after a horny night."

"What's gotten you so horny anyways?" You pant, you can feel it so close. Just need to have his finger twist a certain way.

"You," he whispers, fingers reading your mind as his wrist twists before he had your writhing beneath him, "Always you, my love."

You sigh when your orgasm fades away, when your sweaty legs feel the evening breeze cool it down as Jungkook lifts the skirt up to your waist. You hear the scrape of the lounge chair on the balcony floor, and you assume Jungkook has pulled it close so he could sit in front of your exposed, convulsing pussy.

The grip on your hips tightens just before his mouth dives straight to the engorged nub. His warm mouth around it had you keening, a sound that would be mistaken as an alley cat if your neighbors weren't so used to hearing the pair of you fucking outside the balcony. "Fuck, Jungkook, yeah."

You mewl when Jungkook adds two fingers into the equation, tongue flicking wildly at your clit, but you knew he knew it wasn't enough. When you slide your hand towards his fluffy hair, he gets the gist and sucks harshly on your clit.

Your eyes flew to the back of your head before you had them shut, mouth agape silently before a low moan escaped your throat. Jungkook's fingers searched for your g-spot and when he's located it, he had you mewling loudly into the quiet night.

You were wheezing, panting, moaning, writhing. His grip on one side of your hip tightened, and you swear it was gonna show a slight bruise tomorrow as well, but you paid it no mind as another stronger orgasm washed through your body.

When you came down, your mind was fuzzy but you hear Jungkook spit out a huge amount of liquid before you hear it dripping on the floor. Under the fluorescent light of your balcony and the lamppost outside, you see Jungkook's face drenched in your release. You gasp, "Oh my God, I squirted, I'm sorry I-"

"It was fucking hot," Jungkook pulls your face towards his to give you a rough kiss. He gathers more spit on his tongue before pushing it into your mouth. The mixture of your orgasm and a taste that is simply Jeon Jungkook had you mewling in soft satisfaction, eyes gazing up lovingly and lustfully up at him. "Let me help you."

He adjusts your skirt down your legs, eyes wandering quickly over your half-dressed form on the drenched table. He sighs longingly as he whispers against your reddened earlobe, "Turn around."

You had your back to him, your eyes flitting across the evening scenery before you and it made you wonder if someone from across were witnessing your wonderful act of sexual intercourse. Jungkook's hands caress your back sensually, bringing you out of your random thoughts before he softly whispers more orders into your ear.

Put your legs over the railing. (But not before he asked you to take off your sandals.) Lay down on your back for me. Pinch your nipples. "Open up, sweetheart."

From upside down, you see Jungkook unbuckle his belt and pull down his zipper in a matter of seconds. His hard dick springs out from his boxers when the cloth was tugged down just enough. His ring-clad fingers tug along the length of his cock, gathering pre-cum smudged from the bulbous head to the lengthy body. He groans as he does so, glad for the friction he's been craving for since your entry to your apartment.

You obliged to his request, head tilting back more to accommodate whatever Jungkook had in mind. You recall him showing you a 2-minute porn video about it on twitter and you both thought it was totally hot. You guess Jungkook wanted to try that out now.

He took your head-tilting as further confirmation that you know and agree to what he wanted to do with you. If the video was hot enough, he though experiencing it firsthand with the person who preciously holds his heart was definitely hotter, sexier, better. "Gonna fuck your throat like it's your pussy."

You moan when you had his head between your puckered lips, smiling when you see his thick thighs shake upon the sensations you were providing him. He walks closer, thus thrusting his cock deeper into your throat, surpassing your uvula and stopping a few inches deep into your accessible throat. "Mmm."

He hissed at your humming, exhaling when he feels your hands slide their way up to his tight ball-sacks. Jungkook reaches down to grope at your tender, exposed breasts, reveling the way his mere touch prompts your inverted nipples to peak. He slides your skirt from your legs only to have your unclothed mound exposed to any passerby out there in the city streets.

You squirm when you feel him bending, his fingers spreading your vaginal lips so he can slip his tongue inside the wet, convulsing cavern. His new position had you swallowing his cock further inside, urging you to gag but you powered through resisting it. Later, when he's a whimpering mess above you, you thought.

"Haa," he parts from your wet pussy, index massaging your tender entrance. "I love this; I love you."

Jungkook stands up again, one hand gathering both of yours to your stomach and intertwining your fingers with his. The metal band around your ring finger twists around the base when his thumb grazes upon it as his other hand slides from your breast to your collarbones to your constricted throat.

"Sweetheart, are you ready?" He asks softly, hips thrusting slowly, intertwined hands drifting towards the apex of your thighs. Your hands squeezing his served as your confirmation before his thrusts fastened.

The hand on your throat squeezes slightly on short occasions. When his pace builds up and his moans grow longer, his hands would constrict tighter whenever his cock reaches that deeper part of your throat.

The other hand had you rutting violently against it, the backs of your hand appropriately wet from your gushing pussy. His thumb moves from your engagement ring to your clit from time to time, coaxing a strained moan from you.

His thrusts go faster and harsher, his balls growing tighter when you started swallowing. "God, how perfect."

Abandoning your hands, Jungkook's fingers plunge into your hole, prompting you to hold tightly onto his pistoning hips. His long fingers locate your g-spot immediately and you swear another orgasm was coming in a few.

"I know, I know. Just-" his words were a jumbled mess, the table shaking and squeaking from the force of his thrusts in your mouth and your core. His panting and whimpering prevented him from finishing his sentence, not that he needed to. You knew he was close. He knew you were too.

His other hand tests out squeezing your neck for a longer period of time, a permission that you find endearing and hot. As a confirmation your thighs hold tightly onto his forearm, hearing him growl out in pleasure. "Always so good to me, just for me. My sweet love."

With his harsh movements along your throat and pussy, you were coaxed out off a second orgasm -- not as strong as the previous but just as mind-shattering -- with him following a second away. Jungkook's cum flows down to your throat, stays there until his hold on you disappears to help you sit up.

Once swallowed, the cough clawing it's way out of your throat escaped, the slight sting telling you how sore it was. If it were years ago, you'd be embarrassed of not being able to speak clearly the next day, but being in a relationship with Jungkook for so long rid you of this embarrassment.

Soft arms hugs you from behind, fixing your skirt and dress on your body. His nose skims the side your neck, inhaling your scent and intoxicatedly asks, "Is my sweetheart okay?"

You try to hum in affirmation, but no sound came out so you nodded instead. Jungkook had the audacity to chuckle behind you but you heard that behind his chuckles was a sigh of relief. Thank God I didn't hurt you, you knew he was thinking of that.

"Come," he cradles your tired body, carrying you from the balcony to inside your warm apartment. "Let's take a bath, yeah?"

Your nose tickles his neck, nodding softly and purring at Jungkook's version of post-sex cuddling.

He settles you down on the counter of the lavatory, your make-up from this morning still scattered about an area of the marbled tiles. You watch Jungkook fill up the tub, warm water evaporating and making a steam swirl along the bathroom. As he was pouring out the bath salts and aroma into the water, you turn to face the mirror, horrified to see your reflection.

Granted your lips were swollen and your lipstick was smudged, and your cheeks were flushed and served as a better blush-on than your limited edition make-up was. What made you gasp and furrow your brows, however, were the hickeys and fingerprints all over your long neck.

Your outraged gasp reaches Jungkook's ear and he turns around sheepishly to face your fuming, pouting face. "I got carried away...?"

With your hands across your chest, you stare down at Jungkook who was approaching you with a boyish grin. It was hard trying to stay mad at him with him smiling like that, damn it, and he knows you were this close to forgiving him.

He helps you hop down the counter to strip you of your dress, fingers softly massaging your colored neck once the chiffon hits the bathroom floor. He pulls you towards the bathtub, helping you settle down onto the warm, aromatic liquid. With his elbows on the edge of the tub, his head atop his forearms and his face tilted cutely to the side, he grins, "I'll take care of it. Forgive me?"

He strips out of his clothes, his jeans stained with his cum and yours, and you find it hard to not accept his apology.

Jungkook makes up for it by letting you ride him in the bathtub, water spilling onto the floor, bodies moving slowly and passionately, rose petals sticking to your bodies.

It's not like you could stay mad at him for too long anyways.

COPYRIGHT 190809. DO NOT RE-POST.

[harryandmolly]

Change of Pace - 3 (Summer 2019)

cowritten by @achinglyshawn

summary: Shawn and Maya meet again 10 years after life got in the way of love

warnings: language

wc: 7.2k

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

Geoff drags him out Sunday night, reminds him that he promised to play guitar for karaoke at the SandTrap for at least an hour until their regular guy can get there. 

“Besides,” Geoff rasps as he pulls Shawn into local-filled pub on the beach, “you need to have some fucking fun, dude. Stop wallowing over Maya.” 

“I’m not wallowing,” he insists, but he sounds a little too defensive even to his own ears. He re-adjusts his grip on his guitar case, following Geoff towards the stage. “Just, you know, processing. It’s a lot to process, dude.” 

Geoff takes Shawn’s guitar and sets it down next to his bass on the stage. He gives Shawn a look, amused but sympathetic, then jerks his head towards the bar. “C’mon,” he says, clapping Shawn on the back, “Let’s grab a beer before they need us on stage.” 

Shawn doesn’t argue, just lets Geoff push him forward. He takes the first empty seat at the end of the bar and nods at Meghan, the new bartender who started a few weeks ago. She smiles and he thinks maybe she blushes. He wonders if she’d flirt with him, if he tried. Probably. It could be fun, if it sounded at all remotely like something he wanted to do. 

Instead, he orders two beers and listens to Geoff talk about the woman at work he’s trying impress until they’re summoned to the stage. 

Maya scans herself in the reflection of a too-shiny BMW in the SandTrap lot. She hasn’t seen herself in these shorts since she was in her mid 20s, probably. She found them in the bottom of a box as she unpacked from her storage unit that was shipped over from Manhattan. 

She tried them on as a joke initially. But… they looked great. Especially a couple wine glasses in.

She’s heading for the SandTrap tonight because it’s just… time. Truthfully, she hasn’t left the house really since her run-in with Shawn at the farmer’s market last weekend. She’s been in and out to surf but has otherwise gone full hermit. When she realized this morning by looking at a paper that it was Sunday, she felt a sting of shame. 

So the SandTrap. 

It’s a dive on the beach. Their food is terrible, their service isn’t great, but the music is consistently awesome and Avila is so tiny that the nightlife is limited at best.

Just a drink or two, just to feel like she’s been out. It’ll be fine. Sure, she opened a bottle of shiraz to give herself the courage to get out the door, but this is an adjustment period. She shouldn’t judge herself. And she’s been trying to get him off her mind all week. She needs this.

But the shorts may have been a choice too far. I mean yes, she looks hot. CorePower Yoga and regular pilates were her vices while she was working. She’s in excellent shape. But the little cutoffs with her platform sandals and the drapey tank top? She’s too old for this.

But it’s too late. So she chews on her lip, tasting chapstick and wine, and walks inside.

It’s not the busiest night, and Shawn prefers it that way. The crowd is mostly locals chatting, exchanging a laugh or catching up about their weeks. No one’s too drunk, so the singing on stage hasn’t been awful. Besides, he’s likes watching his friends make idiots of themselves, and he likes listening to the ones who actually manage to carry a tune. 

He’s reminded of what fun is, for a little while. 

He can’t help but laugh at one of the locals’ rendition of Never Gonna Give You Up, and Geoff catches his eye from across the stage, an approving smile spread across his lips. 

It’s not like Shawn needs anyone to take care of him, but it’s nice having Geoff around. He’s never had an older brother, but he thinks Geoff fills the role well. 

Cheri claims the last song of the hour before the band goes on break and Shawn passes guitar duty back to Beckett, the kid who regularly plays the gig. The barista picks Careless Whisper as her anthem, and Shawn loves her for it. 

He loves this song. This song makes him want to pick up the saxophone, but he’s not sure he has the lung capacity for it. Either way, he finds himself melting into the chords, into Cheri’s pretty voice that soothes him even with the saddest lyrics. 

He’s caught up enough not to notice the woman who broke his heart standing in the back of the bar.  

Oh, come the fuck on.

She’s able to actually chuckle to herself because of course he’s here. Of course he’s on stage in those tight black jeans bobbing his head as he looks around the dimly lit dive bar. His fingers move deftly against the neck of the guitar she’s known almost as long as she’s known him. She wonders if he remembers the nights he spent holding her between his legs, kissing her neck and shoulders while she tried to learn to play. She hasn’t thought about that in a long time. She got really good at not thinking about that.

Maybe she should take this as a sign and just leave. Maybe she’s done enough just by getting out of her yoga pants to come tonight. Maybe she can count this as a brisk walk by the beach… a little tipsy and in platforms. That’s fine, right?

But then he’s getting off the stage and settling into a stool by the bar and he clearly hasn’t seen her so maybe she’s safe? She recognizes the song the band plays next and it’s giving her a conflicting sign. She has to stay through the end of it, at least. The woman singing has a nice voice.

A woman he doesn’t recognize gets on stage after Cheri, and Shawn’s glad he’s not accompanying anymore, because he kind of hates the song she picks. It’s Ashlee Simpson, an artist he hasn’t heard since college, when Maya would blast her music in her car as they sped through Toronto in search of a hot club or some chicken nuggets. Whichever they’d run into first. 

The song makes his heart beat faster. Too much reminds him of Maya these days, including the woman herself. She’s somewhere in this town, breathing the same salty beach air he breathes, watching the same sun rises he watches. Buying the same Starbucks, listening to the same radio stations. 

He takes a sip of beer. Forces himself to stop thinking about it. About her. He used to be so good at not thinking about her at all. 

Ok, new plan. She’s going to sneak up to the bar behind him and get herself a drink then retreat to where she can stay out of sight. One or two cocktails and she’s out the door, no problem.

Problem: the floorboards are warped by decades of sea salt air and bad weather. She catches an edge and rolls her ankle, crashing into the man standing in front of her with a wince. She apologizes quietly but knows she’s made a scene.

He’s caught up in his effort to push her from his thoughts when he hears a bit of a commotion at the other end of the bar. A barstool screeches, a beer bottle topples onto its side. 

When he looks over, he’s not even surprised. She’s always popping up when he’s trying to forget her. 

Maya slumps into a stool in defeat, now very sure Shawn’s seen her. She can’t bear to look though. She needs a fuckin’ drink.

Maya’s face looks red as she slips around the man to settle at an empty barstool. Shawn feels his own face turn a similar shade of crimson. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know when she got here or if she’s seen him, but for a moment, he’s stuck. 

It’s like a video game, where you’ve got two choices, and one choice moves the story along while the other sends you down a dead end, or over the edge of a cliff. Shawn doesn’t know which decision is which. None of his options now feel right. Staying in his seat and ordering another beer feels like a dead end. Getting up and saying hi feels like flirting with the cliff. 

He decides dead ends are boring. 

He plucks his wallet from his pocket and tosses a couple bills on the bar before moving down to the other end. He approaches Maya from behind, makes sure she can’t spot him before he’s leaning his forearms on the bar next to her and getting Tom’s attention. He’s the kind of bartender that responds to familiar faces, so Shawn’s pretty sure Maya isn’t making much headway. 

The bartender is busy and Maya is impatient. She’s staring at him and leaning most of her weight into her elbows that are propped on the bar but he’s definitely ignoring her in favor of chatting with some patrons she assumes are regulars. She’s about to go full New York Woman and start clearing her throat loudly when she feels a wall of warmth settle in behind her.

She doesn’t have to look. She knows what he feels like even when he’s not touching her.

The hair on the back of her neck stands up under where the rest is clipped up at the back of her head. He’s not so close that she can feel his breath. It’s probably a blessing. 

“Shawn, buddy!” Tom exclaims when he makes it back to the end of the bar. “You looking for a whiskey sour?” 

“Hey man,” he says with a smile, “Yeah, please. Whiskey sour and a scotch, neat.” 

Tom nods, turns away, and Shawn finally risks a look down at Maya. 

“That’s still your drink, I hope,” he murmurs with a smile, forgoing any sort of formal greeting. 

She turns and lowers back into her stool. His curls are frizzy from the humid air. His eyes are warm and soft. She swallows.

“Yeah. I still drink like an old man,” she confesses, “I think working on Wall Street made it worse.”

She remembers what he tastes like when he drinks whiskey sours. Her mouth waters completely against her will. She squeezes her fingers into the lacquered bar top and drops her eyes to his chest.

She doesn’t even look surprised to see him, which makes him think that she showed up when he was still on stage. And that she knew he was gonna approach her. He hates how predictable he is, but he couldn’t stay away. He’s drawn to her, whether he wants to admit it or not. 

She makes him laugh. She always has. And her drinking like an old man joke is one of the oldest they share. His heart flips. He feels inexplicably comfortable and out of control, all at once. 

He laughs. Her skin sizzles with the sound. She licks her lips and lifts her eyes to face him.

“Wall Street, eh?” He didn’t know that. “So does that mean you’re rich? Are you the wolf?” 

He’s flirting with her. He can’t fucking help it. He’s never not flirted with her. It also gives him something to do besides stare at her, like he wants to. He wants to sit her down and take a proper look, find all the things that have changed in twelve years and commit them to memory, so that he can know her just as well as he used to. 

He keeps his gaze on her fingers, instead, watches her nails dig into the bar because it’s the safest place to look. Anywhere else, and he’ll be lost. 

Maybe he should’ve picked the dead end.

He’s laughing, he’s joking. She can see the hesitancy in his eyes -- it seems he really doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing either. It’s strange. They used to say whatever came flying into their heads without thinking. 

She looks sheepish. “I never even saw that movie,” she confesses, “But I did meet a couple of the guys represented in it.”

She’s so lame.

“I do okay, though. Financially.”

A gross understatement. Maya has more money than she’ll ever know what to do with. Part of stepping away from the office was brought on by realizing in a sweeping wave of guilt how relatively little she’s given to charity in the last decade and change, too caught up in her own life. Another thing to work on.

She sounds like she does whenever she’s trying to be modest, like she totally is rich but it makes her uncomfortable to admit it. He feels stupid for asking the question in the first place. You’re not supposed to ask people about how much money they make, and here he is, hasn’t seen the woman in twelve years, and he’s asking if she’s fucking rich. What’s wrong with him?

She makes him crazy. He decides to blame her, even though it’s totally unfair. 

“I shouldn’t have asked,” he murmurs as he drops his gaze to the drinks that appear on the bar in front of them. His fingers curl around his whiskey and he swirls the glass in smooth circles. 

Maya wants to scramble all over the place to make him feel comfortable -- it’s an instinct. Her working environment has largely dulled it over the years. She couldn’t get anywhere in New York finance if she was always tripping over herself to make the men around her comfortable. But Shawn brings it out of her easily like it was just at the surface.

“It’s okay,” she laughs, and it feels as light as her head does, “You’re not exactly a stranger, Shawn.”

Not exactly a stranger. Understatement of the year. He feels like he knows her better than he knows himself. But he thinks of all the things he doesn’t know anymore, and the feeling goes. He’s not exactly a stranger, no, but he might as well be. 

“What are you doing for work these days?”

He’s watching the ice spin in a vortex, when her question breaks him from his trance. He smiles to himself, then gives her a sideways look. 

“I’m, ah, I refurbish and make guitars. And basses and other strings too. And I just started working on my first piano, actually.” 

He feels sick, telling her what he does like she’s an acquaintance from the street. He hates that she doesn’t already know. He hates that there’s any time in between them at all, when looking at her makes him feel like he was hers just yesterday. 

He remembers the last time he kissed her so clearly. It doesn’t feel like it was years ago. It feels like minutes. Seconds, even. He’s dying to kiss her again, but he knows he can’t. He shouldn’t. 

He sips his drink instead. 

Maya’s nose twitches as she tamps down a goofy smile. Of course he’d find a way to get even closer to the music. She used to joke that if he could climb inside a guitar and live in there, he would. It seems he found a way.

She watches his adams apple bob as he swallows. She finds herself swallowing around nothing and turns the glass between her hands.

“Of course you are,” she murmurs. It’s a little gentler and warmer than she intends it to sound. It feels like a brush of a hand against someone you’ve loved since you were a kid.

“That’s… that’s amazing, Shawn.” She finds she keeps saying his name. She hasn’t said it in so long. It feels nice.

The way Maya says his name makes his head spin. He tries to find solace in his whiskey. He takes a sip, then another, attempting to ignore how his skin buzzes pleasantly at the sound of her voice. 

She uses his name and ‘amazing’ in the same sentence and he feels like a freshman in university again, eager and hopeful and dying to be as impressive to her and she is to him. He’s always preened in the light of any compliment she’s been gracious enough to give him. Seems like that’s still the case, all these years later. 

He finishes his drink and slides it away from him, the alcohol pulling him down onto the barstool next to hers so he can order another. 

“I’m not the wolf of Wall Street, but it suits me,” he says as he turns on the stool to face her, one forearm pressed along the edge of the bar so his fist is curled near her elbow. If he wanted, he could stretch his fingers and touch her, feel her skin beneath his fingertips once more. 

He doesn’t. He doesn’t do a lot of things his body tells him to, lately. 

As Shawn drinks, Maya drinks. She slings back gulp after gulp of scotch until her glass is empty. She shouldn’t have another, probably. She never drinks this much anymore. She doesn’t know what she’d be like drunk now, especially around him. There’s no telling what she’ll do or say.

Fuck it. She orders another scotch.

She admires his hulking frame as he sits beside her. He continued to fill out and bulk up a bit in their time apart. Every curve of muscle suits him beautifully. She thinks about what it would be like to draw him again like she used to. The thought has her back in her fresh glass of booze.

They’re quiet for a moment, both sipping drinks like they’re thankful for something to do with their hands.

And then—

“I could show you around the shop, some time. If you wanted.” 

He says it without thinking, without considering what having her in his personal space might do to his heart. But he can’t stop being reckless now that he’s confronted her and they’re actually talking again and she’s not walking away from him like he used to think she might. Now that she’s looking at him almost like she used to.

He wants to close himself off to her, but he’s like a hungry flower in the sunlight. He blossoms and blooms and basks in her warmth because it’s the only way he’s ever known to be around her. 

She perks up when he offers to show her the shop. He wants to see her again. He’s not just being his unfailingly polite self. He wants to be around her, he wants to show her something that’s important to him. It makes her breath catch in her chest. She’s nodding before he even finishes his sentence.

“Yeah. Definitely. Yes. I want to see your shop.”

It’s not subtle, but it’s very honest. She blinks up at him with a big grin.

She doesn’t hesitate. He feels his cheeks flush. She wants to see his shop. His life. He has a feeling she knows how important work like this is to him. It makes him all that more nervous to show her, but no less eager. 

It feels too good to be true and for a moment, he waits for this to be another dream. He’d ask to buy her another drink, reach to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and she’d nod, part her lips to speak, then nothing. He’d be awake. 

He takes a sip of his drink to make sure everything is real, though he’d much prefer to pinch himself. He swallows and smiles at her, setting his glass down on the bar. He can’t stop smiling, and each smile is easier than the last, especially with the whiskey. 

“Don’t get too excited,” he laughs gently, “It’s not, you know, Gibson, or anything.” 

He’s giggling and smiling and drinking and Maya’s halfway to lifting herself into his lap, so she should probably put her glass down and let the world right itself. But she might be as drunk on him as she is on the booze.

“Fuck Gibson. I bet you’re better,” she says easily. It’s very honest. Her tongue is loose. At least she’s still keeping her hands to herself. For now.

If she’s been working on Wall Street, she probably knows all sorts of impressive business moguls and financiers. He doesn’t think he’s much compared to the people she’s got waiting back at home for her. He doesn’t know who it is she’s got in New York, a boyfriend or what, but he’s just a beach bum with a bunch of guitars. He won’t pretend to even compare, no matter how badly his gut tells him to peacock for her. It’s not who he is anymore. 

“We could go now, if you want,” he hears himself saying, to his honest fucking horror. He must be drunk. He’s only halfway through the second whiskey, though, so it’s not the alcohol that’s so intoxicating. 

He finishes his drink, then wets his lips and quirks a brow at her. Fuck it. 

At his suggestion, her glazed eyes brighten. “Yes! Let’s go now!”

She’s definitely loaded. There’s no getting around that now. But she thinks maybe some fresh air might help.

Who the hell is she kidding? She just wants to be alone with him where she can hear herself think over the bad karaoke. Not that she’s really thinking at all now. This all feels too good to think about it. 

She stands and bites her lip at him.

She’s tipsy. He knows the signs. The laugh in her voice, the flush in her cheeks, the glossy gleam in her eye. His heart warms. He missed this. He missed her. 

It doesn’t scare him the way it did only an hour ago. He guesses he can thank alcohol for that. 

She stands before him and he checks her out, openly, blatantly. He hasn’t let himself before now, but the alcohol has control of some of his baser judgements at the moment.

Or maybe that’s just a convenient excuse. 

Either way, she looks good. Just as gorgeous as she was in college. More so, actually. Elegant, even buzzed on scotch, in a way she wasn’t in her early twenties. She’s a woman now, when they were both just kids before. 

She feels his eyes all over her and tries not to squeeze her thighs together desperately, but finds it a challenge to keep them apart. Her mind wanders absently to which box her Hitachi magic wand might still be packed in. She… will probably need it tonight.

Finally, he sucks in a breath and drags his gaze from her beautifully round thighs to her face. He grins, unfolds himself from under the bar and stands to face her. As he drops a $50 on the bar, Shawn holds his hand out and gestures towards the door. 

He lifts himself to stand and puts a bill down on the bar, which is good because she forgot all about that. She flushes pink and smiles at him as a thank you. She follows his hand, turning toward the door.

“After you, Lulu.” 

She stops short at the nickname. No one’s called her that since he did 12 years ago. She doesn’t have the presence of mind to play it off. She blinks and spends a moment reveling in it.

“Oh,” she breathes, looking over her shoulder at him, “That’s an old one.”

He’s just as caught off guard as she is. The name slipped out before he could stop it, but the way she’s looking at him makes him glad he didn’t. 

He tries to play it cool. 

“Oldie but goodie,” he says with a quirk of his lips and a gentle shrug. 

Maybe he doesn’t take the nickname as seriously as she does. Maybe that won’t keep him up at night the way it will her. Maybe he assumes other people have picked it up and used it in his absence, though they haven’t.

She tucks the moment away into her big, drunk brain for later use.

He takes a step towards her, his hand moving to the small of her back of its own accord. He doesn’t realize what he’s done until it’s too late, his palm is firm against her back. 

Fuck it. 

He guides her forward, through the door and away from the parking lot. Geoff’s got the keys to the Jeep, and it’s just a short walk down the beach anyway. 

And then his hand rests on the thin silky fabric covering her back and she freezes again with her hand on the door. She recovers faster this time and hopes he can’t feel her shuddering breath through his touch.

His hand is so warm.

“This way,” he murmurs as he steers her towards the stairs that lead to the boardwalk. His hand is steady on her back with each step they climb. He doesn’t drop away from her until they reach the top. 

She’s grateful they’re not driving. The fresh air should help her sober up a little. She watches her toes as she walks with him and finds she can’t concentrate on anything other than feeling all five of his perfect fingers that are so close they may as well be on her bare skin. He hasn’t dropped his hand yet. She shouldn’t consider why.

“It’s just like, five minutes down the boardwalk, if that’s cool,” he says with a sideways glance at her as they walk, his hands sliding into his pockets.

“That’s fine,” she answers breezily, blinking quickly when his hand leaves the small of her back. She fights against the desire to curl into him and suck up all his body heat. She laces her fingers together in front of her and tugs at them to keep herself busy. 

“Do you live close by?” 

He watches her concentrate on her feet, then feels like he’s been caught once she finally looks up. He presses his lips together and nods, then looks away from her, trying to play it off like he wasn’t staring. 

She’s a little startled to look up and see he’s watching her. Maybe she shouldn’t be, because she’s been doing the same thing to him all night. She’s curious about him. Maybe he’s just curious too.

“My house is back the other way, though. Lease it with Geoff,” he looks back at her, brow quirked, “Do you remember Geoff? He was the year below yours.” 

He doesn’t know why he’s asking about G. He doesn’t know why he even mentioned him at all. He’s also starting to feel embarrassed by admitting to being a dude in his thirties who still lives with one of his bros from college. 

She’s probably used to far more sophisticated company than he can provide, but he tries not to dwell on it. 

She smiles. “I remember Geoff. Nice guy.” 

He lives with his best friend from college. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s single, but it at least means he’s not too serious with anyone.

NOT THAT IT MATTERS!

She berates herself and shakes her head a little to rid herself of the train of thought.

“And how long have you had the instrument shop?”

“Almost as long as I’ve been in Avila,” he answers, “It was a shit little property I had to fix up but I got it only like, three months after moving here.”

He feels like he’s being interviewed, but he really doesn’t mind. The idea that she’s curious about him, interested in what his life’s been like, makes his heart stutter against his ribs. 

Yet, bitterness and resentment nag the back of his mind. 

If you’re so curious, why didn’t you call?

He never changed his number. She did. 

He blinks. Takes a breath. He doesn’t want to be angry. He forgave her a long time ago. But forgiving her in his head when she’s not in his life hasn’t helped him control his emotions now that she’s showed up again. 

Maya gave up any right to be proud of Shawn a long time ago. But she feels it still, that swell of delight in her chest when he mentions fixing up his shop to make it his own. She knows in some universe somewhere there’s a version of her that was with him the whole time, that helped him choose paint colors, that massaged his shoulders when he came home from spending long hours hunched over a fussy guitar. 

This version of her remains quiet and tucks her hair behind her ears, fighting a shiver from the cool sea breeze. 

They reach his shop’s block, and he guides her down the stairs and to the sidewalk. He moves past her as they approach the small house that holds his creations.

He glances back at her with a soft smile before pulling his key from his pocket and slipping it into the lock. The door swings open and he reaches inside to flick on the light. He turns back to Maya, steps aside. 

“Well, um. Welcome,” he says with a grin. 

He guides her into his domain. It smells like wood and lacquer and power tools. She cracks a smile and giggles.

“Wow. Look at this. This is like your fuckin’ Candy Land,” she jokes, shaking her head.

“Show me your favorite one.”

She sounds genuinely impressed, and he can’t help but preen. He’s proud of himself, of this little world he’s built. Even on the worst days, where it feels like nothing goes right, he still loves it. Part of him aches with the need for her to love it, too.

“Oh, uh—“ he’s taken aback, stuck for a moment because his favorite one is the one he used to write songs for her on. Not that he has to tell her that, but still. He’ll know. 

“She— it’s in the back,” he says, a flush spreading across his cheeks. “Hold on, just— I’ll be right back.”

Maya chuckles at his stumbling over calling the guitar “she.”

“What an odd male tradition,” she blabs, knowing she gets philosophical and feminist sometimes when she’s drunk, “To name manmade objects after women. Like ships and cars and, I guess, guitars. It’s so bizarre to me. I don’t know whether to be offended on behalf of women or be charmed by the boyishness of it.”

She snaps her lips shut and makes a face at herself for her meaningless chatter. She’s running curious fingers along a vibrantly purple electric bass when she hears him reenter the main studio area.

She goes off on a tangent he’s heard from her before, just not about guitars specifically. It makes his heart twist. She makes it so easy to remember all the reasons he fell in love with her. 

(Not that he ever forgot.)

He slips past her into his office. Lulu is tucked away in her stand in his closet and he decides maybe he should stop calling a guitar he named after his ex a ‘she.’  

He holds the guitar up, spins it around to examine the shiny black lacquer-coated body before heading back into the main room, where Maya is admiring some of the electric basses that line the wall. 

“This is the first perfect guitar I ever made. I don’t think I’ll ever sell it.” 

She turns and stares at the work of art in his hands. She doesn’t really know much about guitars, anything she does know was picked up from snippets of conversations with him many years ago, but it certainly looks perfect to her.

“Wow,” she says again dumbly, “She’s beautiful. I’m-- wow. Can I hold her?”

She looks at the guitar like it’s as beautiful as he thinks it is, and that settles something deep in the pit of his stomach. All he’s ever wanted is for her to see him. He swears there’s no better feeling in the world than when she does. 

Like now, when she asks to hold his guitar like it’s his fucking kid or something. He laughs, bright and loud, head falling back for a moment. 

“Yeah,” he takes a breath, laughter subsiding as he looks down at her, “Yeah, you can hold her. She’s tough.” 

He holds Lulu by the body and offers her neck first to Maya. He wonders if she remembers any of the chords he taught her. 

Shawn’s laughing at her in a way that makes her feel more alive than she has in so long. It’s not judgmental or teasing, it’s… delighted. She delights him.

Or she used to. Maybe he’s just drunk.

Either way, he willingly hands off his pride and joy like he’s not worried at all that she’ll harm it. Maya takes the guitar and slings the strap over her shoulder, cradling it under her arm.

It feels good.

She hums, running her fingertips along its dips and curves, admiring his work. It really is stunning. She’s so stupid proud. And she can’t say it out loud.

Her fingers shift into place to pluck out a couple chords he taught her. She doesn’t remember the names of them. She looks up at him to see if maybe he looks just a little proud of her too.

She touches his guitar like it’s something precious and his breath catches in his throat. He watches her take such care with such an important piece of his life and he feels like he’s falling, stumbling into his love for her. 

He’s never managed to let go of it, but he got pretty good at pretending it wasn’t there. He was an expert at convincing himself it didn’t fill his heart too much for anyone else to fit, that it was a scar, a slowly fading reminder of what it means to be cared for, a tip for the future. 

It’s not so easy pretending now, watching Maya’s fingers glide across the sleek body of a guitar he’s known longer than he ever actually knew her. 

Finally, her fingers find the strings, and she answers his silent curiosity. Her fingers flick A, A, D, E minor, A. 

Those were always the easiest chords for her to remember. Her fingers know them well. It’s so, incredibly sexy. 

Shawn sucks in a breath, then realizes she’s looking at him, like maybe she’s expecting him to say something. He wets his lip, takes a step towards her.

“You remember,” he says, voice a deep rasp. He’s not sure he’s talking about the chords. It’s everything. She remembers everything. She has to, because he does. It burns so fucking brightly in his memory he can’t stand to be in the same room with himself sometimes. 

He looks down at the guitar between them, thumbs digging into his palms to stop himself from pulling it off of her. It’s the only barrier between him and an incredibly stupid decision. 

The way he inhales sharply makes her feel like there’s finite oxygen between them. His intake of breath is sucking the air from her lungs. She doesn’t mind. She’s glad to be rid of it if it becomes his instead.

Her head is all fuzzy. His voice is low and scratchy and it reminds her of when she would wake up in his arms in the middle of the night and without her even moving, even speaking, he would notice and whisper to her until she fell asleep again. 

As he steps closer, her awareness heightens. She clings to the guitar like a shield. As badly as she wants him, a piece of her knows better than to let herself have him again, even when he’s looking at her like this. Even when every word out of his mouth feels like his feelings haven’t changed, not even after so long. Not even after she left him for a life she has recently decided she doesn’t even want. 

His hands stay still, but he looks back at her. “Do you remember that song you wrote?” 

He does. It was three chords. Three chords and lasted about an eight count before he pulled the guitar from her lap and made her come on his tongue and needy fingers. 

She swallows and closes her eyes because looking at him is too fucking much right now. She exhales shakily and nods. “I… I remember.”

She definitely remembers. She doesn’t even make a conscious decision to start playing it, it just happens, sort of like everything else between them right now. It’s instinctive with them.

Her fingers pinch and curl and pluck while her lips quiver. She remembers. She remembers the way she cried out his name while her back arched off the bed, but he didn’t let up. She remembers panting, chanting ‘I love you’ over and over until he crawled up her body and planted his lips against hers with a smile to shut her up.

“I remember,” she whispers again.

Her eyes flutter shut. He’s closer to her than he’s been in years and he can see every freckle, every line, every curve of her face. He studies every one, sketched a new portrait of her for his memory, just in case he’s not lucky enough to get this close again. 

He knows she’s thinking about it now, about the way he used to love her so thoroughly. He’s not sure what possessed him to remind her, other than his addiction to her. Or more like his need not to be the only addict. 

He lifts one hand carefully to hers, stilling her fingers against the neck of his guitar. His heart stops; the delicate press of his skin against hers is overwhelming, yet so slight. Somehow, curling his fingers around hers is far more intimate than the press of his palm to her back. 

Maya gasps in a breath at the touch of his fingers to hers. It almost puts tears in her eyes but she holds on. His touch is so full of every memory, good and bad. It’s like jumping right back into her past with him when he holds her hand like this. 

She doesn’t know what he wants now. She doesn’t even really know what she herself wants. But she lowers her shield, carefully and slowly swings the guitar around her back to hang behind them. Her fingers remain entwined with his.

“Maya,” he breathes, hoping she’ll open her eyes and look at him. He needs to see her eyes. He needs to know if he can read them as well as he used to. 

The hush of his voice has her by the throat. She opens her eyes to see him there, the closest he’s been since they were kids. And now, seeing him here with her, when he’s looking at her like this, she knows what he wants.

She wets her lips like she knows what’s coming. Her voice nearly fails her when she speaks again.

“Remember with me.”

“Lulu,” he chokes, nodding as he holds her gaze, “I do. You know I do.” 

He lifts their tangled fingers to her face, cups her cheek, and kisses her. A gentle press of his lips against hers. 

He steps into her, takes the guitar’s place against her and she shrinks beneath him. Their height difference is always the most overwhelming when they’re chest to chest like this. 

His other hand finds the nape of her neck, his fingertips scratching her scalp gently as he cradles her and sips slowly at her lips. 

He kisses her the way he never gets to in his dream. The way he always wants to, the way she wouldn’t let him the night before she left. 

It burns him from the inside out, and he wonders if she feels it in her bones the way he does. 

Maya falls. 

She falls just the same way she did. She falls the same way she did even just a few days ago when she heard his voice again. 

He’s gentle with her, the way he almost always was. She’s high on it. His lips slip against hers perfectly like they’ve never fallen out of step with each other. She sobs a gasp into his mouth, overwhelmed. 

She steps between his feet and presses into him so close that she can’t help but feel him everywhere. She wraps her arms around his expansive back and shoulders, curling against him with a low mewling noise. 

He tastes like whiskey sour and he smells like sea salt and soap. She feels the tears prick the corners of her eyes. She doesn’t force them back this time. 

He kisses her through the gentle sounds he was hoping she’d make. He kisses her deeper, wants more of her sounds, wants to feel her even closer. 

Her tears on his cheek burn him. He sucks in a startled breath and pulls back, lips and hands together. He blinks down at her, trying to focus his blurry vision. 

“I’m sorry, shit,” he murmurs, hands curling in to firsts. He sees the tears on her cheeks and he wants to cry, too, but he’s not sure why. 

He’s not sure of anything anymore. 

“Maya,” he breathes, urging her to look at him. “I’m—“ still in love with you— “I think I’m a little drunk.” 

Just as soon as she can feel him start to drag her under fully, just as she’s committing to drowning for him, with him, he starts away.

She pants desperately and swipes at her cheeks, flushing hot. 

“It’s… uhm, it’s ok. I am too. It’s just… this. Us. Here in Avila. Y’know, it’s like last time. Only… I guess… not.”

She used to be an incredibly articulate woman. Her words are clunky and meaningless. She can only hope he can guess what she means.

She stumbles over her words and he feels like shit. He’s such an idiot. Brings her to his shop, shows her her namesake guitar, kisses like she’s his to kiss. And she cries. He makes her cry. 

He hates himself for that, and for being so scared. Scared of all the things he wants to tell her. Of how easy it feels to be around her, still, like no time has passed at all. 

She presses her hands to her cheeks and shakes her head.

“Ok then. I think I should go.”

She wants to leave.

“No!” He doesn’t mean to shout, but he can’t let her go, not like this. “I mean— you don’t, Lu, you don’t have to. We can go back to the bar and get something to eat, or y’know, there’s that ice cream stand, with the soft serve and the sugar cones.”

He reaches for her carefully, curls his fingers around her wrists and pulls her hands from her slick, flushed cheeks. 

“Let me get you a cone. Swirl, rainbow sprinkles, right?” 

He wants to buy her ice cream.

He remembers what kind she likes. Of course he does.

Maya feels, all of a sudden, incredibly stupid. With one kiss, he made her completely sober, more sober than she’s been in her life. And lying there between them is their past that they have no answers for. Maya should’ve known better than to let him kiss her like this. She likes answers. She needs answers.

But not tonight.

Her breath catches in her throat. “No,” she rasps, “No, I can’t. I need to… I need to go home.”

With a lurch, she untangles herself from his beautiful guitar and shove it back into his hands. She heads for the door and lets it slam shut behind her, echoing with her clapping footsteps as she hurries down the boardwalk.

--------

Taglist: @smallerinfinities @the-claire-bitch-project @achinglyshawn @infiniteshawn @mendesoft @singanddreamanyway @alone-in-madness @abigfatmess @shawnitsmutual @awkwardfangirl2014 @september-lace @grittyisaho @sinplisticshawn @rollingxstone @yslsaint @randi-eve @fallmoreinlove @heyits-claire @itrocksmysocks @parkerspicedlatte @simpledomain @abeautiful-and-cloudy-day @desire-to-live @jillian-nd @shawnwyr

[bbyboybrock--archived]

Serendipity (C.B) | Chapter 2

Summary: Serendipity: (n) the chance occurrence of events in a beneficial way

Popular youtuber Isabella Hart, known as Bella to her audience, bends over backwards to separate her youtube life from her private life. Known for her overall clean content and her bubbly attitude, Isabella has a wild side to her that only those inside the youtube community know about. When Bella meets Colby during one of the trap house parties she finally meets someone she can be her genuine self with. When trouble arises after their meeting, will Bella be able to hand the pressure or will she destroy her relationship with Colby as well as herself in the process. [This starts in 2018]

Written: 2019

Word Count: 2,902

Warnings: swearing

Serendipity Masterlist

The day after the party, Sam and Colby left LA to go shoot a few videos for a week. The whole time they were away, I've been talking to Colby. Whenever one of us had free time we would text the other. Whoever ended the conversation the night before started the conversation the night after. My phone was going off more than ever. Normally I would only get youtube/ work related notifications and the occasional booty call from an annoying "big" youtuber on my Twitter DMs. Now, all my messages are texts from Colby.

I don't know what to label this feeling. I set a different ringtone for Colby so whenever I hear that tone my stomach somersaults. It can't be a crush, despite the fact that we've been talking nonstop I hardly know Colby. We planned on leaving the getting to know you questions for the date. That's not saying that I'm not into him. I definitely am. From the conversations I've had with him, I can tell he's more than just a pretty face. And for someone who's lived in L.A her whole life, I can attest that, that doesn't happen often.

But I still don't know how to label what I'm feeling? The nervousness that I'll somehow find a way to mess this up? Even if this doesn't work out as a romantic relationship with Colby, I hope that I can at least make a friend out of this whole situation. I don't have very many friends. If anything, I have one and everyone else I know is either an acquaintance, an old hookup, or someone that I collaborated with. Making friends in this industry is hard. You never know who's using you for views or to leech off subscribers.

One thing I know that I'm feeling for a fact is nervous for this date. Colby never told me where we were going. He insisted on keeping it a surprise. I did manage to get him to tell me what type of clothes I should wear. All he told me was "Olive Garden casual" but also being beach things just in case. I changed my clothes at least three times. I finally decided to stick with a white and floral romper with some sandals. I put my but length curly hair into a fishtail braid and called it a day. He also insisted on picking me up. So I spent all morning over cleaning my already clean apartment. I finally got myself to calm down enough to sit down and finish editing my video and thumbnail for Saturday.

****

I finish putting the final details on my video when I hear a knock on the front door. I jump so high that I nearly deleted the video upload. I put my laptop on my couch before going to answer the door. I open the door to reveal Colby wearing a white long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black jeans.

"Hi, come in. I'm just finishing uploading my video for this weekend. It'll only be a second more." I move so that Colby can walk in. I close the door and quickly grab my laptop and move it to the coffee table so Colby can sit

"Wow, nice apartment you got here. It's very homely." Colby says looking around. I finish the upload and close my laptop and see Colby wondering around.

"Thank you. The front area is just for show mostly, you know for the off chance I get guest. I can give you a small tour if you want."

"Sure. It's only fair, you saw basically the entirety of my house."

"Very true. So, over there is the kitchen. There are no guys there that show their id instead of carding you though. I hear that's one of a kind. We're standing in the living room slash tv room where I spend a lot of time when I'm not working or partying." I pick up my laptop and walk with Colby to the back of my apartment.

"I hear they fired the id guy. To be fair, he didn't know what he was doing but he was glad he did it." Colby mentions.

"To be fairer, I hear the girl who ratted herself out as underage felt the exact same." I turn to see Colby smirk. I turn back around and blush before opening the door on my right.

"This is my office and youtube room. I spend a lot of time working here." I place my laptop on my desk and plug it in before walking out with Colby.

"What do you keep in the closet?"

"Equipment for my hobbies that are not youtube related. In between both rooms is the guest bathroom. And the door right here leads to my bedroom. Complete with its own master bathroom and walk-in type of closet." I grab my bag from my bed and watch as Colby looks around.

Eventually, we leave and walk to his car. When we get in, Colby pulls out a blindfold.

"I know you don't know me that well but trust me when I say put this on." He holds the blindfold in front of me.

"Somehow, I knew this happen. Good thing I didn't put on makeup today." I take the blindfold and put it on.

"Wow, you're just going to do it. No questions or anything?"

"You haven't told me a single thing about this date all week. For all I know, you can be taking me somewhere to murder me for all I know."

"Very true. But that's not going to happen. I promise. Anyway, how long have you lived in that apartment?"

Even though I willingly put on the blindfold on, I'm still a little nervous. Colby senses this and slips his hand in mine.

"Uh, I moved in officially moved in on my birthday last year. I started moving my stuff in the month before."

"You're parents let you start moving out at 17?"

"That's a story for a later time. Um... why did you and Sam start in youtube?"

"Back then it was a way to reach out to our fans and get different content out their aside from our vines. Flash forward to now where we break into abandoned places or do overnights. I glad we started youtube though."

"Isn't that kind of dangerous or scary?"

"Yeah, but here's the thing..."

****

For the rest of the car ride, we kept talking about our channels and ourselves. There was a brief moment where we stopped somewhere and Colby left me in the car to grab something. When we finally reached where we are supposed to be, Colby placed my bag on my lap went to get the things out of the trunk before helping me out. We walk a few feet before Colby tells me I can take my blindfold off. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the light.

"Are we at the Santa Monica beach?" I ask after seeing the infamous ferries wheel on the pier.

"Yeah, I thought we could have a picnic on the beach and try to look at the stars?" I looked at Colby who was blushing a bit.

"Why did you phrase that as a question? Why do I feel like you aren't 100 percent sure about this date? I think it's a great date."

"I was just worried that you would think that it was too cheesy?"

"What part of me makes you think that I'd find this cheesy? Let's go, the sun is setting." I drag Colby closer to the water so we could set up the picnic.

****

Maybe it's because it's the beginning of February or maybe it's because it's Monday but there are hardly any people on the beach. It's vitally empty and it kind of feels like Colby and I are alone. Colby has actual picnic food, complete with chocolate covered strawberries. We spend the whole time talking and eating. Before the sun completely set we took pictures of each other. My favorites are the candids that I took of Colby when he wasn't paying attention. All the conversation and small talk that we avoided for the past week came out today. Colby had a speaker playing soft music in the background. It felt like every romance movie I've ever seen.

"Can I tell you a secret?" I asked while we looked at the sky. We had pretty much finished eating and the sun is completely set.

"Definitely."

"Well, it's not really a secret. I used to live near here before I moved out of my parents' house. Whenever I felt like life was getting to suffocating or the drama was too much I would sneak out here and just look out at the sky and listen to the ocean. I've actually forgotten how calming this was. I miss it." I adjust myself so my head is no longer supporting my head.

"I kind of know what you mean. Moments like this make me miss Kansas. I like nature and being submerged in it in a way." I turn my head and look at Colby who was already looking at me.

"What do you miss most about Kansas?" I adjust my body so I'm completely facing Colby.

"If I'm being honest? I just miss being around my family all the time. I can explore or find my own piece of nature anywhere in the world. I can't always be with them." Colby faces me completely too.

"Wow, you guys sound close."

"We are, in a weird way. What about you? Are you close with your family?"

"Um... to make an incredibly long and depressing story short, I am the black sheep of the family. Completely shunned and unwelcome. I could tell you the whole story but that probably wouldn't be first date appropriate."

"I get it. You can tell me anything though. When you're ready obviously. You probably can't tell but I can tell that we're going to be really important to each other."

"Really? You can tell that from one date and our super long talk at your party that I probably shouldn't have been at?"

"I know it sounds like I'm just trying to get into your pants or something, but I'm being 100 percent serious. There's something about us, we just click. Like we were made for each other."

I examine every part of Colby's face that I can. For once I feel like I actually met someone genuine. He doesn't sound like every guy that I've met who actually want to just hook up. He definitely doesn't sound like someone who would hurt someone or use them. I feel safe with Colby, something I don't think I've ever felt.

"Isabella?" Colby says breaking my concentration.

"Yes, Colby?"

"Do you mind if I kiss you for real this time?"

"Yes— I mean, I don't mind. You can kiss me for real."

We both sit up and I close my eyes and slowly lean in and only stop when my lips meet his. The kiss starts off soft but quickly gets more and more intense. We both pull away before things got too heated.

"Whoa..." we both said in unison. We were both quiet for a few seconds, trying to process what had just happened.

It was a perfect moment. At that moment I realized that I've never kissed anyone like that. Not sober, anyway. It sent a tingle down my spine and caused a wave of calm to wash over me. This kiss was real and I wanted more. Not just to kiss Colby more, but to feel more real things with him.

****

Colby takes me home about an hour after the kiss. We talked a bit more to get to know each other. The more we talked, the more I wanted to know Colby on a deeper level. I wanted Colby to know me more too, something I've never felt with anyone.

When Colby dropped me off I let him know that I would plan our next date, if he wanted there to be. He responded by kissing me again. When he left I lay on the couch and replayed the past few hours in my head. After that, I went into my bedroom and grab one of my empty notebooks. I choose the one with a tree carved into it and open to the second blank page. I write down everything from what happened and how I'm feeling. I even write about the events from the week before. As I write I set my photo printer to print out the photos from tonight. Even if things don't work out with Colby, I want to remember the first time I ever felt like this.

After I finish writing and taping the photos I take a shower and try to calm down. I place the notebook on my bedside table and go to take a shower. I climb into bed and try to decompress so I can sleep and wake up for my lectures tomorrow. I can't let my feelings for Colby make me late for classes. To help me calm down I go on my phone and scroll on my Instagram accounts. I have two, one for my fans and all business that is very public and a private one where I only let a few people follow. Right now, I'm only following Colby's private account. He has three: his public account, his fan appreciation account, and his private account. I check my public one and make a few comments and watch as people post about parties and birthdays. I get a few DMs from people asking where I wasn't at some party. I gave the same excuses of working on videos and switch over to my private account. On my feed a picture of me that I don't remember taking shows up. It's a candid of me from the beach. I'm laughing about something and the fading sun is hitting my face with my messy hair blowing in the wind. I see that Colby posted it and scroll to the caption. It reads: I can already tell my life is going to be better with you in it. Can't wait until next week.

I like the picture and quickly post my own picture of Colby with a cheesy caption. I switch back to my main account and see that I have a message from Brennen Taylor.

BT: Where were u tonite? Hooking up with some other insta-model?

Me: Actually, I was busy working tonight.

BT: Well, if you're not busy anymore do you want to hang out? The party was lame, I was hoping for sum fwb time.

Me: We're not friends and the benefits haven't been a thing for a while. Plus I'm seeing someone right now so the benefits are never going to happen again.

BT: We both know that that's not going to last long. Just come over right now and we can "talk" about it

Me: ...Night Brennen. Stop messaging me before I block you again.

BT: Goodnight sweet cheeks, I'll dream of the time we'll have a face to face convo again.

I close out of Instagram and plug my phone in. I make sure that my phone is charging before staring at the ceiling. At a party a few months ago, before I turned 18, I made the mistake of hooking up with Brennen. Ever since we've had an on again, off again hook up relationship. We were both in the same party scene. We would drunkenly hook up at parties, sometimes after I had just finished with someone else. After our first encounter, he found me on Instagram and would hit me up whenever he wanted to sleep with me, no strings attached. I would go only because he offered alcohol, sometimes weed. I would use him to get drunk or high and he would use me to get a quick lay. I didn't need him as much when I got my fake id but he did, even when he had a girlfriend. When I found out he was dating someone new I terminated our unspoken agreement. I wasn't going to be the reason his relationships failed. Still, he would hit me up every few days. If I'm being honest, he makes me feel uncomfortable and I try to avoid him at all cost. I never block him or expose him out of fear of being exposed myself. So I deal with it and I just tell him I'm busy or I was with someone else. It only works sometimes.

But now I met Colby and I really don't want to screw this up. I'm hoping Brennen won't screw it up for me. That sometimes happens at parties. I know that Colby and Brennen are friends. So I'm betting on the fact that Brennen wouldn't get in the way of his best friend's relationships, in every aspect of the word.

My phone lights up the room and I check to see a notification from Colby. He tells me that he got home safe and how much he enjoyed tonight. He also mentions that he's looking forward to next week. He ends with a good night. I type back a response with a huge grin on my face. I put away my phone and dream about the date over and over again.

[sad-dreamer93]

You’re safe now- An Adam Cole Fanfiction ~ Part 7

This chapter will have mentions of sex, but not full on smut

Waking up to a completely empty bed this morning kinda worried me. Adam hadn’t said anything about having to work today. Especially since today was our one year anniversary, but as i made my way into the kitchen to get some coffee, i saw a box sitting on the counter. being curious ii walked over to it and picked up the note sitting on top

‘Happy Anniversary baby, here’s a little present for you, i’ll be home tonight at 6, i have a very special night planned for us. The girls are coming by to pick you up at noon so you can get your nails and hair done, i’ll see you soon my love‘

i open the box to see a light blue dress, and a pair of white sandals. i instantly smile knowing how well Adam did at picking it out. i decide to quickly get ready, knowing that the girls would be here soon. i take my coffee back to our room, trying to get aleast some into my system before putting up with Billie and Peyton. i love them to death but sometimes they’re a bit over the top.

i quickly slip on a pair of shorts and a tank top. i had just taken the last sip of coffee, when i hear the front door open

“oh y/n” i hear an Australian accent say

“hey girls” i say as i walk into to the living room

“oh you look cute” Peyton says as she hugs me tightly

“thanks” i say

“come on, we have to go get you beautified for your date tonight” Billie says

“so you know what’s going on?” i ask

“yep” they say

“ugh everyone knows but me” i say

“you’ll love it, i promise, now lets go, we’re meeting Candice at the salon downtown” Peyton says

Candice and I had grown extremely close over the last few months, she’s almost like the sister i never had. I've been able to open up to her, and having her by my side has helped so much

i grab my purse and we walk out to Billie’s car.

“are you excited for tonight?” Peyton asks

“yeah, i can’t believe we’ve been together a whole year. I've never felt loved until i met him” i say

“you’re his entire world. even when you aren’t with him he doesn’t stop talking about you” she says

“my life has changed so much because of him, the last 6 months I've been living with him I've never felt safer, i haven’t had a nightmare in months, the flashbacks i do have are few and far between” i say

“that’s great, you’ve come so far in so little time”  Billie says

“Adam has shown me what love really is, before he and I were together i never thought i would know what it felt like to fall in love, to have someone hold me close, knowing that i was completely safe with them. Adam makes me feel that way every time i see him. i can’t help but get lost in those baby blues.”

“awww, you guys are so cute together” Peyton says

“can you just get married already?” Billie asks

“one step at a time girls” i say

“speaking of next steps, do you think he’ll propose soon” Peyton asks

“i doubt it, we’ve been taking our relationship really slow. He told me from the beginning that we wouldn’t do anything i’m not comfortable with” i say

“aww that’s so sweet” Billie says

“tonight i have a surprise for him though” i say

“are you pregnant?” Peyton asks

“NO” i say a little too loudly

“you’re sure?” she asks

“uh yeah. you have to have sex to get pregnant, and we haven’t done that yet.” i say

“you guys haven’t had sex yet?” Peyton asks shocked

“no, like i said he didn’t want to force me to do anything i wasn’t ready to do. and until recently i wasn’t even comfortable with the thought of it” i say

“so you’re going to do it tonight right?” she asks

“that’s the plan” i say

“aww that’s so sweet. i’m sure he’ll be on cloud nine” she says

“are you nervous at all?” Billie asks

“ a little bit, but i trust him completely. i guess i’m mostly scared it will hurt” i say

“it hurts a little at first, but after a few minutes, it gets better” Peyton says

“just don’t say anything to him. i don’t want him to know and only be thinking about it all night” i say

“we won’t” Billie says trying to comfort me

We arrive at the salon and see Candice waiting outside. As soon as i’m free from the car, i run to her and give her the biggest hug imaginable.

“happy anniversary love” she says hugging me tight

“thanks” i say

“any idea what he’s planned for tonight?” she asks

“nope. these two know but won’t tell me anything” i say

“well i’m sure whatever it is you’ll love it” she says

“i know both of them will enjoy their night together” Peyton says

my face turns red, and i look at my feet. I can’t believe she just said that. i knew i shouldn't have told her.

“alright lets go get you even more beautiful for your man” Candice says

“i don’t think that’s possible” Peyton says

“This is the one night Adam will see me with my hair and make up done. he’s never seen me like that before” i say

“really?” Candice asks

“yeah, I've always been ready bad at doing my hair and makeup so i never did it.” i say

“i’ll do your make up for tonight” Peyton says

“that would be amazing. i don’t want to end up looking like Shrek” i say

“that would never happen” Billie says

“oh it could. one day in high school, my makeup looked so bad people called me an oompa loompa for the rest of the year” i say

“people are so mean. the important thing is you’re away from them now, and now you have Adam by your side. and if he ever calls you a mean name i will hurt him” Candice says

the other two agree with her. both promising me that he won’t do anything like that. I had decided that i wanted to cut my hair, taking off about 6 inches. oh boy Adam was in for a culture shock tonight.

“oh my gosh your hair” Peyton says

“you look amazing” Billie says

“my head feels so much lighter” i say

“well you did just chop half of your hair off” Peyton says

i looked in the mirror, seeing my hair had been curled, and was now just barely passed my shoulders. 

“time for nails” Candice says happily

“oh boy i feel like a Barbie doll” i say as i pick out a shade of blue that matches the dress perfectly.

before today i had never had my nails done, or really had my hair done. i wasn’t one to pamper my self, and Adam knew that. so i was really surprised when he told me to go enjoy a day with the girls before our date.

“you look gorgeous” Candice says as they put the finishing touches on my nails

“thanks” i say

“its almost 5:00 we need to get you home, makeup done and dressed in an hour” Peyton says

“good thing i live 10 minutes away” i say

“yep now lets go” Billie says.

we get back into Billie’s car and she makes the short drive back to my house. as we pull into the driveway, i can still see that Adam isn’t home. which made me kinda sad

“you okay” Candice asks

“yeah, i just thought i’d be spending the whole day with him. not just a few hours” i say

she hugs me tightly

“i’m sure it’ll all be worth it” she says

I didn’t realize an hour could go by so slowly, the girls had helped me get ready, and had left. while i sat on the couch waiting. and hoping he would come in. after what seemed like an eternity, i hear the front door open. and Adam walks through the door.

“happy Anniversary baby” he says

“happy anniversary” i say instantly attaching my lips to his

“you look beautiful” he says

“you should thank the girls for that” i say

“i’ll keep that in mind” he says

“ready for the best night of your life?” he asks

“the best night of my life already happened. that was the night i met you, but i am ready for an amazing night with you” i say

“alright put this on” he says handing me a blindfold

i start to get a little nervous, but put it on anyway. he takes my hand in his and we slowly start to walk, after a few minutes, he stops me and takes off the blindfold. once my eyes adjust to the light, i realize we are standing in the back yard. but he had set it up to be this little romantic spot complete with candles, and rose petals. 

“i thought since i know your dream date is staying home, eating dinner and playing video games we could do that” he says

“this is perfect” i say

just when i thought the night couldn’t be better, he le me over to the table where dinner was waiting for us. my favorite steak. realizing how much effort he had put into tonight made me so happy, making the night even more special. 

“i love you” i say

“i love you too” he says

“how did you plan all of this?” i ask

“well the guys helped me decorate, and i had Billie and Peyton distract you for the afternoon” he says

“this is perfect” i say

he smiles, and takes my hand in his. i could feel how much he loved me, it was so evident. and i wish i could have stayed there forever in that moment. but i knew the night was still very young.

After we finished eating, we went back inside. he sat on the couch and i curled up next to him. we had played a few round of video games, with him winning. and i knew it was time to make my move.

i straddled his lap and started to kiss him. he acted surprised at first but didn’t fight it. i felt him pull away after i had tried to deepen the kiss. i stared at him with tears in my eyes afraid i had done something wrong

“hey don’t cry baby, i just want to make sure you’re comfortable doing this, and that you aren’t doing this for me” he says

“I've been thinking a lot about it, i trust you Adam, and i love you more than i can express in words. i wanted tonight to be special. i want this. i want you” i say

“you’re sure?” he asks looking at me, trying to sense any doubt

“positive” i say

he picks me up and carries me to our bed. and gently lays me down..

i had never known how amazing that love could be. the entire time Adam and i made love, there was no pain, there was no fear. it was simply amazing to be in his arms. to feel his body against mine. the entire time he made sure i was okay, and not hurting. or that i didn't want to stop. it was simply perfect.

probably my favorite part was cuddling him right after, feeling his skin against my skin. knowing that he loved me and i loved him. i knew that nothing could pull us apart.

@thebutterflygirl16

[imaginationstimulation]

He cupped the two halves of my tush and spoke directly to them. “Run away with me, girls,” he whispered. “She doesn’t understand our love.”

I lay still, staring out the window, letting them have their time together. If I protested, I’d only make his case stronger: I’m less fun than my own butt. Which is not untrue. In my essence, I am a stone, unmoving for ten thousand years, unless picked up and moved. It’s not just sex; I find this whole experience—life—gratuitously slow and drawn out. See it crawl, second by fucking second. If I’m a workaholic, it’s only because I hate work so much that I’m trying to finish it, all of it, once and for all. So I can just ride out the rest of my life in some kind of internal trance state. Not a coma but, like, a step above that.

Our son, Sam, trotted in sleepily, and I warned him not to get in the bed: “It’s all bloody.” Alex quietly removed his hands from my body; he hadn’t noticed that I was bleeding. Sam pulled back the sheets and studied the mess, smiling giddily. “You got your period.”

“Yes.”

“You said it was coming soon and you were right!”

“Yep.”

This new generation of men has been taught (by me) to feel excited about the menstrual cycle. It’s like tadpoles turning into frogs or the moon that follows them wherever they go. I’ve been waiting a long time to have my period cheered on. More and more women my age have given up on our men and are getting together with millennials, youngsters raised by women who were born in the sixties, rather than the forties. I hear it’s great. Not a lot of hangups. But that isn’t an option for me because I need a man with a historical perspective that encompasses my whole lifetime. If anything, I regret not having met Alex sooner. If we had met at my birth and I had been able to assess how narcissistic my parents were, I could have left the hospital with Alex and got started on our relationship immediately. He would have been eight years old—young, but not too young to keep me alive. I need that in a man.

Sometimes my love for him is so intense that I want to crawl inside his body. I want him to be pregnant with me and never give birth, just hold me in. At other times, I wonder, Who is that guy? And why is he in my house? When I get that look on my face, he sticks out his hand and says, “Hi, I’m Alex. Your husband.”

Sam used his small pointing finger to tap each old bloodstain on the sheet; they dated back more than a decade, a disgusting constellation. It was one of those things you didn’t notice until suddenly you did. Like ants. Like everything.

I dressed and brushed my teeth. If I went to the mall immediately and got a new sheet, then the chore wouldn’t have time to gather weight. Once a task goes on the to-do list it settles in, grows roots—the trick is to preëmpt that. I could get a tent light while I was there. We were going camping the next weekend with another family, although unfortunately I wasn’t sure I would be able to join. Too much work to do.

“I can get new sheets,” Alex said, slowly climbing out of bed, limb by limb. Sam asked if we would be watching TV today, yes or no.

“Not sheets—just one fitted sheet. There’s only one place that sells Cariloha-brand California-king sheets individually. What is it?”

“Macy’s?”

“Nope.”

“Amazon?”

“Definitely no. I told you about my bad experience—”

“You did. I forgot.”

Bedding is an unregulated corner of Amazon, where companies charge radically different prices for the same bad sheets. You can’t even get nicer sheets by paying more—money has no meaning there. And don’t bother typing in words like “Egyptian cotton” or “thread count”—you’re just offering them more precise ways to bamboozle you. Get up, find your keys and your purse, and go outside. I hate it as much as anyone, but sometimes you just have to.

My plan was to park on the street and walk into the mall, get the sheet, and go. By not parking in the parking garage, I would outwit the psychology of the mall designers who wanted you to sever ties with the outside world. But walking in off the street was disorienting. I entered through Bloomingdale’s and had to wade through the store; it was like pushing through coats to enter Narnia. Once I made it into the mall, I had no idea where I was. It took me a long time even to find a map, then I traced my finger back and forth between You Are Here and the Low Cost Luxury Sheets Kiosk to memorize my path. The man standing next to me took a picture of the map and then trekked on, studying his phone. Pretty clever. As I walked, I glanced sideways at his tan, brawny body and floppy brown hair, just to confirm. Yes. He was a famous person. An actor. Or maybe a hotelier. Maybe this was André Balazs or whatever his name was. No, an actor. Electricity revved through my veins for no particular reason, just as a courtesy to his stature. I kept an eye on him as I walked toward the sheet kiosk, bracing myself for the moment when he would peel off in another direction. But he didn’t; we continued walking alongside each other, and I began to feel that we were together. And he kept looking at me, out of the corner of his eye. This couldn’t be true but it was. Somewhere between BabyGap and Lady Foot Locker the tables had turned. Now he recognized me.

I was twenty-two when the video was shot. I needed quick money so I could get out of a bad relationship—not a lot, just first and last and a security deposit. I couldn’t admit my plight to my parents, because I had already done this and they had written me a check, with great relief, and that was what my quasi-abusive boyfriend and I had been living off for the past six months. He had come up with the ploy.

“Make it sound bad but not too bad. Don’t say I hit you. Say I threw a chair at you or something.”

“You did throw a chair at me.”

“Obviously I wasn’t fully serious when I did that.”

I felt obligated to stay until my parents’ money ran out, since asking for it had been his idea. Then he punched not my face but the wall right next to my face and I had to move very quickly from terror to concern and rush him to the emergency room, where a young, temporary doctor said that we could either wait four hours for the real doctor to arrive and fix the bone in my boyfriend’s hand or let him “have a go.” The temporary doctor high-fived me after he’d popped the bone back in.

The next morning, I woke up early and walked down to the cluster of newspaper boxes in front of the old people’s bar, and discreetly pulled out the sex-themed paper. I’d always known that this option would be there for me if I really needed it. Just as my parents were there if I really needed them, except for this one time.

I chose the job that seemed to offer the most money for a one-time deal. I thought that they would shoot it in a hotel but it happened in an apartment, on an old couch. I wasn’t directed so much as given a series of props to make my way through, like an obstacle course. A turquoise Teddy bear, a pillow, an empty beer bottle, a metal bowl. Not everything was clear to me (the bowl), but I was too nervous to speak; I just laughed again and again to demonstrate consent. My biggest fear was that one of these men, the man with the lights or the cameraman, would misinterpret my nervousness and halt everything, shutting down the set on the ground that I was being objectified against my will. At that age, I assumed that everyone, deep down, was a feminist. So one had to be careful not to trigger feminism where one didn’t want it.

I was waiting for a costume, something black and sexy or pink and trashy that would help catapult me out of myself. Instead, a man with a baseball cap, who was maybe the director, just said, “O.K., we’re rolling.” I was in shorts, a T-shirt, and sandals. I looked down at my shirt. It was from a sushi restaurant in my home town, but if you just glanced at it you might think it was racist, because of the fake Asian lettering. I imagined thousands of viewers waiting for this racist girl to get herself off. I quickly undressed and made a scissors gesture to the camera to indicate that this first part, the part with the racist shirt, should be cut. No one acknowledged this suggestion, so I rubbed against the Teddy bear, and rode the big pillow. I held the bowl, uncertain, and then set it aside. I put the beer bottle into my vagina. With all this moving around, it was impossible to become even slightly turned on—back then I had to shut my eyes and make my body completely stiff to generate any feeling. But no one said anything until after I had heaved my last fake orgasmic sigh.

“O.K., we got that,” a woman with a clipboard said. The man in the baseball cap gave me a firm nod, like a satisfied coach. I understood then that the five-hundred-and-fifty-dollar fee was not the price of my beauty or my sex appeal; it was my naïveté that I’d sold. Every person, no matter how plain, has one great erotic performance in her—the one in which she doesn’t know what she’s doing and is desperately trying to save her life. A second performance would be a copy of the first, which would require skills I didn’t have.

My face wasn’t anywhere you could see it unless you entered a credit-card number and clicked past dozens of professionals—“college beauties,” “hot Korean girl,” and so on. But a few people made it through the gauntlet. The first time I was recognized was at a healthy-Mexican restaurant; a pale man in gym clothes stared at me for a long time before making a scissors gesture in the air. It was electrifying, as if all my clothes had fallen off at once. I looked away but there was no denying our intimacy; he’d come while watching me. The next one was a father with his family; he scissored his fingers down low, surreptitiously. The last was a butch lesbian teen-ager; she just walked right up to me and asked. Each time, I’d hurry home and enter my credit-card number, clicking quickly past the college beauties and the hot Korean girl. Though I’d felt nothing at the time, seeing myself through these people’s eyes was profound and overwhelming. I’d cry out with abandon; my body would shake and shiver as I came. Then I’d sleep, immediately, for at least two hours.

The video shoot became the central sexual experience of my life; to this day, I can’t orgasm unless I imagine that I’m the pale man, the dad, or the young lesbian watching it, sometimes all of them together, crowded around one computer screen. I’m them, I’m me, I’m them, I’m me, I come. I showed it to each boyfriend I had after that, to blow their minds but also to explain my sexual orientation; I was oriented around myself in that video and anyone who’d seen it. There was only one boyfriend I didn’t tell. He was a very classy man, emotionally speaking, and I didn’t want to give him any indication of basket-casery. After I married him, I kept meaning to bring it up, to draw him into the fold of my sexuality, such as it was. But I waited too long; we were so close now. And after the butch lesbian there was a lull, a seventeen-year lull, in which no one recognized me.

I arrived at the Luxury Sheets Kiosk and the brawny man with floppy brown hair idled a few feet away, trying to decide what to do. The scissoring gesture didn’t seem to occur to him. I ran my hand over the sheets while the cashier rang up a tall woman who kept adding one more thing. His eyes met mine, and I gave him a secret little smile. Truth is, I wanted to collapse with relief. Though a lot had happened in the past seventeen years—marriage, a child, my career—it was suddenly clear to me that I’d only been going through the motions, an exhausting simulation. I wasn’t a stone. I was one of life’s biggest fans, the best example of a living thing. The amateur sex video was like a seed I had planted in my youth; it would always sustain me. Not financially but by sending me these messengers when I was most in need. My blood moved around in my body; I felt the purpose of every muscle. I was ready to dance. And just then a beat began, so I rocked my hips and pressed my wrists together, swinging them like a girl in bondage who nonetheless wanted to party. The beat ended abruptly; it was the tall woman’s ringtone.

“Hello?” she answered impatiently; she had enough going on with all these sheets. I couldn’t believe I’d danced to her ringtone. Maybe it was O.K. Who knows? Who can really see themselves? He was approaching. He was nearly beside me, his face open with surprise. I opened myself, too.

“You’re my neighbor,” he said.

“In what sense?” I said, my eyes twinkling.

“Well, in the sense that I live in the house next door to yours.”

“The house on the corner?”

“Yeah, it’s a duplex. We live in the apartment that faces Amador Street.”

“Oh. Do you park on Amador?” I was bringing up parking just to hurt myself. I hated this conversation.

“I park on Amador and my wife parks in the garage,” he said. “Although lately we’ve been trying to ride our scooters more. I’m Joel.”

I thought about bringing up my husband, tit for tat, but I was too tired. The previous few seconds had taken everything out of me. We parted, saying that we would definitely see each other soon, ha-ha.

I drove the long way around the block to avoid Amador Street on my way home. I parked and turned off the car. It was hot but I left my seat belt on, folded my hands in my lap, and took some slow breaths. Before Joel, I had still believed I could be recognized. Now I knew I was too old. How do you mourn that kind of loss? It just pulls your whole life down. My phone rang: Alex.

“Are you home?”

“Yes. I’m in the driveway.”

“Yeah, we heard you drive up. You coming in?”

“In a sec. I need to pour my heart out to someone so I can be empty and unburdened when I come inside.”

I waited for him to say, “You can pour your heart out to me,” but he was quiet and we got off the phone. He never takes the bait. Which is good. It teaches me to be more direct in asking for what I need. Or does it? So far it hadn’t.

We’d been tunnelling toward each other for years. It was hard work, but the assumption was that eventually our two tunnels would connect. We’d break through—Hallelujah! Clay-encrusted hands finally seizing each other!—and we would be together, really together, for the remaining time that we were alive. So long as we both dug as hard and as fast as we could, everything would work out. But, of course, neither of us knew for sure how the other person’s digging was going. One of us might have been doggedly tunnelling toward the other person, while the other person was curling away in another direction. That person might not even have been aware of how off course he or she was. One of us might have tunnelled straight down for a few weeks, in anger, and then tried to get back on track, but now honestly had no idea where to go. We might break through—Hallelujah!—only to find that we were seizing the dirty hands of a stranger. What to do then? Or we might simply get tired, and stop digging, decide that here was good enough. All the while saying things like “We must be getting close!” and “I can’t wait until the day finally comes!” We might never meet up at all; we might die before it happened. Or worse: maybe there had never been any hope of our meeting up, because what was that even a metaphor for? Oneness? A child’s dream of love? I got out of the car and went inside, carrying the new fitted sheet and the tent light.

The next weekend, I was unfortunately not able to go on the camping trip. I stood in the driveway and waved goodbye to Alex and Sam, tearful for no reason. Then I went inside and walked around the house, room by room, looking at all our stuff through the judgmental eyes of a monk or a nun. I did my work, very slowly, over the course of the day. At 8 p.m. I started watching TV and at 2 a.m. I turned out the light. Then the earthquake happened.

I flew out of bed and moved down the hallway like a person on a wobbly rope bridge. I lurched out the back door and along the side of the house to the sidewalk. The shaking stopped. The street lights were off, no moon. Car alarms were beeping in syncopation. A huge branch was draped across my car. Someone was standing on the corner, waving. It was Joel. I had successfully avoided interaction all week. Now I ran to him through the dark.

“I didn’t get my shoes!” I yelled dumbly, as the pavement trembled again.

Joel thought it was safest to stay outside; I thought so, too—less stuff to be trapped under if it fell. He called his wife, who was in Sun Valley, Idaho. I didn’t call Alex, since I was safe and a middle-of-the-night call is always alarming. Joel’s earthquake-survival kit was more elaborate than ours; we spread out high-tech blankets and pillows on the lawn on his side of the duplex and lay down, waiting for dawn.

Once the car alarms had been silenced, the night was strangely quiet. The freeways were almost empty. Without the lights or the hum of cars, the sky took its place as the foremost thing. Joel and I stared up at it—an enormous gray arena we could fly around in just by lying there.

“Looking at the sky should be a ride at Disneyland,” Joel said.

This was such an accurate way to describe it. I thought about the accuracy for two or three minutes and then said, “Yeah.” We squinted at our houses in the dark and saw that they were leaning; they had shifted. I thought we’d probably move, rather than repair ours; Joel’s was a rental, so he said they’d move for sure. Maybe to Ireland. I said we’d probably move to Ireland, too. The chances seemed high that we would be neighbors again, in Ireland. We scooted toward each other, for warmth, and when I turned on my side Joel spooned me, very innocently. All bodies were good, I realized. Joel’s stocky form beside me was unfamiliar, but good. Hugging. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Hugging was so moving, so basic. Why had I ever taken pride in not being a “hugger”? Two people embracing was the very building block of life.

“Hugging is the building block of life,” I whispered. Joel was quiet and this was exactly right; more words would just take away. I pressed my hand against the lawn, palming the whole earth like a gigantic basketball. Warm tears ran into the hair at my temple, one after another after another. Hello, stranger, I thought. And by “stranger” I meant not Joel but myself. My blood moved around in my body. I felt the purpose of every muscle. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t seen the video.

When I awoke, it was light out and I was lying with the next-door neighbor on his lawn. I could tell right away that our houses were fine. It took only fifteen minutes to straighten up the books and the dishes that had fallen. The earthquake had been big, but no one was saying that it was “the big one.” When Alex and Sam got home, I told a story about hiding under the dining-room table. Our earthquake, the one that Joel and I had survived, was private. I friended him on Facebook the next day and we started e-mailing. Mostly we wrote about details from that night—the silence, the sky, how time had seemed to stretch out. I didn’t have any specific or adulterous plans; I was just wholly open. I saw us going on a road trip. Or maybe taking ayahuasca and throwing up in buckets. His penis was moving in and out of me most of the time. Sometimes I made it very small, like a finger, so that it wouldn’t distract me too much as I worked or emptied the dishwasher. Just a little thrusting tick-tock that drowned out the real sound of time: 7 a.m., 4 p.m., 6 p.m., the most brutal of time’s representatives, but hardly the whole battalion.

I was waiting for Joel’s response to my last e-mail when Alex and I stumbled on him, almost literally. We were coming home from a date night; Joel and his wife were lying on their lawn, staring up at the evening sky. They’d brought out the same pillows and blankets, and a bottle of wine. It was adorable in a way that people like us find cloying, so Alex raised his eyebrows at me before calling out to them.

“Sorry! We usually park farther up but the trash cans are out.”

“No, no,” Joel said, rising to his feet. “We’re good.” He swept his hand toward their reënactment. “It’s a lot more fun without all the shaking!” His wife raised her glass toward me and smiled; she knew the whole story. Alex nodded, cocking his head curiously in my direction. I stared at the familiar blue geometric pattern of the pillowcases. Joel had taken the exquisite energy of our experience and plowed it back into his marriage. How wise. This option had never occurred to me. I had always detonated each thing in the very place where I found it.

Even after I acknowledged that I hadn’t hidden under the dining-room table as I said I had, Alex was still confused. We’d been reading in bed for less than thirty seconds when he started up with the questions again.

“It’s just so unlike you. You hate camping.”

“I know. It was an extreme situation.”

“And you’ve never once said hi to the neighbors.”

“And I still don’t want to! Joel is a completely uninteresting person.” This was now true again.

I turned out my light. He left his light on and lay next to me, waiting. Leaving a space for my confession. I had done nothing. Nothing! My heart pounded nonetheless, the dumb beast. Just as I started to roll over, Alex turned to me and used his big hands to pull all my hair back, stretching my face into surprise. He held me like this, studying my posture of alarm, then let go abruptly and fell onto his back in frustration. We embarked on a silence. It grew and grew until it was a sort of god that we could only submit to. After fifteen or twenty minutes I almost giggled—somebody say something!—and then I realized with horror that he was probably asleep. This wasn’t our silence; it was mine alone. I lay paralyzed as it hollowed and darkened, expanding in every direction with a familiar cruelty. Hello, stranger. Once, many years ago, Alex had saved me from this black hole with the kind of understanding that makes everything else in life possible. Even ingratitude.

He shifted under the covers and I held my breath. If he was awake, I would try. If he was asleep, I would sleep, too, and probably forget to try, or forget that it mattered, or what I meant by try. Try to be brave.

“Are you awake?” I whispered.

“Wide awake.”

I sat up and told the story of the video, starting with my quasi-abusive boyfriend and ending with meeting the neighbor twice. Alex was mostly quiet, only asking a few questions (“What was the bowl for?”). I left out the hugging and the e-mailing and the tick-tocking tiny penis, but, still, when I was finished he silently walked out of the room. I took a breath and held it. I had made a terrible mistake. Why had I done this? My mind stopped, poised to shatter.

Then he came back, holding his computer. He solemnly opened it in front of me, like a violin case before a maestro. I typed in the URL. The Web site looked a little different, but the major landmarks were still there.

“You need a credit card to get to it.”

He left and came back with his wallet. He typed in his credit-card number and I clicked around. I wasn’t sure where to go because the college beauties and the hot Korean girl were gone. It was all new girls. They looked extremely young. I scrolled in a daze. Brunette. Underage. Small tits. I stopped clicking.

“When was the last time you saw it?” Alex said quietly.

“I don’t know. I have it pretty memorized so I don’t need to. . . . Not since we’ve been together.”

“Oh. I think they update . . . you know, just . . . for the viewers.”

It seemed obvious now that they wouldn’t still have a video from the nineties.

“Yeah, of course. I just thought maybe they had a section for . . . alumni or . . . I don’t know.”

I shut the computer. It was too bad. Really too bad. How bad? The consequences would be enormous, I felt.

Alex was in the kitchen now, opening cupboards.

He came back with a Teddy bear, an empty beer bottle, and a bowl. He picked up his pillow and pulled the comforter aside, arranging everything along the foot of the stripped bed.

“I can’t re-create it, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was true amateur porn, not fake.”

“I understand—the real deal.”

“The people who saw it . . . they were really overcome by it. It was their top video to watch, porn-wise.”

As we talked, Alex seemed to be riding the pillow slightly, maybe unconsciously.

“You’re talking about the pale man—”

“The pale man, the dad, and the butch girl. Yes.”

Now he was rubbing the Teddy bear against his crotch. He slid off his boxer shorts. Well. Well, now. I sat back. He was very much an amateur. He didn’t know what he was doing and he was desperately trying to save his life. I’d never seen him move his hips like that. It was funny, or no, actually not funny, just disorienting, slightly grotesque. He picked up the beer bottle, and, after a moment of honest hesitation, sucked its mouth and then—I reached under my nightgown—began slowly working it into himself. I had never wanted to see this, but I came immediately, and hard. He brought himself to the end of the show, manually. I held my breath, waiting for him to come on the new sheet. I’d have to wash it again. Who cares? I do. Just a little. Just enough to ruin each day. And then, with a swift and professional gesture, he grabbed the bowl and came into it. That was what the bowl was for. ♦

Published in the print edition of the

September 4, 2017

, issue.

Miranda July

is a filmmaker, an artist, and the author of five books. Her latest movie, “Kajillionaire,” will be released in September.

[galactichen]

childhood || suho

he’s nothing but a memory of your childhood. because after all, mermaids don’t exist. [ or do they? ]

3731 words; merman!au; suho/reader; romance, angst

A sigh escapes your lips as you flop onto your back against the soft material of the mattress, phone clutched in your hand and pressed against your ear. “So you're picking me up tomorrow?”

“Yup. 12 o’clock sharp. You better be packed by then,” Sehun’s familiar voice crackles from the weak signal in your suite and you hum in response.

“See you then, I guess?”

“Yeah. See you.”

Click.

The beeping signals the end of the call, and you shut your phone off before tossing it aside with a rather noisy exhale.

Summer classes have finally ended for you, and it's time to pack your things and head home to join the rest of your friends who were waiting for you. Frankly, you didn't want to pack. Your brain was fried from all the studying and cramming (because you're the Ruler of Procrastination, quoted from Jongdae, one of your suitemates who's actually kind of more than just a suitemate) and you just wanted a nice nap.

A nap that preferably lasted a good 30 years or so.

If I pack now, I can nap longer, you think to yourself, grasping the delicate sheets in your fingers.

But I can nap now. And pack later.

The latter is extremely tempting, but you knew better. Because who knows how long later is.

In your dictionary, later ranges from 5 minutes to the next day.

(Possibly longer, but let's not go there.)

You forcefully push yourself off the bed and drag your feet over to your wardrobe, where you're about to pull open one of the drawers so you could pack some clothes first, when something catches your eye.

It's a seashell, sitting dangerously close to the edge of the wardrobe.

It's white, brushed with a bubblegum pink over the surface of its ridges and rough edges. Grains of sand are still stuck in between, and a laugh of amusement escapes you when you recall how long you've spent trying to pry them out, to no avail.

To others, it's just an ordinary seashell that you seemingly picked up mindlessly off the shores of one of the nearby beaches.

But for you, it's more than a seashell.

It's the representation of your childhood.

One that you'll never forget.

“Mama look!”

You grinned cheekily at your mother when you proudly held up a little red crab, its legs frantically moving about when it realized it was in the air. She giggled and shook her head.

“Put the poor crab down, honey,” she said, “leave it alone.”

“But Mama!” you insisted, pulling the crab closer to your chest. “I caught it! With my own two hands!”

“Yes honey, you did.” She smiled and stood up. Her long, white summer skirt fluttered in the late afternoon breeze, her hair framing her face as if she was an angel descended from above. “Now put it down and come with Mama. It's almost time for dinner.”

She turned around and began walking, fingers beckoning you forward.

Except you were reluctant to part with your newfound friend.

“That's not nice!”

The voice was clearly a boy’s, and you looked around with a frown. There were no boys nearby. There was only you!

“I'm talking to you, you know.”

It's coming from...the water?

You turned your head over to the water and gasped when you saw a boy not much older than you, treading by the wooden dock where you and your mother often sat, feet dangling just over the surface of the water or even within.

“Me?” You sounded bewildered and the boy laughed. Cautiously, you moved from the sand to the wooden dock and approached the end, the crab still within your clutches.

“Yeah, you! Let go of that crab! He's my friend!” The boy exclaimed, but you completely disregarded his statement.

“Why are you swimming? The lifeguard is going to come and scold you!” You stared down at the boy with a worried look, because you were six years old and cared about everyone, even if they were strangers.

“Lifeguard?” The boy asked, “what's that?”

“You don't know what a lifeguard is?” You almost shrieked, “they're the people who watch over the pool and beach to make sure nobody is drowning!”

“Well I can't drown.”

If it was possible, your eyes widened even more and your jaw dropped. You may have been six, but you were pretty sure people couldn't not drown. Was this boy serious?

“Wha-”

The boy suddenly disappeared under the water and you restrained yourself from screaming. Was he stupid? Was he going to try and hold his breath underneath the surface to try and prove to you he couldn't drown? What was your mother going to think?

Questions filled your worried mind, but all of it was only replaced with more when he suddenly flew in the air in a beautiful arch.

Because where his legs should have been, was a tail!

A fishtail!

A long, gorgeous blue fishtail. With shiny scales that gleamed in the sunlight, you were beyond speechless.

“See that?” The boy grinned up at you when he rose above the surface once more. “That's proof that I can't drown! Because I live down at the bottom of the ocean and to get there, you need a tail!”

“You're a mermaid?” was all that came out your mouth instead. Your grip slacked on the crab and it fell into the water with a little splash.

“Merman,” the boy cheekily corrected you. “My name is Junmyeon and I'm six years old, and I'm a merman!”

Your name came out in a series of stutters, before you finally managed to get yourself together. “I'm six years old too! And that's so cool!”

Junmyeon glanced around with a smirk before beckoning you forward. Kneeling down, you leaned over so he could whisper in your ear.

“But you can't tell anybody, okay?”

“Is that you, honey? Who are you talking to?”

“Why not?” You pouted, completely disregarding your mother’s voice calling out to you. “I can't tell anybody about you?”

“It would be bad!” he cried out, “very very bad! My dad would be so mad at me if he found out I talked with a human!”

“You're not supposed to talk to humans? Like me?”

“No!” Junmyeon pursed his thin lips, puffing out his cheeks. “I don't know why though.”

You were silent for a moment before you suddenly gasped. “This could be our little secret!”

“Secret?” he tilted his head curiously.

“Yeah! I'll keep it a secret that I met you, and you can keep me a secret!”

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Uh-oh.” You bit your lip. “That's my mama calling.”

“Aw,” Junmyeon whined. “Tell you what, meet me here tomorrow at noon? And my lips are sealed!”

He clamped his lips shut and you nodded.

“Okay!” You agreed without any hesitation. “I'll see you tomorrow!”

Junmyeon waved happily and disappeared just as your mother snatched your hand, immediately gushing about how worried she was when you didn't appear at her side like she had thought you would.

But your thoughts were all on the mysterious boyーor, merman, you should say.

And being the six year old you were, you never knew they were never meant to exist; much less interact with those above the surface.

“Where are you going at this time?” Your mother’s voice rang from the corridors of the villa you and your family stayed at every summer as you hastily strapped on your sandals in the front foyer. The clock had long struck noon and you practically wolfed down your lunch so you could meet the mysterious merman.

“To the beach!” You exclaimed and reached for the doorknob, but your mother was faster, darting to the door and grasping the knob before you could even reach it.

“Hold it.” Your mother put her hands on her hips. “The beach? We just went there yesterday, honey. Today we're going to town to shop!”

“Well I wanna go to the beach!”

Your mother frowned. “Is there something you're hiding?”

“...No…”

She opened her mouth to further discuss the matter, when your father chuckled from the staircase just down the hall.

“Let it go, love. At least our child isn't sitting around playing video games all the time, hm? The beach is just a few minutes away, I'm sure it'll be fine.”

A smile spread across your face at the sight of your father’s kind smile.

“B-But our child is only six years old, I can't letー”

“Then I'll walk with, if that eases your heart, love. We can always go shopping later; it's not like we're not here for the entire summer.” Your father chuckled once more and once he had slipped into a pair of flipflops, he took your tiny hand in his.

Your mother folded her arms.

“I don't know about this…”

He caught your gaze, and winked.

“Trust me, love.”

The walk to the beach was agonizing for your little heart. You constantly tugged on your father’s hand, begging for him to walk faster, but he only laughed at your enthusiasm and kept his slow and relaxed pace.

Breaking away from your father’s grasp, you booked it towards the same dock where a familiar head was bobbing around.

“Junmyeon!”

He twirled around with a smile and hopped up so his arms were resting on the ledge. You knelt down and crossed your legs happily.

“I thought you forgot,” Junmyeon wrinkled his nose, “so I was worried you went off an babbled about me without me knowing.”

“I would never!” You gasped, hand over your heart as you exaggerated an offended stance, and Junmyeon giggled.

“So.” Junmyeon eyed you from his position in the water. “Did you tell anyone about me?”

You shook your head with a wide smile on your face, before quickly glancing back to where your father had made himself comfortable on a lawn chair out of earshot. “My lips will always be sealed.”

“I didn’t tell anyone either,” Junmyeon said. It was silent for a brief moment, save for the constant waves splashing against the dock, before Junmyeon suddenly grinned.

“Whaー”

“Tag, you’re it!” He tapped you on the arm and dove back into the water, and you merely watched in utter disbelief as his figure, disoriented from the rippling waves, swam away. 

“Hey, no fair!” You called out, “you can swim but I can’t?”

“What’s stopping you?” Junmyeon’s head popped back up, breaking the surface of the water. “Catch me if you can!”

“Why the long face?” Junmyeon poked your cheek curiously. He was still in the water, even after all these days because he refused your offer to help him sit on the ledge with you. He said it was too riskyーcoming up to the surface to meet you was already hard enough. Sitting on the ledge where his tail would be exposed would be pushing the boundaries.

Your pout only grew. “Summer vacation is ending.”

“So?” Junmyeon shrugged. “Why does that matter?”

“Summer vacation ending means I'll have to go back home! It means leaving!” You exclaimed, tears pooling in your eyes. You were never one to cry easily, but leaving behind your new friend was absolutely crushing.

“Wait.” Junmyeon frowned. “You don't live here?”

“No.” You huffed. “My family and I only come here during the summer.”

“Well that sucks.” Junmyeon heaved himself up so he was supported by his arms on the ledge as usual. His tail flicked in the air briefly before falling back into the water. “You'll come back, right?”

“Of course!” You threw your arms up. “We always do!”

“Promise?”

(Don't make promises you can't keep.)

“I promise!”

(It'll break everything in the future.)

It eventually became a tradition. Not just you coming back to the beach every summer with your parents, but also going to visit Junmyeon as often as you could, if not every day. He became the source of your happiness over the long, hot summers, and your parents couldn't be more happier at the sight of you enjoying yourself outside.

You never told them about Junmyeon being a merman, but you did mention that you made a friend, which was why you were always out and about.

Because you had a feeling that if you told them about a merman, they wouldn't believe you.

Junmyeon and you grew older together, outgrowing your childish nonsense and moving into your teen years where Junmyeon phased from a little child to a wise and intelligent teen, and you went from an energetic child to a friendly and kind teen.

And growing older meant growing closer.

Junmyeon often told you stories about the underwater kingdom he lived in, about the light and friendly atmosphere and aquatic animals you never knew existed.

And in return, you told him about the surface. About the growing cities and rising economy, large corporations and businesses that were all about money. You told him about the small town you lived in and all about your friends who you've stayed with all throughout elementary school. He inquired questions about your lifestyle and you complied, for you knew how much he was fascinated by humans.

For one day he told you the reason why he and his people were forbidden to go to the surface that sparked his interest.

“It was a long, long time ago.” Junmyeon sighed. He was 14 years old, as were you. “Probably centuries. Where humans and merpeople alike mingled together. It was a very happy place. There was lots of singing, dancing, and laughter, and everybody was content. The merpeople helped humans sail across the ocean to discover more land and even taught them the techniques of swimming.

But one day, a child was found dead in the ocean. Floating lifeless, completely isolated by nothing but water. The humans were then completely enraged and immediately assumed that the merpeople had something to do with the death.”

“Did they?” You inquired. Junmyeon shrugged.

“Never confirmed. The humans just decided to wage war against the merpeople because they believed that the merpeople purposely drowned the child. But before anything tragic could ensue, the merpeople retreated under the water and were never seen again. The ruler of the merpeople then declared that it was forbidden that we rise to the surface.”

“Then why did you?” You stretched out your legs and let out a sigh of relief when your bare feet made contact with the cool water.

“Don't ask.” Junmyeon snorted. “I was six years old. Even to this day I don't know how I managed to slip away from the guards.”

“But you're still doing it.”

“Because you're my friend!” Junmyeon playfully hit your thigh. “And you wouldn't tell anybody about my existence.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because I trust you.”

“Do you think we’ll always be together like this?” Junmyeon’s voice was hesitant as he floated about by the surface, and you only shrugged in response. You and Junmyeon were 16 going on 17 now, and you didn't want to think about the future consisting of college or university.

Because moving out meant being away from Junmyeon, even during the summer.

“To be very honest with you.” You inhaled deeply. Junmyeon was your best friend. Seeing a future without your best friend was agonizing and upsetting, but then again, Junmyeon was a merman. And you were human. “I doubt it.”

“Wow.” Junmyeon chuckled, feigning hurt, but you weren't sure if he was actually faking or it was real. “Brutal.”

“You’re a merman who hangs out at the bottom of the ocean and I'm a human who roams the land. I'm going off to post secondary in a year and it'd be a miracle if it were here, but chances are, it won't be,” you voiced out your thoughts, but when you locked gazes with him, you grinned. “But what matters the most is not how often we see each other, but how often we think about each other.”

“Well aren't you wise?”

Junmyeon mentions how he'll show up anywhere if you call his name loud enough.

Summer vacation was coming to an end and your heart was sinking. The familiar feeling of leaving Junmyeon behind to head back home shattered you, but what broke you the most was that this was the second last summer you'd be able to spend with him.

Or possibly the last.

You wandered along the docks waiting for his appearance. He proposed to meet you when the sun was about to set and you agreed without hesitation. Watching sunsets with your best friend wasn't an irregular thingーit just seemed like the right thing to do when it was your final evening here by the shoreline.

And true to his words, a familiar head popped up above the surface.

“Hey.”

He was quiet as he slowly swam over, the water rippling as he steadily moved amongst the calm waves.

“Hi.”

“I have something for you.”

There was a sudden light thud to your right and you glanced over in surprise. A small, glittering seashell sat there, its water-coated surface reflecting the orange and pink hues of the sunset. Kneeling, you gently picked it up.

“It's nothing special but...” Junmyeon shrugged. “It's something. Something to remember me by.”

“You say that as if I'm never going to see you again.”

“Well it's true, isn't it?” Junmyeon leaned against the dock. “You're going to be busy next summer, preparing to move out, right? You probably won't have time to visit. And it's not like I can just travel over to you. Unlike you, I don't have legs.”

“Junmyeon…”

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. “I'm a merman. In your world, we don't exist. Once you leave, I'll just be something from your childhood. A mythical creature. Because who would believe in a merman’s existence?”

You remained silent.

“You should just forget about me.”

“Junmyeon, what the hell are you trying to say? I'm not going to forget you, you're my best friend! Who cares if you're a merman and nobody believes that you exist? I believe! Isn't that enough?”

“You don't understand!” Junmyeon finally broke, his head falling against the leg of the dock. His eyes squeezed shut and he pursed his lips. “I'm trying to do this so it won't hurt us in the long run.”

“Do what? Force me to forget about my best friend?”

“Precisely,” Junmyeon hissed.

“Why?”

“Because I'm in love with you,” Junmyeon rasped. He clutched onto the dock and you couldn't tell whether those were tears or just water from the ocean.

But you had more important things on your mind.

Junmyeon's in love with me?

So was that why he was trying to make you forget about him? Did he realize his feelings for you, and decided it was time to make you forget? Before it was too late?

Because he knew that if you stayed any longer, he'd fall deeper.

He couldn't fall deeper for someone who wasn't going to stick around.

He couldn't.

“Forget about what I said,” Junmyeon said, his voice quiet when he realized you weren't saying anything. Maybe you had already left. But you sighed and he went rigid once more.

“Would it be pushing the boundaries if I asked you to kiss me?”

“If you promise to see me one more time before you leave for good.”

(Haven't you heard?)

“Promise.”

Junmyeon pushed himself up, balancing himself on the weight of his palms on either side of you. You closed your eyes, waiting.

And he pressed his lips against yours in a brief yet sweet kiss.

(There's nothing worse than making promises you can't keep.)

You opened your eyes a moment after he pulled away, the sound of waves getting louder.

He was gone.

And you were too.

“Hey.”

“Jun...Junmyeon?”

“No. It's me, idiot.”

Your eyes flutter open and you notice you're on the floor with your arms resting on the bed. Your head lies on your makeshift arm pillow, and Jongdae smiles at you from above, lips curling. You sit up, rubbing at your eyes sleepily.

“Oh, Jongdae.”

“Yeah. Oh, look, it's your boyfriend. Were you dreaming about that merman you told me about again? Maybe I should become a merman if it means you'll dream about me, too.”

Your cheeks heat up and you slap his arm. “Shut up.”

But at the mention of Junmyeon, you're wide awake.

“Waitー”

But you're already stuffing your phone in your pocket and before you know it, you're out of your room. The seashell is grasped in your hand tightly as you zip down the flights of stairs and out the emergency exit in a flash.

You don't have time to breathe when your legs are already carrying you towards the nearest beach, your breaths being cut shorter and shorter as you push yourself harder and harder.

No longer than 2 minutes later, you bask in the setting sun over the horizon. The waves are just out of reach, and the familiar feeling of sand in your shoes irritates you, but that's the last thing on your mind when you step closer to the vast ocean.

“Junmyeon!”

Hands cupped around your lips, you bellow his name as loud as you could.

Your only response is the waves sloshing against the sand.

“Junmyeon!”

You can feel stares all around piercing the back of your head, but you're insistent. You have to see him. It's been years since you last saw your friendーyou just wanted to say a formal farewell.

You may have met at a different location, but Junmyeon has told you himself, that if you called his name loud enough, he'll come.

Was he telling the truth?

“Junmyeon!”

Nothing.

Was he even...real?

(Junmyeon poked his head out of the water cautiously, immediately ducking behind one of the rocks sticking above the surface. He watched as your figure faded into the distance with a sad smile.

“It's best you forget about me,” he whispered as he watched you approach a man no older than you, “for I am nothing more than a memory of your childhood.”

But you'll always have my heart, darling.

And with a final glimpse of the surface and a lone tear trickling down his pale cheek, he ducked down back underwater where he belonged.)

You know you've done well when they don't need you anymore.

[rad-archive]

Stanford prison experiment article from the new yorker

On the morning of August 17, 1971, nine young men in the Palo Alto area received visits from local police officers. While their neighbors looked on, the men were arrested for violating Penal Codes 211 and 459 (armed robbery and burglary), searched, handcuffed, and led into the rear of a waiting police car. The cars took them to a Palo Alto police station, where the men were booked, fingerprinted, moved to a holding cell, and blindfolded. Finally, they were transported to the Stanford County Prison—also known as the Stanford University psychology department.

They were willing participants in the Stanford Prison Experiment, one of the most controversial studies in the history of social psychology. (It’s the subject of a new film of the same name—a drama, not a documentary—starring Billy Crudup, of “Almost Famous,” as the lead investigator, Philip Zimbardo. It opens July 17th.) The study subjects, middle-class college students, had answered a questionnaire about their family backgrounds, physical- and mental-health histories, and social behavior, and had been deemed “normal”; a coin flip divided them into prisoners and guards. According to the lore that’s grown up around the experiment, the guards, with little to no instruction, began humiliating and psychologically abusing the prisoners within twenty-four hours of the study’s start. The prisoners, in turn, became submissive and depersonalized, taking the abuse and saying little in protest. The behavior of all involved was so extreme that the experiment, which was meant to last two weeks, was terminated after six days.

Less than a decade earlier, the Milgram obedience study had shown that ordinary people, if encouraged by an authority figure, were willing to shock their fellow-citizens with what they believed to be painful and potentially lethal levels of electricity. To many, the Stanford experiment underscored those findings, revealing the ease with which regular people, if given too much power, could transform into ruthless oppressors. Today, more than forty-five years later, many look to the study to make sense of events like the behavior of the guards at Abu Ghraib and America’s epidemic of police brutality. The Stanford Prison Experiment is cited as evidence of the atavistic impulses that lurk within us all; it’s said to show that, with a little nudge, we could all become tyrants.

And yet the lessons of the Stanford Prison Experiment aren’t so clear-cut. From the beginning, the study has been haunted by ambiguity. Even as it suggests that ordinary people harbor ugly potentialities, it also testifies to the way our circumstances shape our behavior. Was the study about our individual fallibility, or about broken institutions? Were its findings about prisons, specifically, or about life in general? What did the Stanford Prison Experiment really show?

The appeal of the experiment has a lot to do with its apparently simple setup: prisoners, guards, a fake jail, and some ground rules. But, in reality, the Stanford County Prison was a heavily manipulated environment, and the guards and prisoners acted in ways that were largely predetermined by how their roles were presented. To understand the meaning of the experiment, you have to understand that it wasn’t a blank slate; from the start, its goal was to evoke the experience of working and living in a brutal jail.

From the first, the guards’ priorities were set by Zimbardo. In a presentation to his Stanford colleagues shortly after the study’s conclusion, he described the procedures surrounding each prisoner’s arrival: each man was stripped and searched, “deloused,” and then given a uniform—a numbered gown, which Zimbardo called a “dress,” with a heavy bolted chain near the ankle, loose-fitting rubber sandals, and a cap made from a woman’s nylon stocking. “Real male prisoners don't wear dresses,” Zimbardo explained, “but real male prisoners, we have learned, do feel humiliated, do feel emasculated, and we thought we could produce the same effects very quickly by putting men in a dress without any underclothes.” The stocking caps were in lieu of shaving the prisoner’s heads. (The guards wore khaki uniforms and were given whistles, nightsticks, and mirrored sunglasses inspired by a prison guard in the movie “Cool Hand Luke.”)

Often, the guards operated without explicit, moment-to-moment instructions. But that didn’t mean that they were fully autonomous: Zimbardo himself took part in the experiment, playing the role of the prison superintendent. (The prison’s “warden” was also a researcher.) /Occasionally, disputes between prisoner and guards got out of hand, violating an explicit injunction against physical force that both prisoners and guards had read prior to enrolling in the study. When the “superintendent” and “warden” overlooked these incidents, the message to the guards was clear: all is well; keep going as you are. The participants knew that an audience was watching, and so a lack of feedback could be read as tacit approval. And the sense of being watched may also have encouraged them to perform. Dave Eshelman, one of the guards, recalled that he “consciously created” his guard persona. “I was in all kinds of drama productions in high school and college. It was something I was very familiar with: to take on another personality before you step out on the stage,” Eshelman said. In fact, he continued, “I was kind of running my own experiment in there, by saying, ‘How far can I push these things and how much abuse will these people take before they say, ‘Knock it off?’ ”

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Maria Konnikova

Other, more subtle factors also shaped the experiment. It’s often said that the study participants were ordinary guys—and they were, indeed, determined to be “normal” and healthy by a battery of tests. But they were also a self-selected group who responded to a newspaper advertisement seeking volunteers for “a psychological study of prison life.” In a 2007 study, the psychologists Thomas Carnahan and Sam McFarland asked whether that wording itself may have stacked the odds. They recreated the original ad, and then ran a separate ad omitting the phrase “prison life.” They found that the people who responded to the two ads scored differently on a set of psychological tests. Those who thought that they would be participating in a prison study had significantly higher levels of aggressiveness, authoritarianism, Machiavellianism, narcissism, and social dominance, and they scored lower on measures of empathy and altruism.

Moreover, even within that self-selected sample, behavioral patterns were far from homogeneous. Much of the study’s cachet depends on the idea that the students responded en masse, giving up their individual identities to become submissive “prisoners” and tyrannical “guards.” But, in fact, the participants responded to the prison environment in all sorts of ways. While some guard shifts were especially cruel, others remained humane. Many of the supposedly passive prisoners rebelled. Richard Yacco, a prisoner, remembered “resisting what one guard was telling me to do and being willing to go into solitary confinement. As prisoners, we developed solidarity—we realized that we could join together and do passive resistance and cause some problems.”

What emerges from these details isn’t a perfectly lucid photograph but an ambiguous watercolor. While it’s true that some guards and prisoners behaved in alarming ways, it’s also the case that their environment was designed to encourage—and, in some cases, to require—those behaviors. Zimbardo himself has always been forthcoming about the details and the nature of his prison experiment: he thoroughly explained the setup in his original study and, in an early write-up, in which the experiment was described in broad strokes only, he pointed out that only “about a third of the guards became tyrannical in their arbitrary use of power.” (That’s about four people in total.) So how did the myth of the Stanford Prison Experiment—“Lord of the Flies” in the psych lab—come to diverge so profoundly from the reality?

In part, Zimbardo’s earliest statements about the experiment are to blame. In October, 1971, soon after the study’s completion—and before a single methodologically and analytically rigorous result had been published—Zimbardo was asked to testify before Congress about prison reform. His dramatic testimony, even as it clearly explained how the experiment worked, also allowed listeners to overlook how coercive the environment really was. He described the study as “an attempt to understand just what it means psychologically to be a prisoner or a prison guard.” But he also emphasized that the students in the study had been “the cream of the crop of this generation,” and said that the guards were given no specific instructions, and left free to make “up their own rules for maintaining law, order, and respect.” In explaining the results, he said that the “majority” of participants found themselves “no longer able to clearly differentiate between role-playing and self,” and that, in the six days the study took to unfold, “the experience of imprisonment undid, although temporarily, a lifetime of learning; human values were suspended, self-concepts were challenged, and the ugliest, most base, pathological side of human nature surfaced.” In describing another, related study and its implications for prison life, he said that “the mere act of assigning labels to people, calling some people prisoners and others guards, is sufficient to elicit pathological behavior.”

Zimbardo released video to NBC, which ran a feature on November 26, 1971. An article ran in the Times Magazine in April of 1973. In various ways, these accounts reiterated the claim that relatively small changes in circumstances could turn the best and brightest into monsters or depersonalized serfs. By the time Zimbardo published a formal paper about the study, in a 1973 issue of the International Journal of Crim__i__nology and Penology, a streamlined and unequivocal version of events had become entrenched in the national consciousness—so much so that a 1975 methodological critique fell largely on deaf ears.

Forty years later, Zimbardo still doesn’t shy away from popular attention. He served as a consultant on the new film, which follows his original study in detail, relying on direct transcripts from the experimental recordings and taking few dramatic liberties. In many ways, the film is critical of the study: Crudup plays Zimbardo as an overzealous researcher overstepping his bounds, trying to create a very specific outcome among the students he observes. The filmmakers even underscore the flimsiness of the experimental design, inserting characters who point out that Zimbardo is not a disinterested observer. They highlight a real-life conversation in which another psychologist asks Zimbardo whether he has an “independent variable.” In describing the study to his Stanford colleagues shortly after it ended, Zimbardo recalled that conversation: “To my surprise, I got really angry at him,” he said. “The security of my men and the stability of my prison was at stake, and I have to contend with this bleeding-heart, liberal, academic, effete dingdong whose only concern was for a ridiculous thing like an independent variable. The next thing he’d be asking me about was rehabilitation programs, the dummy! It wasn’t until sometime later that I realized how far into the experiment I was at that point.”

In a broad sense, the film reaffirms the opinion of John Mark, one of the guards, who, looking back, has said that Zimbardo’s interpretation of events was too shaped by his expectations to be meaningful: “He wanted to be able to say that college students, people from middle-class backgrounds ... will turn on each other just because they’re given a role and given power. Based on my experience, and what I saw and what I felt, I think that was a real stretch.”

If the Stanford Prison Experiment had simulated a less brutal environment, would the prisoners and guards have acted differently? In December, 2001, two psychologists, Stephen Reicher and Alexander Haslam, tried to find out. They worked with the documentaries unit of the BBC to partially recreate Zimbardo’s setup over the course of an eight-day experiment. Their guards also had uniforms, and were given latitude to dole out rewards and punishments; their prisoners were placed in three-person cells that followed the layout of the Stanford County Jail almost exactly. The main difference was that, in this prison, the preset expectations were gone. The guards were asked to come up with rules prior to the prisoners’ arrival, and were told only to make the prison run smoothly. (The BBC Prison Study, as it came to be called, differed from the Stanford experiment in a few other ways, including prisoner dress; for a while, moreover, the prisoners were told that they could become guards through good behavior, although, on the third day, that offer was revoked, and the roles were made permanent.)

Within the first few days of the BBC study, it became clear that the guards weren’t cohering as a group. “Several guards were wary of assuming and exerting their authority,” the researchers wrote. The prisoners, on the other hand, developed a collective identity. In a change from the Stanford study, the psychologists asked each participant to complete a daily survey that measured the degree to which he felt solidarity with his group; it showed that, as the guards grew further apart, the prisoners were growing closer together. On the fourth day, three cellmates decided to test their luck. At lunchtime, one threw his plate down and demanded better food, another asked to smoke, and the third asked for medical attention for a blister on his foot. The guards became disorganized; one even offered the smoker a cigarette. Reicher and Haslam reported that, after the prisoners returned to their cells, they “literally danced with joy.” (“That was fucking sweet,” one prisoner remarked.) Soon, more prisoners began to challenge the guards. They acted out during roll call, complained about the food, and talked back. At the end of the sixth day, the three insubordinate cellmates broke out and occupied the guards’ quarters. “At this point,” the researchers wrote, “the guards’ regime was seen by all to be unworkable and at an end.”

Taken together, these two studies don’t suggest that we all have an innate capacity for tyranny or victimhood. Instead, they suggest that our behavior largely conforms to our preconceived expectations. All else being equal, we act as we think we’re expected to act—especially if that expectation comes from above. Suggest, as the Stanford setup did, that we should behave in stereotypical tough-guard fashion, and we strive to fit that role. Tell us, as the BBC experimenters did, that we shouldn’t give up hope of social mobility, and we act accordingly.

This understanding might seem to diminish the power of the Stanford Prison Experiment. But, in fact, it sharpens and clarifies the study’s meaning. Last weekend brought the tragic news of Kalief Browder’s suicide. At sixteen, Browder was arrested, in the Bronx, for allegedly stealing a backpack; after the arrest, he was imprisoned at Rikers for three years without trial. (Ultimately, the case against him was dismissed.) While at Rikers, Browder was the object of violence from both prisoners and guards, some of which was captured on video. It’s possible to think that prisons are the way they are because human nature tends toward the pathological. But the Stanford Prison Experiment suggests that extreme behavior flows from extreme institutions. Prisons aren’t blank slates. Guards do indeed self-select into their jobs, as Zimbardo’s students self-selected into a study of prison life. Like Zimbardo’s men, they are bombarded with expectations from the first and shaped by preëxisting norms and patterns of behavior. The lesson of Stanford isn’t that any random human being is capable of descending into sadism and tyranny. It’s that certain institutions and environments demand those behaviors—and, perhaps, can change them.

[reoflite]

Part II

Childhood was odd. I feel many of the people I know would personally recall it with fondness, perhaps speckled with the few rites of passage that every child goes through. You know, when you discover that Santa isn’t real? I think I was about nine or ten. Or, when you lose your first tooth? Or, when you learn how to ride a bike and your knees look like the patches of dirt beneath a swing set that’s been overused?

I went through all of those things, like any normal childhood, though those memories have largely faded. One thing I won’t forget is my first time in sex education. It was the fourth grade. I was in a classroom that combined third, fourth, and fifth graders. Our school had neither the funds nor the room to accommodate each third, fourth, and fifth grade class having its own room and teacher for those rooms. Inner-city schooling taught me a lot, and one of the things was that Indianapolis was broke as shit. Still, my teachers did the best they could with what they had. 

This was right around the time when children tend to start to develop a more sinister sense of humor. I’ve always considered myself someone with an odd sense of humor; I’m bigger on wordplay and puns than I am the more cynical pieces of humor. I failed to relate to kids my own age for this reason, at least partially. 

Because of our age, it was imperative that we began to understand boundaries and consent. People may not realize how these things play into sex education, especially sex education that’s targeted at children, but in this case, it’s highly important we discuss what was happening around this time. (Keep in mind, every child is different and may develop at different ages; this is largely used as a point of reference.) 

Given that I was about nine years old when this began, I wasn't yet driven by sexual urges. Freud’s theory of psychosexual development supports this; this is what’s known as The Latent Period, and children between the ages of six and puberty generally aren’t interested in sex, or at least motivated by it. Since every child begins puberty at a different age, sometimes the lines can be blurred, at least from the child’s perspective. Personally speaking, I didn’t reach puberty until I was about thirteen. 

You might ask what this has to do with consent. This is a personal theory of mine, and given what I’ve learned about childhood sexual abuse, I think it makes sense. Sexual abuse is not about mutual stimulation. It’s very much an all-take (or give, depending on your role in the scenario) sort of occurrence. Men and women who sexually abuse children aren’t interested in the pleasure of the being they’re abusing. In fact, I’ve heard it’s preferred that the child not have an interest in sex. There is no legal argument that exists that can exonerate an individual from the crime of sexual abuse of a minor, just for the record. These relationships are often centered around power dynamics. In other words, it’s of greater benefit to the abuser that their victim be unwilling to establish boundaries. 

Still, children, especially in this age range, don’t always grasp this. I don’t believe that, by definition, children can be cruel. Cruelty is defined as a willfulness to intentionally cause hurt or pain, and most children don’t have the governance to do so.  (There are always exceptions to this, though.) 

Ms. Stahl was a wonderful teacher who I’m fairly confident was in a same-sex relationship with her “golf partner.” I never caught on until I was older. I just thought she really liked golf. Who was I to judge? She was often successful in controlling the demeanor of her students, or at least keeping bullying down to a minimum. She was a tough cookie, and most of the kids in our class were a little bit scared of her. To me, I saw her as a woman that really loved golf, who I figured may have been a mother, and who could successfully take command of her students. 

We reached a day in our five-day seminar over sex education that she was absent. Our substitute, Mrs. Bailey, was largely viewed as a grouchy woman who could be caught napping any place, any time (honestly, as an adult, I totally feel that). She had a deep southern accent and was tall. She had broad shoulders and always wore sandals. In the dead of winter, you’d catch her with sandals, her blue jean dress, and her hair in a bun. Her eyes were almost always half-closed (see: perpetually sleepy) and her mouth always curled into a frown. I always had the feeling she wasn’t a huge fan of kids. Can’t imagine where I got that from...

Our video started and it was on the roughest day of the lesson. Mrs. Bailey wheeled in a TV that was several years past its intended retirement. The VCR made a funny squeaking noise as it rolled the cartridge on the video tape it played. The film started off with a guy who came straight out of the 70′s. He was wearing something resembling bellbottoms, a sweater vest with faded coloring, and had a mustache that took up half his face. His hair was curly, like an afro, and he wore thick, dark glasses. In this scenario, he was the abuser. They called him Bert. 

His victim was a boy around my age at the time. He was an athlete, and the video made sure to focus on this. He was slender but undeveloped. He had a squeaky voice, like any nine-year-old. He had blond hair, brown eyes. His face was dashed with freckles. They called him Bobby. Bobby was on the school’s football team and Bert was a coach. 

I remember as the movie began to play and it was clear the direction it was heading, I began to feel uncomfortable. The film showed how Bert looked at Bobby in a way that was both obvious and uncomfortable. Eventually, the coach-athlete relationship turned into something more sinister. Bert had gotten Bobby alone to work on his “form.” While not graphic in detail, it made sure to highlight how grooming can look. 

The other students, of course, thought this was hilarious. Looking back, I have to ask myself if any other students were facing similar problems, or if maybe I was the only one. The film concluded with Bert sitting in a police station, trying to blame Bobby for “wanting it.” Those words, specifically those words, made my skin crawl. 

Then, a guy came onto the screen and told us all to respect our bodies. They were ours. Nobody else had rights to them. All the while, our class howled with laughter, still focused on Bert and Bobby. Mrs. Bailey napped at the desk while this went on. I pictured Ms. Stahl being there to calm the chaos a bit. 

After the movie ended, we had to complete a quick assignment about “what we learned.” The goal was to offer 4-5 sentences worth of thought. For a moment, I wondered if I could get away with anonymously revealing my situation, but quickly determined it was too risky. She would be able to pick out my writing. She would see I was the only student in class who didn’t put her name on her paper. Something would happen that I wasn’t prepared for. So, I went with a vague and half-hearted attempt at talking about the movie. It was a coward’s move, but what did they want from me? I was nine. 

The movie didn’t offer a ton of advice for children that were going through any sort of abuse, outside of actually telling someone about it. Somewhere in the course of that day, I tried to develop a plan of my own. 

Part three coming soon.

[7livky]

Dionysus - Park Jimin

CHAPTER 10

Diona's POV

An illusion of the softness of an unfamiliar skin. The connection of skin and feelings and your mind drifts into security. The moment I realized that I had been longing for his touch.

He pulled me along impatiently as his grip became tighter and the air thinner. My senses only perceived his sun-drenched, golden scent as he hurried with me through his halls.

When I closed my eyes, I lost myself in my imagination and found us in another world, walking in the warm sand, followed by the waves of the turquoise sea at sunset. Dressed in white, hand in hand as he walks forward, laughing with all his heart as if this was one of his most beautiful days. I look at my dress and sandals in my other hand, our feet and legs that got wet from time to time. A little white shell which he found and picked up immediately because he loved them so much.

Yes. All this happened in your head when he took your hand and held you as tight as if he had been waiting for it all his life.

The illusion broke as soon as I noticed the darkness. We found ourselves back in the corridor where he had covered my eyes earlier.

Nevertheless he did not let go of me and entered the room where V and Jungkook were. I tried to let go mentally, but this boy had switched off my functions. I didn't want to lose contact.

"I, I-I really wanted to come down and watch you, but..." I glanced at Jungkook, who was staring at me with his crystal clear eyes and seemed absolutely drunk.

"But he cried again" ,Taehyung said.

Jimin suddenly gripped my hand tighter. I took a step back and hid our locked hands, feeling his muscles tense as Jungkok's eyes filled with tears.

This time Jimin pressed his fingers against my ankles. After that, I did something that neither he nor I expected. With my thumb, I brushed across his outer palm to make his oppression disappear. I stroked his hand until he loosened it again.

"You too" ,Jungkook hissed as he spoke to Taehyung. "And I'm quite sure it was for the same reason."

It broke my heart to see them like that. I'd never seen them cry before. I hadn't gotten that far. Every time I was shown videos showing the boys with tears in their eyes, I would skip them immediately. It literally hurt me.. I had been wondering since day one where the rest of the group was, if I would ever see them, but I was afraid that this would go too far. In the end I was just a painter. But I really wish I could comfort Jungkook and V right now.

Unexpectedly, Jimin snapped his fingers and music filled the whole room. With heavy steps I ran after him, but stopped in front of the dark couch on which he was now sitting. He leaned his head back, scratching his neck. Without saying anything, he stared at me as if waiting for me to sqash myself next to him. While letting his hand linger on his neck, his eyes were focused on my lips.

As if my lips were needed somewhere else.

His arm floated in front of me because he still wouldn't let go of me. One pull, I was next to him before he finally let go of my hand. He leaned forward so I could see the silver streaks in his black hair. I could have sworn he didn't have them a few hours ago.

I watched him as he filled an unused glass with red wine until halfway through. After mine, he did the same with his glass, then Taeyhungs and finally Jungkooks.

"This is for your hard work, for the art that you conjure on my walls" ,he leaned back, held the glass in front of my nose and whispered, "Thank you beautiful."

The last word kept repeating itself in my head and left me speechless again.

"I've heard a lot about you!" Taehyung cracked a smile. "That you love partying with my brothers at Yoongi's club and hitting people."

He was so cute it hurt. "I wish you could have been there too!" I gave him back a smile, ignoring the hitting part.

"Is it true you didn't know who we were?" He looked at me with great curiosity.

I looked down at my legs in embarrassment. "Unfortunately, yes. But that might be because I moved to Greece with my parents when I was a kid. By the time I got back to Seoul, a lot of things had happened that I missed."

I felt three gazes burning on my skin. Jungkook wore the same as when he asked about my hometown while Taehyung showed me his big eyes. And Jimin?

Jimin just put on his cynical smile.

"Whoa! So you speak perfect Greek?" ,Taehyung asked.

I smiled slightly. "ναι. Λατρεύω αυτή τη γλώσσα."

Jungkook was about to eat a piece of the pineapple, which lay on the glass table in a golden plate, but he seemed frozen.

"That sounds so nice" ,Taehyung said excitedly. "What did you say?"

"That I love this language."

"And I love your name."

I tried to ignore the pressure in my stomach when we looked at each other with Jimin. My cheeks heated up like an oven.

"Do you know the meaning?" ,he asked as he circled the edge of the glass with his finger.

"The sacred spring and divine queen."

He seemed to be unsatisfied with my answer before he spoke, "Diona, the virgin goddess and protector of birth. A nymph of botany and the daughter of Atlas."

My name sounded like poetry from his mouth. Why did he make it sound so special on his lips? So many books I have read about Greek mythology and never before had I found meanings like these.

"Wow. I never knew any of that." An awkward silence fell. "Is this your unique wine that you spoke of?"

We heard someone nearly choking on his drink. I looked over at Jungkook, who beat his chest as he stared at me. He had seriously spat it all out. Taehyung on my left was holding his stomach as he almost died from laughing.

"No. You can try that one first," Jimin replied with a smile, showing off his full cheeks. I built an imaginary wall between him and me before I fell in love with his smile. At this point, I either wanted to get drunk as quickly as possible or get out of here and never come back.

I nodded just before I raised my head to drink up all the sweet substance at once. "Refill please!"

All three stared at me as if they had seen a tyrant. "What?"

"You're the female version of Jimin" ,Jungkook and Taehyung answered at the same time as in choir.

The gentleman next to me felt so cool and seemed to be waiting for me to freak out with joy because I supposedly resembled him.

"Too bad. Why his of all people?"

Jimin's glass slammed on the table. He growled softly, but covered it up with a forced laugh. Meanwhile, the other two laughed so loudly that the music could no longer be heard.

It was the moment when we both tried to stay serious, but we both had a hint of amusement on our faces from which a real smile emerged. I looked at his white teeth, as well as his wet reddish lips and of course at his dark eyes with his long eyelashes.

"Jungkook", he said without taking his eyes off me. "Isn't it time for some ecstasy and madness?"

Jungkook broke our eye contact when he pushed another glass of wine into my hand. Then Taehyung stood up too. The bright light suddenly changed to a dark red color when Taehyung pressed the button on the wall.

It was dead quiet,

before it vibrated beneath my feet.

Never in my life have I heard anything like that. Such a unique sound. A song that made every hair on my body stand up. A song with definition;

ecstasy and absolute madness.

Jimin stood on his feet while I examined his black jeans in which his thick thighs took my breath away. I tried to watch the others, but nothing could stop me from watching Jimin.

How his fingers touched the buttons of his shirt and were opened piece by piece.

Oh great heavens.

The moment he reached the bottom, my glass was empty. The last sip burned in my throat as he started to dance in front of me. With his hand he ran through his black mane, so you could see his naked breast for a second. He caught me staring at him.

"You should be honored" ,he said in my ear. "This is an unreleased song of ours. No one but BTS and you has ever heard this masterpiece."

He pulled me up, touching my neck to whisper something into my ear. I trembled at his warmth as I felt his cheek against mine. "You cannot imagine how special this song is to me. How much I associate with it. You don't know how much lies behind those lyrics."

"What's the name?"

He moved his head so that the tip of his nose almost touched mine while his hand burned like fire at my neck.

"Dionysus."

Just get drunk like Dionysus

Drink in one hand, Thyrsus on the other

Art splashing inside this clear crystal cup

Art is alcohol too, if you can drink it, you'll get drunk fool

You dunno you dunno

You dunno what to do with

He let go of me and his body became one with the beat. If I had to describe this song, I wouldn't have enough words to describe it. It put you into a completely different world, drums that were played with all their power, electric guitars that created a certain aggressiveness. It tore your inner rage, your hidden desire for chaos from your soul. This genre was one that surpassed any rock music and became a genre of its own.

"One shot!" - "Two shots!"

I found Jungkook standing on the sofa, playing an imaginary guitar while Taehyung threw himself from side to side, hitting the glass table with every cymbal beat.

Until the sun comes up, where the party at

Until we fall asleep, where the party at

Sing it, sing it again

Drink it, drink it again

Jimin pressed his full glass into my hand, which I drank without hesitation.

We're born again He looked deep into my eyes when he sang that.

"I love it."

"Love what?"

"The song."

He half smiled. "So, then you're ready for the wild frenzy?"

I grinned back and pulled down my zipper. He followed my every move as I took off my jacket because it was boiling inside me. When Jungkook saw that I was only wearing top and jeans, he suddenly tore his shirt out of his body and held it up.

"Whooooo" he screamed with his shirt in his waving hand.

My mouth opened to an 'O'. Was I really,

seriously,

seeing Jungkok's nipples right now?

Taehyung lifted a glass of water with ice cubes before he poured it all over his head. He shook his head, making us all wet.

"V!" I screamed, but before I could freak out, Jimin grabbed me.

Right then the alcohol kicked up like a punch in my face. It was on.

Instead of freeing me from his grip, I jumped with him and threw my hands in the air. You didn't even have to know the lyrics to feel the song. Shouting along was enough.

Shot glasses sippin', linked arms tippin'

Hearing V's deep voice, I couldn't believe that his singing voice was even deeper than I thought.

Rush, fuss and more wine. That was the current situation.

"I just can't help it," Jimin said aloud. I didn't get what he meant, so he took my face in his hands when my heart was pounding like after a sprint. "I feel like I'm already in ecstasy by just touching you."

"And whenever I do, I can feel your heartbeats."

If he didn't stop soon, I wouldn't be able to survive much longer. And not because of my disease, no. But because of his power to make my heart race just by looking at me. And hearing those things from him was the most dangerous thing he could do to me.

"Hit the gong and call onghaeya!" ,Jungkook sang his part.

If we pop up

Anywhere in the world, stadium party ay

Suga kicked in the door.

"Born as a kpop idol. Reborn as an artist, reborn as an artist, reborn as an artist! What does it matter if I'm an Idol or an artist? Cheers!"

He jumped on the table as we were cheering for him.

"Art at this level is over-drinking, over-drinking yeah! The new record is the fight against oneself, a fight yeah! Toast to this, one shot! But I'm still thirsty. What?!"

My jaw dropped. Jongsuk was right from the start. No one in the universe could top Suga's rapping. He was fast as hell.

His chain touched my sweaty décolleté as he hugged me like an old buddy. He and Jimin greeted each other with a handshake followed by Jungkook and V embracing him at the same time.

You ready for this? Are you ready to get hyped up? Come on

And after a grab, I found myself in Jimin's arms. He held my legs and I held onto his shoulder, him spinning me in circles.

"Jimin!" I kept laughing but felt that the song was nearing its end, so I enjoyed it. Each of us was going crazy, giving our last ounce of energy.

Jungkook dropped to the floor while Taehyung put his wet hair out of his face, breathing heavily.

"Your part was the best!" I called out to Suga and pushed him hard after Jimin put me down.

He showed me the same smile he had back then when he sat in the car , talking to me. It was contagious.

Author's POV:

(from now on I have to take over, 'cause our character Diona is just too drunk to tell us everything)

The boxes on the walls vibrated so much that you could literally see them moving. They were set to full volume and yet there was total silence in the lobby.

Or maybe not.

A loud kick against the door. "Open the fucking door!" Jongsuk clenched his fist. "Diona come out!" But no one heard him while her phone vibrated on the floor in her bag.

Diona's bladder was squeezing like hell. No wonder after ten glasses. "Jimin I can't take it anymore!"

He laughed as he spun her in circles. "What's wrong, my beauty?"

Even if she wouldn't admit it, she couldn't get enough of it. His' beauty.

"I have to pee! But if your bathroom's at the end of the world and it takes me an hour to go there, then we have a problem!"

She looked at his little nose that he scratched every time he thought about something. "Well..." ,he started grinning, "the nearest toilet is in my room."

After this high dose of alcohol that she consumed, a part of her brain that was responsible for cognitive processing, was now restricted. This means that Diona was less inhibited and more impulsive. To put it more simply, she would do things she would never do when she was sober.

"Perfect! Come on, take me there!" She took Jimin with her.

The more she wriggled because of her bladder, the more he dropped his full weight on her, which he always did when he had a laugh attack.

"Jimin!" she giggled as he zigzagged and accidentally pushed her against the wall.

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry. I can't do that to a goddess!" He hugged her, taking her hand again.

An exaggerated reaction followed when she saw his bed after they entered his room. Only she didn't know she'd already been on that round bed.

"You're kidding, right? I have a round bed too!"

Jimin stopped. "Well, tell me then" ,he pushed her onto his bed, "which is cozier?"

His earrings with feathers hanging down were swinging back and forth when her glowing body lingered on a bedding of silk, which shimmered golden. "I don't know why, buuuut now I don't have to go to the toilet anymore."

She admired his huge smile, which he put on as he lay down next to her. "Look up."

Diona took her eyes off him and did what he said. Her condition around the environment had deteriorated considerably, so it took her a long time to recognize it.

"Turn yourself inside out" ,her pupils moved down a millimeter, "and paint your organs the color-"

Jimin continued, "what you see in your dreams."

He sat up, looking at the wall clock.

5:55 a.m.

He took a deep breath and slowly breathed out again as they looked at each other. When his eyes found her full lips, he had to fight with his desire. The desire for her.

"Then I would have to paint my organs white, silver and ice-blue" she said after a while.

"Why?" he asked in a quiet voice and played with her hair.

"Because in my dreams you always dress in white and have silver hair and ice-blue eyes."

He checked the watch again after she said that. "Do you want to see me like this again, Diona?"

She licked her lips. "Yeah. But I hate the moment when I wake up and you're gone."

How did these two people find each other? Why did they trust her so much if she could just be a fan? Why did she feel that the way he treated her was not normal? Did he do this to every woman who came into this house? To her, everything that had happened before didn't make any sense.

Jimin got up and walked around the room stopping in front of a table. Diona could only observe his back so she couldn't see what he was doing there. So she closed her eyes and laid her face on the soft cloth. Then she realized something. It was too late. She was already addicted to his smell.

After a while, Jimin came back. She raised her eyebrows when she saw a single glass in his hand, filled with a red-black liquid. Was it poison?

"You must promise me one thing." His heart was pounding against his chest, " Watch the time " ,he showed her the clock on the wall behind her. "Promise me that at exactly six o'clock you will take a sip and put your hand on my chest where you can feel my heart beating."

It was scary for her, everything seemed like a hallucination. Was he on drugs to make him say those things?

" I promise ", she whispered and sat up too.

5:59 a.m.

He brought the glass to his lips, lifting it slightly so that the substance entered his body and finally his bloodstream.

Diona's breath was taken away.

She began to tremble and walk away from him.

Each strand of his hair changed its color from black to silver, his pupils became smaller, ice-blue colored lenses appeared, the black clothes transitioning to a white cape. The walls around her went from grey to snow-white.

"Th-this is just a dream. Just a dream, just a dream. Just-" ,she took the glass from his hand, "-a dream."

At the last tick before the hand reached the number 12, she took a single sip of the unknown potion and touched the spot of his heart. The building began to tremble under her feet.

6 a.m.

"Diona!" Jongsuk yelled the moment he stood in the empty room. He kicked the bed. "Did you set me up?!" he screamed as he looked around. He roamed the whole bedroom but no one was there.

Jungkook leaned against the door frame when he saw the empty room. "Finally."

[raystart]

Make it Cuter—and More Branding Lessons From the Weird and Wonderful World of Japanese Mascot Design

While there’s no official category for “Most Beloved Mascot” at the 2020 Tokyo Olympic Games, that doesn’t mean the entire country of Japan won’t be rooting for its favorite characters as whole-heartedly as they’ll be cheering on the competing athletes. That’s how significant yuru-chara, a distinct kind of mascot design, is in Japanese culture. Furry, funny, and extremely cute, yuru-chara may be designed to make you laugh, but creating them is serious business; the design, production, and licensing of mascots generates the country billions of yen in revenue each year.

In Japan, there are mascots for almost everything. There are mascots for cities, villages, rivers, and businesses, including a real estate agency fronted by Madori Taro (“Floor Plan Boy”), which has a blueprint of an apartment as a face. The fire department has a mascot that teaches children about fire safety on YouTube. There are mascots warning against obscure diseases, even prisons use them to help boost morale. One particularly unlikely mascot is Kan-chan, a mascot for an enema manufacturer. It’s a combination of an enema and a penguin.

Kan-chan mascot. Photo by Chris Carlier for his blog Mondo Mascots.

Before the upcoming Olympic mascots are revealed at the end of this month, we’re taking this moment to understand the creative process behind yuru-chara, and what the Japanese business of character design might teach us about building better brand experiences—even when no furry suits are involved.

A mascot can be as important for a business as its logo, if not more. And the design and selection of a character is an intense process. Often, yuru-chara are designed by amateurs who answer open calls for entries, and usually respond with very literal representations of what they stand for, be it local produce, wildlife, a myth, architecture, or geography. A pre-existing mascot for one company might also become the official mascot for an institution. Take Hello Kitty, designed by Yuko Shimizu in 1974 to advertise Sanrio plastic sandals, the beloved cat became the official mascot of Japan’s Ministry of Tourism in 2007 and can now be found everywhere from humble keychains and notebooks to wedding chapels to airlines.

The most prominent and popular yuru-chara are the regional mascots, called gotōchi-kyara (loyal characters). Part of what makes all yuru-chara so loveable is that they’re intentionally clumsy, a little silly, and slightly awkward. They can make you feel protective, as if by supporting them you’re rooting for the underdog. And before you know it, you’re involved in their oddly complex lives.

Now Tokyo 2020 is organizing a vote by local school children to select the upcoming Olympic mascot from a shortlist of adorable candidates that all fulfill the Japanese aesthetic of Kawaii (cuteness). One is modelled after the infamous Lucky Cat and enjoys napping in the sun; its eyes energetically sparkle with the colors of the Olympic rings. Watch the promotional video and you’ll see just how fleshed out the characters are, each with intricate back stories, personality traits, and symbols decorating their furry hides.

Whichever character is chosen will likely become the beating heart of the Tokyo Olympic brand—unlike the London 2012 mascot fiasco, where a pair of clumsy surveillance camera robots quickly became a global laughing stock.

Whether it’s for an enema company or the world’s biggest sporting event, “The costumes are a useful strategy for a brand’s image,” says Kazuya Kitora, a designer at a successful mascot costume company called SunMoldCo in Minoo, Osaka Prefecture, which was founded in 1999. Once a mascot has been selected by a company or a town, an illustrated version will be brought to a factory like SunMold for production.

SunMold makes mascots for both corporations and local governments, and has created hundreds of suits of every size, color, and character type (from robot, to food, to “flower tree”). First, Kitora transforms the 2D illustrations provided to him by clients into large fabric suits by re-sketching a design using 3D modelling tools, and then forming bodies from EPS, urethane, and bore fabric. Most recently, he’s created Chihaya Him, an “intellectual princess” representing Uji City of the Kyoto Prefecture; a giant blue cat for the an indoor tennis center (with a bright yellow tennis ball for a tail); and Yoshida’s Puddingly Chan, a character with a bowl of noodles for a head representing the popular Yoshida Udon shop. You can browse the fantastical list of characters on the company’s blog, each post complete with a video of the costume in action to emphasize the practical flexibility of the suits.

“The biggest challenge is turning the initial illustration into something that allows for the actors to be mobile,” says Kitora, indicating the heavy, large heads and small, stubby feet that gives most of the costumes their extreme cuteness, but also make them so difficult to actually walk around and dance in.

In addition to a drawing, when a client asks SunMold to create a costume, they also provide the designer with a list of specific character traits. A mascot is the friendly, public face for a company, embodying the personality of what it represents. If it’s well designed and original, explains Kitora, it creates more than just brand awareness—it inspires real, lasting loyalty.

The Kumamoto bear, photo courtesy Japan Times

Kumamoto, the internationally recognized symbol of Kumamoto Prefecture is a perfect example of this; the concept here comes directly from the name (kuma means “bear”). Between 2012-13, the iconic mascot generated 123.2 billion yen, far more than the average yuru-chara. After a series of devastating earthquakes struck Kumamoto in 2016, the local government relaxed the licensing rules around the image and likeness so that any business could use it freely in order to raise money for the Kumamoto Relief Fund. Unlike other disaster relief campaigns without a mascot as a rallying point, the beloved Kumamoto bear evokes positive and sympathetic public feeling: a character creates an emotional response, and in this case, one that resulted in donations.

“After all,” says Kitora, “a mascot is the character of a company, place, or institution.”

While sports lovers may be looking forward to 2020, mascot fanatics have a very different date marked on their calendars. There are two important annual events for the designers, producers, and lovers of yuru-chara: the Yuruchara Grand Prix, where Mascot of the Year is selected by an ardent public (in 2015, there were 50.57 million total internet votes), and the World Character Summit, which has more than 300 mascots in attendance. Here, they wander around, pose for pictures, clamber on stage, stand silently and a little mysteriously next to judges. And dance, their main form of expression.

The World Character Summit in Hanyu. Photo by Chris Carlier, for his blog Mondo Mascots.

Chris Carlier is a British comic artist and educator living in Tokyo who has been fascinated with the world of yuru-chara ever since he moved there. To document his discoveries, he set up Mondo Mascots, a popular blog and Twitter account recounting trips to events like the World Character Summit, with additional bits of mascot news and trivia. During Carlier’s adventures in the brightly colored universe of yuru-chara, he also documents his own attempts to design mascots. Despite several entries into competitions, he’s yet to break through. It’s a lot trickier than it looks. The characters must have a fundamental wobbly cuteness, but also somehow a soul, an elusive inner being.

Recently, Carlier has become fascinated with one of the more sinister looking yuru-chara, Tsukihashi Wataru, the mascot of Kyoto’s Arashiyama district which “looks like Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’ if the man and the bridge switched places.” He’s also extremely fond of the “unofficial mascots for towns and cities, where a local eccentric takes it upon him or herself to design a mascot for their town, and walks around town in the costume.”

The process of documenting the annual champions and tracking down some of the stranger yuru-chara has made Carlier appreciate what works best when it comes to mascot-making. “Simple, colorful, symmetrical designs tend to work best,” he says. “And don’t shy away from silly, absurd ideas—those grab the most attention. I haven’t yet mastered the simple design myself, but I’ve been adopting the silly concepts in my comics. I’ve just made one called Spaboon, about the exploits of a pharmaceutical mascot who is a cross between a spoon and a baboon.”

Various mascots photographed by Chris Carlier for his blog Mondo Mascots.

Carlier isn’t the only Brit to have been inspired by the hoards of cuddly, quirky mascots emerging from the collective imagination of companies, governments, and institutions all across Japan. Graphic designers and animators Edward and John Harrison, two twins behind the London digital design studio What What, have a deep-felt appreciation for Japanese mascots, so-much-so that they’ve published two books about them, Idle Idol: The Japanese Mascot and Fuzz and Fur: Japan’s Costumed Characters.

“I believe that mascots have a halo effect, so if someone loves the mascot, then they will also have some affection for the brand that created it,” says John. “Take Domo-kun, the furry, brown, saw-toothed character is the mascot of broadcaster NHK in Japan. Outside of Japan, people may know of him but not understand the connection he has with NHK. The character can exist as a stand-alone, but can also act as a bridge or gateway to the brand it represents.”

Researching and spending time immersed in Japan’s culture of character design—from yuru-chara to 3D models and anime—has greatly informed the Harrison brother’s own practice, especially when it comes to both branding and character animation. “Japan has a long tradition of skilled illustrators, and they appreciate the mastery it takes to create an illustration that’s simple, instantly recognizable, and appealing,” says John.

“Personally, I’m more likely to design a logo than a mascot, but they serve a very similar purpose and the knowledge or skills in both are transferable.”

His brother Ed agrees. “I think having the exposure to Japanese mascots has helped me to appreciate great character design. In the West I often see poorly designed mascots who have little connection to the brand and lack a compelling story.”

For the twins, the back stories and abstract psychological depth of yuru-chara, as well as the simplicity of the designs, is a large part of what makes them so compelling. Design a winning mascot, one that captures the combination of sweetness and inexplicable super power, and you give people a gateway to the heart of whatever it represents. While a yuru-chara might be a little helpless and bumbling, that only makes it—and whatever it stands for—all the more loveable.